Chapter 74 – The Weight of a Touch
The assist followed him everywhere.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But persistently.
On Monday morning at school, the corridors felt narrower. Students who had barely noticed him in September now tracked his movements as if he carried something visible. Phones were out. A clip of the cross — the shoulder drop, the burst past Arthur Theate, the low delivery for Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang — looped endlessly on social media.
Even teachers had seen it.
"Congratulations," his history teacher said carefully before class began. "But don't forget your essay."
A ripple of laughter.
Kweku managed a smile and slid into his seat.
Across the room, Camille gave him a look that meant breathe.
He nodded faintly.
The strangest part wasn't the congratulations.
It was the expectation.
Before, if he miscontrolled a pass in a schoolyard game, it was nothing. Now, even at lunch, when someone tossed him a ball, there was an audience. A small crowd formed instantly.
"Show us that move!"
"Do the assist again!"
He hated that word already.
Assist.
As if it had become his surname.
---
At the Robert Louis-Dreyfus centre, the mood was less romantic.
The first team still had injuries. Treatment tables were occupied. Ice packs were permanent fixtures. But the pressure hadn't lifted because of a draw.
If anything, it had intensified.
When Kweku arrived for his reserve session that Tuesday, the younger players were buzzing.
"Five minutes!" one of them shouted.
"That cross was crazy!"
He shrugged it off, tying his boots tightly.
The reserve coach didn't indulge it.
"Good moment," he said curtly. "Now prove it wasn't an accident."
Training was brutal.
Full-intensity pressing drills. One-touch finishing circuits. Wide-channel isolation exercises designed specifically for wingers.
"Explode!" the coach barked. "Again! Again!"
By the end of the session, Kweku's legs trembled. Snow flurries drifted lazily over the far training pitch, melting as they touched the grass.
Winter in Marseille was rare, but this year it lingered.
As he walked off, one of the first-team assistants stood near the sidelines, arms folded.
Watching.
Not smiling.
Evaluating.
---
Inside the offices at the training complex, Jean-Louis Gasset sat across from the sporting director.
"We are thin," the director said again. "And the fans need belief."
Gasset tapped the desk.
"Mensah is quick. Direct. But raw."
"So were many before him."
Gasset exhaled slowly. "If we start him too early and he disappears, they will turn on him. They always do."
The director leaned forward. "Or he becomes the story that changes the whole scene."
Silence hung between them.
Outside, boots thudded against turf.
---
Midweek, the attention sharpened.
A local sports blog ran a headline: "From Reserves to Rescue: Marseille's New Wing Option?"
Someone printed it and taped it inside Kweku's locker.
Louis found it first.
"Famous," he teased, though his tone carried pride.
Camille folded the paper quietly and handed it to Kweku.
"Don't read the comments," she advised.
He had already read them.
Some were kind.
Some skeptical.
One simply said: One assist doesn't make a player.
That one stuck.
During physics class, he caught himself staring at nothing. The teacher called on him. He didn't answer.
Laughter.
It wasn't cruel — just typical teen banter— but it stung.
After school, Camille stopped him near the gates.
"You're drifting," she said gently.
"I have training."
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
He didn't respond.
Because she was right.
The attention was stretching him thin — between student, friend, teammate, prospect.
He wasn't sure which version people wanted now.
--
Friday afternoon, as the reserves wrapped up a tactical session, the assistant coach jogged over.
"The manager wants you in first-team training tomorrow morning."
A few players whistled.
"Again?" someone muttered.
Kweku felt the now-familiar surge of adrenaline — mixed with something heavier.
Expectation.
---
The first team training's pace was different.
Sharper.
Quieter.
Players like Clauss and Balerdi barely spoke during drills; they moved with urgency. Aubameyang, even in rondos, demanded intensity.
"Faster," he snapped when a pass came half a second late.
Kweku slotted into a wide position during a tactical phase. The team rehearsed attacking patterns against a compact defensive block.
Ball out to Clauss.
Overlap.
Switch.
Then to Kweku.
One defender stepped tight.
This time, he hesitated.
Just slightly.
The defender poked the ball away.
"Too slow," Gasset called out.
Not angry.
Just factual.
Later in the session, he tried again. Received widely. Drove early. Delivered first time.
Better.
After training, as players peeled off toward the locker room, Aubameyang slowed beside him.
"Don't think," he said quietly. "When you thought, you lost it. When you ran, you were dangerous."
Kweku nodded.
Simple advice.
Hard to apply when every touch felt magnified.
---
Marseille's next fixture loomed — another league game against a mid-table side desperate for points.
The squad list was posted Saturday afternoon.
Kweku's name was there again.
Bench.
At school, the announcement spread quickly.
"You starting this time?"
"You'll score, yeah?"
He shrugged.
He didn't know.
---
That night, snow dusted the edges of the city again — thin and fragile. He stood by his bedroom window, watching it settle on rooftops.
Five minutes had changed how people saw him.
But it hadn't changed the truth.
He was still fighting for space.
Still learning when to release, when to drive, when to trust his instincts.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Camille:
Whatever happens tomorrow, it's still you.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Because that was what he feared losing.
Not the place in the squad.
Himself.
He hadn't even called his mom in a while.
---
At the Stade Vélodrome, the air carried restless energy.
The injury crisis hadn't eased. Results were inconsistent. The fans were supportive — but impatient.
During warmups, when Kweku jogged toward the corner to stretch, a small cluster of supporters applauded.
He heard someone shout, "Do it again!"
He didn't look up.
Inside the tunnel, Gasset gathered the substitutes.
"Be ready," he said. "Not hopeful. Ready."
The difference mattered.
---
As kickoff approached, Kweku sat on the bench again.
But this time felt different.
Not because he expected to come on.
But because he understood something now.
The assist wasn't the destination.
It was an invitation.
An opening.
And what came next would depend not on noise, or headlines, or whispers in school corridors —
—but on whether he could silence the inner noise long enough to play freely again.
The referee's whistle blew.
And the season, still fragile and uncertain, continued.