The France U-16 jersey felt heavier than Ethan expected.
He stood in the changing room at the Stade de la Beaujoire in Nantes, running his fingers over the blue fabric, the cockerel emblem embroidered on his chest. Outside, thirty thousand fans were gathering for a friendly match between France U-16 and Spain U-16—two of Europe's most talented youth generations facing off.
"First cap?" a voice asked.
Ethan turned to see a midfielder from Lyon—Houssem Aouar, one of the most technically gifted players in the squad.
"Yeah," Ethan admitted. "You?"
"Third. But it never gets old." Houssem smiled. "Don't overthink it. It's still just football. Just happens to be in front of a big crowd with your country's name on your chest."
Coach Ferrier entered the changing room, tactical board in hand. "Listen up. Spain plays possession football. They'll try to suffocate us, control the tempo. But they have a weakness—they commit players forward and leave space in behind."
His eyes found Ethan. "Loki, you're starting up front. Your job is simple: press their center-backs, force mistakes, and exploit the space behind their high line. When we win the ball, attack immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Good. Baptiste, you'll support from the left. Houssem, control the midfield. Everyone else—we defend as a unit, attack as a unit." Ferrier looked around the room. "This is your chance to show France what you can do. Make it count."
The national anthem was surreal.
Ethan stood in line with his teammates as La Marseillaise echoed through the stadium. He saw his parents in the stands, his mother already crying, his father standing rigid with pride. Marie held up a banner: "ALLEZ ETHAN! 🇫🇷"
Across from him, the Spanish players looked confident, experienced. Many had already played multiple international matches. This was routine for them.
For Ethan, this was everything.
The referee blew his whistle. France kicked off.
Spain dominated possession from the start, exactly as predicted. Their midfielders kept the ball moving, probing for weaknesses, patient and methodical.
But Ethan had studied their pattern. Three moves ahead.
In the eighth minute, Spain's center-back received the ball under minimal pressure. He took an extra touch, comfortable, expecting time.
Ethan was already sprinting. He'd seen the heavy touch before it happened. Closed the distance in three seconds. The defender panicked, trying to pass back to his goalkeeper, but the pass was short.
Ethan intercepted.
Suddenly it was just him, the goalkeeper, and forty meters of open space.
Three moves ahead. Keeper will rush out. I need to go early.
Twenty-five meters from goal, Ethan struck the ball with his left foot. A dipping shot, hit with precision rather than power. The goalkeeper was still advancing when the ball sailed over his head and dropped into the net.
1-0. Eight minutes played.
Ethan's first international goal.
The stadium exploded. His teammates mobbed him. Houssem grabbed his face. "Welcome to international football!"
But Ethan's celebration was brief. He pointed to his teammates, acknowledging their defensive work that won the ball. Then he jogged back to position.
Stay focused. The game isn't over.
Spain responded with fury. They pressed higher, controlled more possession, created chances. Their equalized in the thirty-third minute—a beautiful team goal involving twelve passes.
1-1 at halftime.
In the changing room, Ferrier adjusted tactics. "They're pressing us too high. Ethan, drop deeper in the second half. Receive between their lines. Draw their center-backs out, create space for Baptiste to run behind."
"Understood, Coach."
The second half became a chess match.
Ethan dropped into midfield, receiving the ball in pockets of space. Spain's center-backs didn't know whether to follow him or hold their line. When they followed, Baptiste exploited the space behind. When they held position, Ethan turned and drove at them.
In the sixty-seventh minute, the breakthrough came.
Ethan received the ball thirty meters from goal, back to goal. Two defenders closed him down. He rolled one with a Lavinho roulette, accelerated past the second with pure speed, and suddenly had sight of goal.
The goalkeeper rushed out. The angle was tight. Most players would shoot near post.
But Ethan saw three moves ahead. He saw the goalkeeper's weight shifting right. Saw the far post slightly exposed. Calculated the exact curve needed.
He struck with the outside of his right foot—his weaker foot—bending the ball around the goalkeeper's left hand. It curled beautifully, kissing the inside of the far post and settling into the net.
2-1.
Pandemonium.
This time, Ethan's celebration was pure emotion. He slid on his knees, arms spread wide, screaming with joy. His teammates buried him in a pile of blue jerseys.
In the stands, his mother was sobbing. His father was standing, fist raised, shouting. Marie was recording everything on her phone, tears streaming down her face.
France held on for the victory. Final score: 2-1.
After the final whistle, Ethan was named Man of the Match. In the mixed zone, journalists crowded around him.
"Ethan, two goals on your debut. How does it feel?"
"Incredible. But it's about the team. We fought together, won together."
"You're only fifteen. Do you think you can play at senior level soon?"
"I'm focused on developing, learning, getting better every day. The future will take care of itself."
"Comparisons are already being made to Mbappé. How do you handle that?"
Ethan smiled. "Kylian is my friend and mentor. I'm not trying to be him. I'm trying to be the best version of Ethan Loki."
Perfect answer. Humble but confident.
Back in the changing room, his phone buzzed. A text from Mbappé:
Two goals on debut! I knew you'd kill it. Proud of you, brother. Now get ready—I'm scoring three next time I play. Competition makes us better. 👑⚽
Ethan smiled and replied: Challenge accepted. The Princes never rest.
Coach Ferrier approached. "Exceptional performance, Ethan. You've secured your place in the squad. We have European qualifiers coming up. You'll be starting."
"Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." Ferrier paused. "But remember—this is just the beginning. International football gets harder. Defenders get smarter. Pressure increases. Stay hungry. Stay humble."
"Always."
That night, at a team dinner in Nantes, Ethan sat with Baptiste and Houssem. The atmosphere was celebratory, players laughing and reliving the match.
"Man of the Match on your debut," Baptiste said, raising his glass of water. "That's legendary status."
"Lucky bounces," Ethan said modestly.
"Stop with the humble act," Houssem laughed. "That second goal was filthy. Outside of the foot, weaker foot, tight angle? That's world-class technique."
Ethan allowed himself to smile. "Okay, it felt pretty good."
"You know what this means, right?" Baptiste leaned forward. "You're officially on the radar. Not just France youth coaches. Senior team scouts. European clubs. Everyone's watching now."
"Good," Ethan said quietly. "Let them watch. I'll keep scoring."
On the train back to Monaco the next morning, Ethan updated his goals notebook:
Goals:1. ✓ Train with U-17 at 142. ✓ France U-16 debut at 153. ✓ Score in first international match4. Train with Monaco first team by 165. Professional debut at 176. Win Ligue 1 with Kylian7. Senior France debut8. Win Ballon d'Or
Three goals already achieved. Five more to go.
He stared out the window as the French countryside rushed past. Somewhere ahead lay Monaco, his training ground, his home. Somewhere ahead lay Mbappé, probably already back to work, probably already planning how to one-up Ethan's performance.
The Princes of Monaco.
Two years away from professional football.
Two years away from changing the world.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could see it all.
End of Chapter 13