Marcel wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath ing in short, sharp gasps as he pushed through his final sprint. The setting sun dipped behind the distant rooftops, painting the sky in hues e and purple, yet the heat still g to his skin. His calves burned, his thighs ached, and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed—but he kept running.

  This was the st training session before the biggest trial of his young career.

  Fourteen days of relentless preparation, m till night, had led him to this moment. He had pushed his body beyond its limits, waking before dawn to train, spending his afternoons refining his dribbling, his evenings locked in tactical drills. Every passing day had been a test, each session harder tha. His world had shrunk to one singur goal—being ready.

  he edge of the field, Coaar ood, arms folded, his gaze as sharp as ever. He had the air of someone who had seen it all—the broken dreams, the wasted talent, the rare few who turned sweat and blood into something greater.

  "Last p, Marcel!" Oumar’s deep voice rang out, unwavering. "Push! This is where it ts!"

  Marcel didn’t hesitate. No slowing down. No stopping.

  His cleats dug into the dry earth, kig up dust as he pushed forward, every step an effort to silehe doubts creeping at the edges of his mind. His shirt g to his body, heavy with sweat, his heart pounded like a drum, but a fire inside him burned brighter than his exhaustion.

  Finally, as he crossed the invisible finish line, he slowed to a jog, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths. His legs trembled, and his entire body ached—yet beh the exhaustion, there was something else.

  Satisfa. Progress. Readiness.

  Oumar nodded, stepping toward him. "That’s enough for today."

  Marcel bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the dirt beh him. The two weeks had transformed him.

  At the start, he had been sluggish, rusty. Months of studying for his BEPC exams had stolen his sharpness, dulled his movements. He had felt it on the first day—his speed was off, his tousure, his stamina weaker.

  But Oumar had beaten the rust off him.

  Every m had begun with endurance drills—long runs that tested his will, short sprints that burned his legs, footwork drills that left him gasping for air. By noon, the real torture began—squats until his thighs screamed, push-ups until his arms gave out, core work that made him question why he was doing this to himself.

  And whehought the worst was over, Oumar’s voice would cut through the haze:

  "Again."

  By the sed week, something ged. The workouts still hurt, but now, his body responded faster. His legs felt lighter, stronger. His dribbling, once rusty, was sharper. His endurance—while still far from perfect—had grown. He could now sprint at full speed and still recover quickly.

  And then there was the mental training.

  "Football isn’t just about speed," Oumar had told him after a particurly grueling e drill. "If you don’t know when to slohen to ge dire, when to anticipate… you’ll never be great."

  So, Oumar tested his deaking under pressure. Tight spaces, fast touches, uable movements.

  It was brutal. But Marcel thrived.

  Now, standing at the edge of the field, on the brink of his trial, he knew ohing for certain—

  He was ready.

  Oumar watched him closely, then spoke. "You’ve worked hard. You’re better than when you started. But tomorrow’s the real test."

  Marcel met his gaze, his exhaustion momentarily fotten. "I won’t let you down."

  Oumar smirked. "Good. Because I expect you to be the best pyer on that pitch."

  Marcel felt his heartbeat steady, the weight of those words settling in his chest.

  Tomorrow, he would prove himself.

  ......

  When Marcel wasn’t training under Oumar’s strict regimen, he found time to return to where it all started—the dirt pit his neighborhood.

  There was something about this pce, about the rawness of the game here, that reminded him why he pyed. No structured drills, nid tactics—just pure, instinctual football.

  The pitch itself wasn’t much. The makeshift goals were twe stohe ground was uneven, half-dirt, half-patchy grass, and the boundary lines? Imaginary. Yet, for Marcel and his friends, it was a sacred battleground.

  This evening, as the golden sun stretched across the sky, the usual crowd had gathered for a 5v5 match. Marcel stood alongside Jordan and Dimitri, waiting for the game to begin.

  Jordan, ever the loudmouth, smirked. "So, Mr. Trialist, you still remember how to py without all that fancy training?"

  Marcel rolled his shoulders, crag a grin. "We’ll see, won’t we?"

  Dimitri, ever calm, adjusted his bandana and muttered, "Let’s just py."

  With that, the game kicked off.

  The first few minutes were chaotic, fast, and physical.

  Street football was different from the structured game—no referees, no whistles, no time to think. You either adapted ot left behind.

  Marcel let himself ease into it, pying with an effortless rhythm, using quie-twos, slick turns, and his natural fir to glide past defenders. He wasn’t f anything—just feeling the game, reag, flowing.

  Jordan, being his usual self, tried to nutmeg a defender and immediately lost the ball. The sideline burst into ughter.

  "Keep it simple, Jordan!" Marcel called out.

  Jordan groaned. "Let me an!"

  Dimitri, was the opposite— touches, simple passes, and a ess under pressure. He was the kind of pyer every team he one who did the dirty work without pint.

  As the game wore on, Marcel started to take over.

  The score was 2-2 with only minutes left.

  The ball Marcel’s feet near his own goal, and in that instant, he wao unleash his skills and py like his favorite pyer Ronaldinho.

  Jordan noticed and grinned. "Oh, here he goes! Showtime, everyone!"

  Marcel smirked.

  The first defender rushed in. Too slow.

  Estico. The ball snapped from his right foot to his left in a siion, and the defender lu nothing but air.

  Another boy stepped in to block him. Marcel barely paused.

  Marseille turn. A spin, a flick, and he ast him.

  The boys on the sidelied into cheers.

  Two more came at him. He waited, baiting them, letting them think they had a ce—then with a swift croqueta, he slid the ball between his feet and escaped through the gap before they could react.

  Now, only one defeood between him and the goal.

  Marcel stopped the ball with the sole of his foot, staring him down. Waiting.

  The defender hesitated.

  Marcel took a step forward—step-over left, cut inside right.

  Gone.

  He was through on goal.

  With a simple, smooth strike, he rolled the ball betweewo stones.

  Silence.

  Then groans of frustration from the losing team, followed by ughter.

  A few of the boys colpsed onto the ground in mock despair.

  Jordan jogged over, shaking his head. "You didn’t even have to try, did you? Show-off."

  Marcel shrugged. "Maybe a little."

  Dimitri, gave a short nod. "Good goal. But don’t burn yourself out before the trial."

  Marcel grinned. "Don’t worry. This was just for fun."

  ......

  Friday afternoht a familiar fort to Marcel—good food, good pany, and a moment to breathe.

  Betweeense weeks of training and pying with his friends, he sometimes had time to unwind with Christina, his girlfriend.

  They met at Le Normalien, his mother’s restaurant on Rue Mpondo Akwa.

  The st of grilled fish, fried pntains, and rich peanut stew filled the air as they stepped ihe restaurant buzzed with life—regurs chatting, waiters weaviween tables, the distant ctter of dishes from the kit.

  Behind the ter, Frane gave them a knowing look. She had always liked Christina—she was grounded, serious about her studies, and most importantly, she kept Marcel focused.

  They found their usual spot by the window, where the golden sunlight cast a warm glow over the table. Their ptes were already filled with ndolé and pntains, the food steaming as they dug in.

  "So," Christina started, watg Marcel between bites, "how's training been?"

  Marcel smirked. "Brutal. Oumar is pushing me harder than ever, but I feel strohe trial’s in a few days, and I’m ready."

  She raised an eyebrow. "No nerves?"

  He shook his head. "Not really. This is what I’ve been w for."

  Christina studied him for a moment before smiling. "That’s good. You always have this weird fidence before big things. It’s annoying but impressive."

  Marcel ughed. "Annoying? You should be proud that l am that fident, that means l will succeed."

  She rolled her eyes pyfully. "We’ll see about that after your trial."

  There was a fortable silence as they ate, the warmth of the food matg the ease between them.

  Then Christina spoke agaione softer. "What happens after the trial?"

  Marcel paused. He knew what she was really asking.

  If he made it intons FC’s U17 team, everything would ge.

  He exhaled, leaning back slightly. "If I get in, I’ll have to train even harder. Maybe even travel for matches. It’ll be different, but… this is what I want."

  Christina nodded, swirling a piece of pntain in sauce. "And if you don’t get in?"

  Marcel didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t because he hadn’t thought about it—he had. But the idea of failure felt distant, almost impossible.

  "I will," he said finally. "There's no other way."

  She sighed, pg her fork down. "I just don’t want you to put too much pressure on yourself. Football isn’t always fair."

  Marcel smirked. "That’s why I have to be too good to ignore."

  Christina shook her head, amused. "Same old Marcel. Always thinking like you are already a superstar."

  "You’ll see," he said fidently. "One day, I’ll be pying in Europe. And when I do, I’ll take you with me."

  She blinked, caught off guard. "Take me with you?"

  "Of course," he said, his tone serious. "When I make it big, we’ll go together. You study wherever you want—France, Engnd, even Spain."

  Christina chuckled. "You make it sound easy."

  "It is," Marcel grinned. "I get rich, you get smart, and we will swim in moogether."

  She ughed, shaking her head. "You’re impossible."

  "But you love it," he shot back, winking.

  She rolled her eyes again but didn’t deny it.

  The versation drifted to school—her dream of being a Businesswoman ahe owner of a pany, her worries about the BEPC results, the uainty of the future. Marcel listened, encement where he could.

  Before they k, the sun had dipped lower, painting the sky in shades e and violet.

  They decided to take a walk through the small park he restaurant, the air cooling as the eveniled in. Children still pyed, their ughter carrying through the trees, while the occasional rustle of leaves added to the peaceful atmosphere.

  As they reached a bender a mango tree, Marcel sat down, leaning back.

  "You ever think about the future?" he asked.

  Christina smiled. "Yeah. It’s exg… and kind of scary."

  Marodded. "I ’t wait to see how things turn out. If this trial goes well, everything could ge fast."

  She turo him, admiration in her eyes. "You’ll make it. You always do."

  He smiled. "Thanks. And when I do, don’t worry—I’ll make sure you’re right there with me."

  Christina ughed softly. "You better not fet your promise and fet about me when you’re famous."

  Marcel shook his head. "Fet you? Never."

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Now let's go we o go back since you have to rest."

  They walked back together, the streets now quieter, the sounds of Yaoundé shifting from busy markets to the steady hum of nightlife.

  At the main road, Marcel fgged down a taxi.

  "Dépot for Fouda," he told the driver.

  They climbed in, the ride passing in fortable silence.

  Twenty mier, they arrived at their apartment building.

  Christina stopped at the entrand turo Marcel. "Good luck with your trial again."

  Marcel smirked. "Thanks, but I don’t really ."

  She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "You and your fidence… Just don’t get too ahead of yourself."

  Marcel chuckled, his tone light but firm. "Don’t worry, I kly what I’m capable of."

  Christina studied him for a moment before nodding, satisfied. "Alright then. Now go get some sleep—you’ll ."

  Marcel grinned. "Yes, ma’am."

  She rolled her eyes, but he caught the small smile she tried to hide before she turned and disappeared into the building.

  Marcel lingered for a sed, staring after her before exhaling deeply. The trial was right around the er, and the anticipation buzzed in his veins.

  With a final gnce up at the darkening sky, he turoward his own home, excitement thrumming through him.

  ......

  ......

  Marcel stood in his room, staring at himself in the mirror. His breath was steady, his expression calm, but his heart pounded beh his chest.

  This was it.

  The most important day of his young life.

  His room wasravagant, but it was a refle of everything he had dreamed of. The walls were lined with posters of football legends—Cristiano Ronaldo mid-celebration in his Real Madrid jersey, Ronaldinho with his signature carefree grin, and Ronaldo Nazário, the Brazilian phenomenon, staring down at him as if passing on a challenge.

  His wooden desk was cluttered with schoolbooks, crumpled notes filled with football tactics, and old BEPC exam papers he had barely g in the past two weeks. On a nearby shelf, his PyStation 4 sat ly beside stacks of FIFA, Call of Duty, and a few ames he used to clear his mind.

  But Marcel’s eyes were locked ohing.

  The boots.

  They sat untouched beside his bed—Nike Mercurials, sleek and pristihe same model worn by Cristiano Ronaldo. His mother had gifted them to him for his birthday, and he had saved them for this exaent.

  Now, it was time.

  He took a deep breath, carefully packed his bag, and pced the boots i—almost as if sealing a promise to himself.

  Downstairs, Frane had already prepared a light breakfast. The familiar sounds of Yaoundé waking up filtered through the open window—the honking taxis, the hum of motorcycles, the distant shouts of vendors setting up their stalls. She pced a pte of toast and fruit in front of him.

  "How are you feeling?"

  Marcel exhaled slowly. "I'm ready, Mama. I just have to show them what I do."

  Frached him closely before reag out, squeezing his hand. "You’ve already made us proud, Marcel. No matter what happens today, remember that. Just go out there and do your best."

  He nodded and forced himself to eat, even though his stomach was tight with nerves. He he energy.

  The drive to Stade Militaire at Ngoa Ekélé felt lohan usual.

  Frane maneuvered her old RAV4 through the gested Yaoundé streets, passing roadside vendors selling roasted maize, fresh fruit, and bottled drinks. Motorbikes weaved dangerously between cars, their horns blending into the chaotic m symphony.

  But Marcel barely noticed any of it.

  His mind was locked on what y ahead.

  As they approached the stadium, the streets narrowed, and the atmosphere shifted. There were no r crowds, no fshing cameras—just a simple field where dreams could be made or broken.

  At the entrance, Coach Emile Atangana was waiting.

  Stocky, with a graying hairline and the sharp eyes of a man who had seen tless pyers e and go, he extended a firm handshake. "Bonjour, Marcel. I’m looking forward to seeing what you do today."

  Marcel straightened his back. "Thank you, Coach."

  Emile handed him a red practice jersey with the number 20 printed on the back. "You'll start with the substitutes for the first half. Show me why you belong here."

  Marcel gripped the jersey tightly. This is it.

  Frane pced a hand on his shoulder. "Remember why you're here. You've worked for this, and no matter what happens, we're proud of you."

  Marcel swallowed the lump in his throat, gave her a final nod, and walked toward the dressing room.

  The atmosphere inside was tense.

  The dressing room was basic—wooden benches, metal hooks fs, and the faint st of sweat and damp jerseys lingering in the air.

  The other pyers were already there, tying their boots, adjusting their jerseys, exging quiet words. Marcel found a spot in the er, pulled on his number 20 jersey, then reached for his boots.

  His boots.

  He ced them up carefully, feeling the leather mold around his feet. They were perfect.

  Just as he was about to step out, a shadow loomed over him.

  A tall, broad-shouldered pyer blocked his way, arms crossed. His fident smirk carried an unmistakable challenge.

  "You must be the trialist."

  Marcel met his gaze, waiting.

  The boy scoffed. "We’re supposed to be preparing for the Cameroon Brasseries Football Tour in a week, and now they bring in a trialist? Let me guess—you got in through the back door. Paid your way in, didn’t you?"

  The room went silent.

  All eyes turoward them.

  The words stung—not because they were entirely false (his father had pulled strings to get him here), but because they questioned his ability.

  Marcel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he held the boy’s gaze and answered without hesitation.

  "Yeah," he said evenly. "But that doesn’t mean I’m not good enough. We’ll see och."

  The boy blinked, clearly not expeg such a direswer.

  After a pause, his smirk widened. "Alright. If you prove yourself, maybe I’ll tell you my name."

  The tension broke, and the other pyers turned back to their preparations. Marcel fiying his boots, adjusted his jersey, and stepped out onto the field.

  The pyers lined up—red jerseys for substitutes, blue jerseys for starters.

  The field was rough, patches of dirt stretg across the grass, the goalposts rusted along the edges. It wasn’t pretty, but none of that mattered.

  Coach Emile stepped forward, addressing the team.

  "Most of you already know me, but for the new pyer today, I’m Emile Atangana, head coach of the U17s. We’re pying a full 90-mich. Marcel, you’ll start on the left wing with the substitutes. After halftime, you’ll switch to the starters. Show me what you do in both roles."

  Then, Emile’s sharp gaze locked onto Marcel.

  "I’ll be looking at your positioning, awareness, and deaking. Prove to me that you belong here."

  The pyers began their warm-ups, stretg, jogging, and passing the ball around. Marcel rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of expectatiole over him.

  But then, ahought crept into his mind.

  The lottery ticket stored in his system.

  Should he use it now?

  One click, and he could gain an edge.

  The temptation was real.

  But then, he shook his head.

  No.

  I don’t he system. I trained for this. I do this on my own.

  He took his position on the left wing.

  The referee raised his whistle.

  A deep breath.

  A final moment of calm.

  Then—

  The whistle blew.

  The match had begun.