First Match In Europe I

The game kicked off beneath a sky the color of unpolished steel, the kind of sky that made everything below it feel colder, heavier. Frost clung stubbornly along the edges of the pitch, refusing to melt under the weak winter sun. Every breath hung in the air like smoke, every shout or whistle cutting sharper through the silence because there was no crowd to swallow the sound.

Amani sat on the cold plastic bench, shoulders hunched against the bite of the wind. His academy-issued coat wasn't quite thick enough, and the chill from the seat seeped through his tracksuit, straight into his skin. But cold wasn't the reason his legs bounced restlessly, his heels drumming soft, uneven beats against the frozen ground.

From where he sat, the pitch felt both familiar and utterly foreign. Grass, lines, and goals — just like back home. But the way the game moved? That was something else entirely.

AZ Alkmaar's academy boys played with a terrifying kind of order — a rhythm born from years of training together, drilled so deep they didn't even need to shout commands. They pressed like a hunting pack, snapping at every Utrecht pass before it could even reach its target. The moment a Utrecht player hesitated or took a poor touch, two AZ players descended like vultures, stripping possession and instantly turning defense into attack.

Their front line moved with predatory patience, the wingers sticking wide like shadows waiting to pounce, while the central forward — a tall, lean boy with ice-blue eyes and the stillness of a snake — barely moved at all. He didn't chase the ball. He waited for it to come to him in dangerous places. When it did, his touches were surgical — one, two, maybe three before firing a shot or slipping a pass into space Utrecht hadn't even realized they left open.

Amani's stomach churned. He'd played fast teams before — but this wasn't just speed. This was precision violence, football with a scalpel instead of a hammer.

Utrecht looked like they were playing underwater. Every pass felt too slow, every run too hesitant. Tijmen, usually so confident in midfield, kept glancing over his shoulder like he could feel the pressure even before it arrived. Simple passes — the kind they'd hit perfectly in training — now came with panic baked in. It felt like there was a missing piece. The defenders resorted to aimless clearances, hoofing the ball upfield not to attack, but to buy a few seconds of breath.

Up top, Utrecht's forwards chased those hopeless long balls like kids trying to catch kites in a hurricane. Each time, AZ's backline — cool and composed — simply swallowed them whole.

Amani could see it all so clearly from the bench. The spaces Utrecht wasn't filling. The lanes AZ kept cutting off. The traps they were walking into, over and over again. It was like watching someone struggle through a maze while holding the map in his own hands — frustrating, infuriating.

Across the pitch, sitting on the stands near the halfway line, Mr. Stein didn't move. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable, eyes locked on the field. Beside him, Kristen scribbled furiously in her notebook, her pen moving like it was powered by caffeine and tension. Every once in a while, she leaned closer to Mr. Stein, whispering something Amani couldn't hear. The scout didn't even nod. He just kept watching.

Three rows behind them, wrapped in a ridiculous oversized Utrecht scarf, sat Malik — the lone voice of chaos in a sea of silence. He bounced in his seat like a toddler with too much sugar, half cheering, half shouting advice nobody could hear. Whenever Amani glanced his way, Malik gave him a wild grin and two thumbs up, like his sheer enthusiasm could drag Amani onto the pitch by force.

Amani's fists curled in his lap, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. Every misplaced pass felt like a personal insult, every sloppy clearance like a punch in the ribs.

Amani was too focused. His jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. Put me in, he thought. Let me help.

But the truth sat cold beside him: he wasn't a savior. Not yet. He was just a name on the bench, watching the team he was supposed to belong to sink deeper and deeper into frustration.

It felt almost merciful when the first goal came — like the moment a rickety dam finally gives in, the cracks too many to hold back the flood.

AZ had been circling like vultures for the past thirty minutes, and when Utrecht's defense panicked again, hoofing a clearance straight into touch, the inevitable corner followed. Amani could feel it in his bones before the ball was even placed in the quadrant.

From the bench, he saw every mistake waiting to happen.

Utrecht's defenders shuffled into position like men dragged from their sleep, unsure and disorganized. No one took charge. Players pointed, but nobody spoke with authority. Marking assignments were passed around like a hot potato, and by the time AZ's winger raised his hand to signal the delivery, the damage was already done.

The corner itself wasn't special — a low, skidding ball that bounced once before reaching the crowded near post. A training-ground clearance. Bread and butter for any team with composure.

But composure was nowhere to be found.

Utrecht's keeper lunged forward too early, his gloves barely grazing the ball, sending it spinning awkwardly back into the mixer instead of clearing it away. What followed was chaos — a flurry of legs stabbing at the ball, boots clashing, the ball ricocheting off shins and knees like a pinball machine gone haywire.

Amani's heart pounded louder with each deflection. This was a moment crying out for someone to just take control — someone to clear it, claim it, do something.

But no one did.

The ball spat loose from the scrum, rolling gently to a pair of bright orange boots — the predator-striker who had been lurking just outside the fray. He didn't rush. Didn't snatch at the chance like a nervous schoolboy.

One touch to steady. One smooth, unhurried stroke.

A cold-blooded execution.

The net bulged, and the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

0-1.

The AZ players didn't even celebrate. No sliding knees, no screaming at the sky — just a few casual high-fives and a jog back to position like they'd punched a clock. Business as usual.

Amani sat frozen on the bench, his breath short and sharp, heart drumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn't his fault. He hadn't played a second. But it still felt personal — like the team's failure somehow belonged to him too.

This was his team now.

Every misplaced pass, every botched clearance, every defensive meltdown — it all settled like a stone in his gut. His fists curled in his lap, fingers digging into his gloves until the seams threatened to rip.

Malik's voice floated down from the stands, trying to cut the tension.

"Come on, Utrecht! We've got this! Just a warm-up!"

Nobody heard him but Amani.

The Kenyan embassy two hours away could probably hear Malik before the end of the day — but right now, Amani couldn't even smile at his friend's relentless optimism. His mind was somewhere else.

Put me in.

Not to save the team.Not to be a hero.But to stop the ache building inside his chest — the ache of watching his team bleed and knowing he couldn't do a thing about it.

Not yet.

Amani was still clenching and unclenching his fists, his breath coming in tight, frustrated bursts when the coach's voice rang out, sharp enough to cut through the cold.

"Amani!"

His head snapped up, heart leaping into his throat.

"Get up. Follow the assistant. Warm-up. You're coming on in the second half."

For a second, everything else — the cold, the score, even the buzzing in his mind — vanished. All that existed was the order.

He was up before his brain fully caught up, his legs moving on instinct.

Malik's loud "Let's Gooo!" rang from the stands, loud enough that even the AZ bench turned to look. Curiuos.

The assistant coach clapped a firm hand on Amani's shoulder, steering him toward the far side of the pitch. The warmth of that grip felt oddly reassuring — like being led toward battle by someone who knew the battlefield.

"Listen closely," the assistant said, voice low but clear. "You're going left midfield. First job — keep your width. Drift inside when you've got space to attack."

Amani nodded, blood pumping so hard he could barely hear.

"Second job — help Tijmen in the press. When he steps, you step. When we lose the ball, you sprint back and fill the gap. No passengers today. You're here to work."

Another nod.

"And if you get a chance to go forward…" The assistant's mouth quirked into a small smile. "Show me what you've got."

That last part hit Amani somewhere deep. He pulled off his jacket, the cold biting instantly at his skin, but the adrenaline roaring through his veins drowned out the chill. His boots crunched the frosty grass as he started his warm-up sprints down the touchline — high knees, side shuffles, short bursts — everything to wake his legs up for the fight ahead.

He didn't need to look up to know Mr. Stein was watching from the stands. He could feel the scout's gaze on him like a spotlight.

And Malik? His voice cut through the cold like a siren.

"Hamadi time, baby! Kenyan Messi warming up! AZ ain't ready!"

Amani couldn't help it — a small smile cracked his face, though it vanished just as fast. This wasn't about being a Kenyan Messi. This was about survival.

This was about proving that his name belonged on that team sheet — not in pencil, not as a gamble, but in permanent ink.

He jogged back toward the bench, muscles warm, heart hammering. The assistant gave him one final nod.

"Be ready. The second half is yours."

Amani exhaled, long and slow, vapor curling like smoke from a match lit in a storm.

This was the moment he'd waited for since stepping off that plane.

No more watching. No more waiting. Now, it was his turn to change the game.