First Match In Europe II
The air inside the Utrecht Academy's locker room felt like a pressure cooker, the walls holding in a storm ready to explode. The players collapsed into their seats, shirts clinging to their backs with cold sweat, the sharp smell of damp grass, and adrenaline hanging in the air like a second skin. Water bottles cracked open in shaky hands, the hiss of escaping air the only sound in the silence.
Nobody dared speak. Coach Pronk's footsteps echoed louder than they should have, hard soles clicking against the tiles as he paced like a lion locked in a too-small cage. His face was flushed, not just from the cold, but from frustration — the kind that comes when players ignore everything you've drilled into them for weeks.
"Where's the fight?" Pronk's voice finally broke the silence, bouncing off the narrow walls. "Where's the courage? You let them walk through you like tourists at the market! They're not better — they're just hungrier."
His words struck like sharp stones, but no one looked up. Tijmen slumped back against his locker, his head tilted upward, eyes locked on the ceiling as if the answers might be written there. His chest rose and fell, every breath edged with frustration. The keeper, guilt hanging off his shoulders like a lead blanket, hadn't moved since they came in. His gloves were still on, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like a man awaiting his own execution.
Boots scraped the floor as players shifted awkwardly in their seats, but still, no one spoke. It wasn't just silence — it was shame.
By the door, Amani stood apart. Jacket off, shin pads strapped, laces double-knotted, his kit was spotless — still waiting for its first taste of dirt and frost. On his wrist, a single Kenyan bracelet, woven from red, green, black, and white beads — a small piece of home clinging to him, even here in this cold, foreign room. His heart was pounding — not from nerves, but from the electric hum of anticipation.
His heart hammered inside his chest, not with exhaustion like the rest, but with anticipation. He wasn't drained. He was buzzing. A coiled spring, a live wire, a lion who hadn't been fed yet.
The contrast was jarring. Around him, players slumped like they'd already lost. Amani stood like a man about to walk into his first fight, knowing that every punch would decide his future.
Coach Pronk's eyes landed on him, brow furrowing slightly as if he'd almost forgotten Amani was there. For a moment, Amani thought he'd have to wait longer. Maybe they'd keep him on the bench until the final minutes. Maybe the chance wasn't coming after all.
Then Pronk glanced at the assistant coach. One small, sharp nod.
"Amani. Left midfield. You're in."
That was it.
No speech.
No pep talk.
No big welcome.
Just orders.
Amani swallowed hard, but his feet were already moving. He grabbed his training jacket from the bench and stepped forward, the sound of his own breathing suddenly louder than everything else.
And that's when it happened — a soft golden glow flickered at the edge of his vision, just like during training. The system was awake.
A translucent blue popup flickered into existence, hovering in front of him — completely invisible to anyone else. It floated there in the air like a ghostly hologram, its light cold, and familiar. After weeks of training with it, Amani had grown used to these sudden system intrusions, but this one carried extra weight.
****
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
NEW MISSION UNLOCKED: Execute the Coach's Orders
Objective: Follow all tactical instructions to perfection for the next 45 minutes.
Reward: Legendary Skill Progress +2%
Extra Reward: +30 points
Failure Penalty: Visionary Pass Progress -1%
***
Amani didn't flinch. He expected this.
Pronk's orders were now law, and the system would punish him if he strayed from the script.
Amani drew a slow, shaky breath, his fingers flexing at his sides. He had never played like this before. In Malindi, he was always the wild card — the player who broke shape to find magic. Now, he was being told to become a cog in the machine.
As the players emerged from the tunnel into the biting cold, their breaths curled into the air like ghosts escaping their lungs. The frost had thickened slightly, coating the edges of the pitch in a pale shimmer, and the sky above had settled into that stubborn steel-gray, like it was watching, waiting for something to happen.
High in the stands — in a section barely populated thanks to this being just an academy match — Malik stood up like he'd just heard a goal scored at the World Cup. His arms windmilled wildly, scarf half-falling from his neck as he yelled loud enough to scare the pigeons off the floodlights.
"HAMADI TIME! LET'S GOOOOO!"
His voice sliced through the cold air like a machete through sugarcane.
Amani couldn't help but glance up, catching sight of his best friend doing what only Malik could do — turning a small moment into a stadium-sized event. Amani grinned, shaking his head slightly, but inside, that warmth spread in his chest — a reminder that no matter how far from Mbakari he was, Malik was always right there with him.
Down below, sitting closer to the field, Mr. Stein barely reacted. A faint twitch of his mouth hinted at amusement, but it was the kind of understated pride only a veteran scout knew how to show. Beside him, Kristen scribbled steadily in her notebook, observing everything, recording nothing but facts — though even she allowed herself a small smile at Malik's antics.
And then — from the far end of the row — a figure slid quietly into the seat next to Stein.
The coat was heavy navy, the cap flat and practical, pulled low against the cold. He didn't speak at first, just settled into his seat like a man who belonged anywhere without needing to announce it.
Stein's eyes flicked sideways. His brow lifted slightly. "Didn't expect to see you here, Jan."
The man didn't turn. His gaze stayed locked on the field, sharp as a hawk's, tracking the players as they jogged into position for the second half.
"I heard you brought in some wild card from Kenya," Jan Wouters — head coach of FC Utrecht's first team — muttered, his voice gravelly from years of sideline shouting and cold Dutch mornings. "Figured I should see if he's worth the fuel."
Stein allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "That's him. Number 37. Hamadi."
Jan grunted softly — the kind of grunt that could mean anything, from mild interest to total disbelief.
"Alright then, let's see what this kid's made of."
***
Amani stood at the touchline, toes bouncing lightly inside his boots to keep the cold at bay. He could feel the frost through the leather, a chill biting at his skin. The referee's whistle sliced through the air, signaling the restart, and Amani stepped onto the field — not just as a substitute, but as a player crossing a line between everything he'd been and everything he hoped to become.
The grass felt different here. Softer than the dry dirt of Mbakari. More obedient than the uneven patches in Mombasa. It was manicured, perfect, almost unnatural. Each step sank into the frost-kissed surface with a satisfying crunch, but Amani barely noticed.
All the noise — Malik's shouting, the murmured conversations in the stands, even the referee's whistle — faded.
For a heartbeat, it was just him, the ball, and the cold air burning in his lungs.
This is it.
Then reality roared back in.
AZ Alkmaar pressed like wolves, their wingers pushing so high they were practically playing as second strikers. The Utrecht fullbacks were pinned immediately, leaving Amani stranded on his island out wide, waiting, fighting every urge to drift inside and chase the action.
Stay wide. Hold the shape. The assistant coach's words echoed in his head.
The ball swung his way — finally.
The pass came hard and low, skimming the frozen grass, slightly behind his stride. The first touch would matter.
Amani stretched his left leg back, letting the ball meet the inside of his boot, cushioning it with a soft touch that killed its speed. Smooth as silk. A split-second pause to check his options, then a short, simple layoff back to the left-back, keeping possession alive.
Nothing flashy.
No tricks.
Just clean football.
The system reacted instantly — a faint pulse of warmth spread through his legs, a quiet confirmation only he could feel.
****
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
+0.1% Progress: Execute the Coach's Orders
****
It was tiny — barely anything — but it was proof. He was on track.
There were no cheers from the small crowd. No applause from the bench. It was the kind of touch that didn't make highlights — the kind that real players knew mattered, but fans never noticed.
And that was fine. Amani didn't need noise. He needed respect.
***
From the stands, Jan Wouters leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the new boy like a jeweler inspecting an uncut gem. His breath fogged the air, but his eyes were sharp.
"Not bad. First touch tells you a lot."
Stein grunted softly, hands tucked into his coat.
"The boy's got feet. Let's see if he has a brain."
Kristen kept writing, recording every moment — not just what Amani did, but how he did it.
***
Amani stayed disciplined, tracking back when AZ tried to overload the wing, and sprinting forward when Utrecht won possession. Every pass he received, he returned cleanly. No risk, no flair — just trustworthy football. The ball started finding him more often as his calmness radiated through the whole team.
And with each completed pass, the system nudged him forward.
***
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
+0.1% Progress: Execute the Coach's Orders+0.1% Progress: Execute the Coach's Orders
***
57th Minute.
It started with a mistake — an AZ midfielder taking half a second too long on the ball. That was all Tijmen needed.
He pounced, cutting off the lazy pass like a thief snatching a wallet in a crowded market. His first touch was sharp, the second even sharper, swiveling his body toward the left flank. And there — already sprinting into the open space, perfectly on time — was Amani.
Tijmen fired the ball out wide, hard and flat, trusting Amani to handle it.
Amani's first touch was velvet, absorbing the pass and killing its momentum with the softest angle of his boot. Perfect.
The moment the ball settled at his feet, the system stirred to life, a faint hum deep in his chest — Visionary Pass activating like a sixth sense.
The game slowed down around him — not in reality, but in his mind. The angles sharpened, the movements of every player registering a fraction faster. His eyes flicked up for a split second, and he saw it — the run.
Utrecht's striker had peeled off his defender, darting across the near post like a knife cutting through silk. But the window was tiny — a gap no bigger than the width of a coffee cup, shrinking with every second.
Amani didn't hesitate. His left foot swung, not just to pass, but to paint.
The ball left his boot with surgical precision, curling just past the defender's desperate lunge, bending inward with the spin — not too fast, not too soft, just perfectly obedient to Amani's intent.
The striker didn't have to break stride, didn't need to think or adjust. The ball arrived as if hand-delivered by fate, right in his strike zone.
He met it with a clean, vicious volley.
The sound of the boot on the ball was sharp and clean — a gunshot in the cold air — and then the net bulged, rippling violently as the ball buried itself into the top corner.
Goal.
For a heartbeat, the whole world seemed to pause.
Then — chaos.
The Utrecht bench exploded, players and coaches alike leaping to their feet. Shouts, fists in the air, feet stomping against the boards.
High in the stands, Malik lost his entire mind. He stood on his seat, arms flailing like a lunatic, scarf trailing behind him, voice echoing off the empty rows.
"HAMADIIIIIIIIIII! YOU'RE THE TRUTH, BRO!"
His shout was so loud it probably startled some pigeons two blocks away.
Down below, Mr. Stein allowed himself a rare moment of visible satisfaction — a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Beside him, Kristen's pen paused just long enough for her to underline something heavily in her notebook before resuming her furious scribbling.
And next to them, Jan Wouters, the first-team coach, shifted forward in his seat — elbows on his knees, eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
"Alright, Carlos," Jan muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Let's see what else this boy's got."
Amani jogged back toward his position, his face calm, but his pulse hammering in his chest like a drumline.
One pass.
One assist.
But it felt like the first brick laid in something much bigger.
He belonged here.
***
Welcome to Dutch football, Hamadi.