A New Contract
As Amani stepped off the pitch and into the narrow tunnel, the ding came — soft but sharp, a sound only he could hear, like a secret handshake from fate itself.
A familiar blue glow flickered to life beside his left eye, the System Notification hovering in midair, invisible to everyone else:
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System Alert:
Mission Complete: Execute the Coach's Orders
FULL ANALYSIS
Key Passes: 4
Assists: 3
Defensive Interceptions: 3
Full Tactical Execution Achieved
Reward: Legendary Skill Progress +2%
Visionary Pass Progress: 12%
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Mission Completed — Execute the Coach's Orders
Final Grade: S
Bonus Unlocked: Skill Link Activated — Visionary Pass now enhances Counter Pressing Instincts when out of possession.
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ADDITIONAL REWARD: 30 POINTS
****
Amani exhaled slowly, the frost of his breath curling in the cold air like a victory flag raised in silence.
He'd done it.
Not just survived — he'd shaped the match with his own hands, his own feet. The system had been there, but it hadn't carried him. It had followed him, weaving its power around his intent, amplifying the talent he already knew lived inside him.
Those passes? His vision. Those defensive reads? His hunger. That perfect cross? His left foot was honed in dust and broken sandals back home.
The system had sharpened the blade, but the hand holding it? That was Amani Hamadi.
He swiped the notification aside with a flick of his fingers, the glow fading back into nothingness, leaving only the echo of the moment in its wake.
Behind him, the sounds of celebration spilled into the tunnel — boots clattering, Malik's voice booming in the hallway, the kind of noise that follows a player who just announced himself to the world.
Amani stepped deeper into the corridor, heart still pounding in his chest, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was certainty.
He didn't just belong here.
He was meant to lead here.
The locker room was chaos.
The boys who had been strangers three days ago were now slapping his back, grabbing his shoulders, ruffling his hair like he was some kind of lucky charm they'd just discovered. Even players who hadn't spoken to him before today were calling his name.
"Hamadi! Maestro!"
"Where the hell did you learn to pass like that?"
Tijmen sat on the bench, smirking, half-shaking his head. "You were supposed to just fit in, you know. Not run the whole damn show."
Amani grinned, dropping onto the bench beside him. "I got bored waiting for you to do it."
The room roared with laughter — the kind that came from relief more than humor. They'd been drowning. Amani had pulled them back to shore. And now, finally, he was one of them.
Even the assistant coach gave him a firm nod, muttering something about "natural rhythm" and "game intelligence you can't teach."
Malik, still vibrating with excitement, burst into the room moments later — somehow louder than the whole team put together. "Did you see that?! Bro, you were threading passes like spaghetti through a fork! AZ's whole midfield got baptized!"
Amani couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. This was the moment every kid dreamed of — the moment when the unknown player became the name everyone remembered.
But before the noise could swell too much, the door creaked open, and all the energy froze like someone had pressed pause.
Mr. Stein stood there, hands buried in his coat pockets, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. The usual sternness in his face was still there, but something was different. A subtle softening at the edges, like a smile trying to sneak past his defenses.
"Hamadi." His voice was steady, but it cut through the room like a knife through cloth. "With me. Now."
The silence broke instantly, replaced by a chorus of whoops, whistles, and exaggerated gasps. Malik, always first to fan the flames, cupped his hands around his mouth like a stadium announcer.
"Ooooh! Already getting the VIP treatment!"
Another teammate shouted, "Tell him to buy you a Ferrari, bro!"
Malik, never outdone, added, "If they offer you a private chef, make sure I get extra samosas, okay?"
Amani shook his head, grinning despite the nerves creeping up his spine. But as soon as his boots stepped into the hallway, the noise faded behind him, leaving just the quiet echo of his own footsteps.
Mr. Stein walked ahead without speaking, his polished shoes tapping softly on the tiled floor. They weren't heading toward the main exit or even the coaches' office. Instead, Stein led him down a quieter corridor, the air cooler here, the lights dimmer — the kind of hallway only serious business walked through.
This wasn't just a talk. This was something bigger.
They stopped outside a small room, one of the offices usually reserved for senior academy meetings — or first-team players discussing contracts. Amani swallowed hard.
Inside, Kristen was already waiting, her ever-present notebook open, pen in hand. Her expression was professional, but there was a glint in her eye — like she knew a secret Amani didn't.
On the table in front of her lay a slim blue folder. Neat, official, with his full name printed in bold black letters across the cover.
HAMADI, AMANI CHIRICHI
Stein pointed at the chair across from Kristen. "Sit."
Amani did, back straight, heart thudding against his ribs. His hands rested awkwardly on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
Stein eased into the seat across from him, folding his arms and studying Amani like a sculptor studying raw marble. For once, there was no lecture. No warnings. Just a quiet, measured pause before the words came.
"First off," Stein said, his voice softer than usual, "Congratulations. You earned every single bit of this."
He tapped the folder gently — not like a document, but like something sacred. "This… this is your new contract. Effective immediately."
Amani blinked. "But I already signed... "
"That was a trial contract," Stein cut in. "A test drive. This?" He slid the folder across the table. "This is the real thing."
Kristen flipped the folder open, turning it so Amani could see the numbers printed neatly inside.
1,000 euros a month.
Amani's heart stumbled over itself. That wasn't money — it almost felt magical. That was more than his mother made in half a year, more than most people in Mbakari saw in their lifetime. But Stein wasn't done.
"And," Stein added, almost too casually, "there's also a signing bonus."
Amani braced himself.
5,000 euros.
His fingers froze halfway to the page, his mind unable to process the number for a moment. Five thousand? That was beyond money. That was school fees like 5 years at the University of Nairobi, new shoes for his fellow villagers, a new roof for their house, and maybe his mother even buying her own stall instead of renting a corner of someone else's. That was the difference between just surviving and finally breathing.
He stared at the paper, feeling his throat tighten. For all the things the system had prepared him for — quick passes, tactical awareness, stamina boosts — nothing had prepared him for this.
"Why?" His voice came out softer than he meant, almost afraid to disturb the moment.
"Because," Stein said simply, "you didn't just play well today. You didn't just prove you belong. You made Jan Wouters — the first-team coach — sit up and actually care about an academy match."
Amani's head snapped up. "The first-team coach?"
Stein nodded, leaning back slightly. "He was here. Watching you."
Amani's hands started to tremble, just a little. The first-team coach. That wasn't just a scout or a youth coordinator. That was the man who picked the players who got to wear the real Utrecht kit, who ran out at Galgenwaard in front of thousands of fans.
"What did he say?" Amani asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Stein's smile was small but real. "He said, 'That's not just a wildcard. That's a player.'"
Amani exhaled slowly, letting the words settle deep inside his chest. Not a fluke.
Not luck.
A player.
He traced his fingers across the paper, the contract heavier than any trophy. This wasn't just money. It was proof... proof that the streets of Malindi had produced something Europe had to notice. Proof that all those years playing barefoot, with torn balls and makeshift goals, had led here.
He was no longer the boy who dreamed. He was the boy who had arrived.
Mr. Stein cut his imagination short immediately.
"But listen to me," Stein said, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial — like this was a secret meant only for Amani's ears. "This isn't charity, kid. This is business. It's an investment."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes sharp behind the glint of his glasses.
"They're not paying you for the passes you made tonight, or the assists, or even that bit of magic with the outside foot. No."
He tapped the contract with one finger.
"They're paying you for the player they believe you can become."
The words settled heavy on Amani's chest, but not like a burden — more like a crown being placed on his head. For once, pressure didn't feel like something to fear. It felt like proof. Proof that they saw what he saw in himself.
Proof that the dream was real.
Amani nodded slowly, the gravity of it all sinking into his bones. But deep inside — beneath the frost, beneath the nerves, beneath even the system — there was something warmer.
This was where he belonged.
He stood, the contract in his hand feeling both heavier and lighter than he expected — like a map to his future drawn in ink and ambition.
As he turned to leave, Stein's voice followed him, softer this time. Not a scout talking to a player. A man talking to a son who wasn't his, but who mattered anyway.
Stein stood, signaling the conversation was done. But just as Amani turned to leave, Stein spoke again, voice lower, softer.
"Call your mother."
The words hit Amani harder than the contract itself. In an instant, he could see her — standing at their front door back home, apron still dusted with flour from the chapati she'd been selling all afternoon. The woman who once stayed up all night sewing torn uniforms just so her son could play with pride. The woman who sacrificed so silently, so constantly, Amani had almost mistaken her strength for air — always there, always needed.
He swallowed hard, blinking fast to clear the sudden sting in his eyes.
"I will," he whispered.
But this time, it wasn't just a promise.
It was a vow.