The Spotlight Finds Hamadi

Sunday morning crept in slow and gray, the pale winter light barely piercing through the curtains. Amani lay sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling over the side, the other stretched across the armrest. His muscles ached from the week's brutal training — a soreness so deep it felt stitched into his bones — but beneath it, pride glowed quietly.

He'd survived Week One. More than that — he'd owned it.

From the kitchen, Malik's familiar racket filled the air — cupboard doors banging, spoons clattering, the sound of someone who looked like they were fighting the ingredients. Amani smiled to himself, letting the noise roll over him like home.

Then came the front door, slamming open so hard that Amani nearly fell off the couch.

"YO! HAMADI!" Malik's voice bellowed through the apartment, half-shock, half-accusation.

Before Amani could even sit up, Malik stormed into the living room, brandishing a glossy magazine over his head like he'd just found a treasure map — Voetbal International.

"You're famous!" Malik cried. "And nobody told me?! I had to find out at the newsstand like some random fan? Bro, this is disrespect."

Amani's face twitched, trying not to laugh. "You bought that?"

"Of course I bought it! Cost me three euros, you ungrateful..."

"I got mine for free," Amani said, holding up his own copy.

Malik froze mid-rant. "What?"

"The guy at the newsstand gave it to me last night when I saw it. Said first copy's on the house."

Malik's eye twitched. "That sly old man. I told him I was your roommate; your agent! And he still made me pay! Three euros! For my own client's magazine!"

Amani couldn't hold it anymore he burst out laughing, falling back onto the couch.

"You think this is funny?!" Malik pointed an accusing finger. "I want my refund AND free stroopwafels next time I go there."

"Take it up with the newspaper mafia," Amani gasped between laughs. "I'm innocent."

Malik shook his head, muttering something about betrayal and 'Kenyan wonderkids forgetting their roots,' but his grin gave him away. "Alright, alright, let's see what they said about you."

He dramatically opened the magazine, reading the headline aloud in a fake commentator voice: Kenyan Wonderkid Takes Utrecht By Storm — 13-Year-Old Magician Stuns in Friendly Debut.

"Bro," Malik was pacing, waving the magazine like a lawyer presenting evidence to court, "I've been here longer than you by 1 minute, and the only time my name got mentioned was when I clogged the shower drain with hair. TWO WEEKS and you're a 'wonderkid?' How?"

Amani shook his head, speechless.

"Listen to this!" Malik flipped to the article, voice turning overly dramatic. "'Displaying vision and composure far beyond his years, Hamadi orchestrated Utrecht's comeback with a passing range usually seen from seasoned internationals.'"

Before Amani could respond, there was a knock at the door — sharp, familiar.

Mr. Stein.

Malik's smile vanished. "Uh-oh. Management's here. Hide the snacks."

Amani opened the door to find Mr. Stein and Kristen, both dressed like they were on official club business. Stein's coat was buttoned tight against the January cold, and Kristen's notebook was already open, pen hovering in readiness.

"Morning, Hamadi," Stein said, stepping inside like the apartment was his second office. "We need to talk."

Malik waved the magazine. "Is this about my refund?"

Stein ignored him completely. "This," he tapped the cover, "changes things."

Amani frowned. "But I didn't ask for this."

"Exactly," Kristen said, her smile kind but serious. "Which is why we need to manage it. Normally, academy players stay in the shadows until they break into the first team. You skipped that part."

Stein folded his arms. "From today, you're not just Amani Hamadi the talented player. You're Amani Hamadi, FC Utrecht Property. And that means rules."

Amani swallowed. "What kind of rules?"

"No random interviews, no posting about contracts, and definitely no stunts on social media," Stein listed. "If a journalist asks you anything, you say 'Please speak to the club.'"

Malik whistled. "Damn. Media lockdown."

"It's not punishment," Stein said, voice flat. "It's protection. You're young, you're African, and you're playing like a future star. That combination attracts attention, too much attention and not all of it's good."

Amani sat with that for a moment. He understood, even if it felt strange. Back in Malindi, attention came and went like tides — gossip at the market, praise from the village old men, forgotten by sunset.

Here? Attention could write your future before you even lived it.

"So… what happens now?" Amani asked.

Stein smiled slightly. "Now? You get back to work. Tomorrow starts your second training cycle."

Amani nodded with no hesitation.

Kristen, however, slid another paper across the table. The header was impossible to miss:

GESLOTEN VRIENDSCHAPSWEDSTRIJD

Ajax U17 vs FC Utrecht U17

Date: Saturday 29th January

Location: Sportcomplex De Toekomst, Amsterdam

Amani's breath caught.

Ajax.

The club that made Cruyff, Seedorf, Van Basten — names so legendary they didn't need first names. Friendly or not, this wasn't just a match. This was stepping onto sacred ground.

"Closed doors," Kristen added. "No fans, no media. Just the two teams. And yes, you're playing."

Amani's fingers tightened around the schedule. Malik leaned over his shoulder, reading it like a treasure map.

"Ajax…" Malik whispered. "You know if you nutmeg someone, they might rename a street back home after you?"

Amani grinned, though nerves danced under his skin. It was happening faster than he could process — faster than anyone expected.

Stein stood, offering one last nod. "Rest today. Tomorrow, the grind continues. And next Saturday, you show Ajax exactly why this club gave you that contract."

Malik stretched, yawning dramatically. "Well, you heard the man. Fuel first, fame later. Let's go find breakfast."

As they left, the magazine stayed on the table — Amani's face frozen mid-celebration, his arms wide, his mouth open. Proof that his story wasn't just being written.

It was already out there.

And Ajax was waiting.

***

Amani stepped outside with Malik, the cold biting instantly at his skin, but the weight of the morning's conversation still warmed him from the inside. The streets were quiet, only a few cyclists gliding past, scarves wrapped high against the winter air.

"Ajax," Malik muttered, shaking his head like he couldn't believe it. "Your second match in Europe, and it's Ajax. Bro, if you score, they better hang your picture in the village chief's office back home."

"Forget scoring," Amani said, eyes narrowing. "I just need to belong."

Malik elbowed him. "You already do. They gave you the contract, remember? They wouldn't send you if they didn't believe you could handle it."

Amani didn't answer right away. Because deep down, Malik didn't know the whole truth — nobody did.

The system was always in his shadow, the invisible cheat code stitched into his veins. Without it, would he even be here? That question clawed at him more than he liked to admit.

But before Malik could read his silence, they turned the corner and saw a familiar face — the old man from the newsstand. He stood beside his stall, bundled up in a scarf so thick it could double as a mattress, whistling a lazy tune as he flipped through the morning papers.

Malik's eyes narrowed immediately. "Oi! Swindler!"

The old man glanced up, squinting. "Huh?"

"You charged me three euros for this..." Malik yanked out the magazine, shaking it like evidence in a courtroom. "...and gave it to him for free."

The shopkeeper's face broke into a wide grin, completely unfazed. "Of course! He's the star — you're the sidekick. Sidekicks pay."

Malik's mouth fell open, betrayed by football economics.

Amani tried not to laugh and failed. "I told you, Malik. Agent life is tough."

The shopkeeper gave Amani a wink. "Good luck against Ajax, jongen. Don't let those Amsterdam boys push you around."

Amani dipped his head, warmth spreading through his chest. "Thanks, sir."

As they walked away, Malik muttered darkly, "I'm changing professions. No more agent work. I'm becoming your financial manager — 20 percent cut, non-negotiable."

"Fifteen."

"Ten."

"Eleven."

"Five."

Malik groaned, throwing his hands up. "You've been in Europe for two weeks, and you're already a businessman. Disgusting."

They reached the apartment, both of them laughing, the cold no longer biting quite as hard. The world outside was quiet, but Amani's mind wasn't. His thoughts raced ahead to Monday's training, to Ajax, to what Mr. Stein had said about controlling the narrative.

You're not just Amani Hamadi anymore.

Inside the apartment, Amani peeled off his jacket and walked straight to his room. His new phone sat on the desk, the system already glowing faintly in the corner of his vision, waiting.

***

System Missions (Active)

Progressive Overload Training — Week 2:

Run 22 miles (6 miles high-intensity outdoor)

60 dumbbell squat-and-press routines (12kg)

Daily: 40 push-ups

Daily: 40 single-leg squats (20 on each leg)

Daily: 3 rounds of advanced Yoga

***

Amani exhaled slowly. This was the cycle now — work until he broke, rebuild stronger, repeat. The system didn't give free meals. It made him earn every inch.

Malik walked past his room, stopping at the door. "Yo, you okay? You've been standing there staring at the wall for like… a whole minute."

Amani blinked, shaking off the screen. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Malik leaned against the frame, holding up the magazine one more time. "For real though, Hamadi — this? This is crazy. I remember I used to cut out pictures of players from these kinds of magazines and pin them on the wall back home."

Amani's smile softened. "I know, I too used to do it."

Malik's voice grew quieter. "Now you are one."

Amani didn't answer. He just took the magazine from Malik's hand, running his thumb along the edge where his own face stared back at him.

From Malindi to this.

He set the magazine down beside his training schedule for the week ahead. Hill sprints, weight sessions, tactical drills — all waiting for him. But so was Ajax.

And they wouldn't care about magazine covers.

They would only care if Number 37 could handle the weight of the badge on his chest.

"Come on," Malik said, clapping his hands. "Let's get breakfast. You can't dismantle Ajax on an empty stomach."

Amani grinned, following him out — the system humming softly in his vision, the weight of his own name sitting heavy in his hands.

***

Jongen - Boy