An Off Day

Amani's body felt heavy as he collapsed onto his bed, muscles aching from the morning workout. The past two weeks had pushed him beyond anything he had ever experienced, but this morning had been the final hurdle — the last push to complete his weekly system training mission.

The hill sprints. The single-leg squats. The push-ups. The yoga. It was all done.

His body was drained, but his mind refused to shut off. Slowly, his breathing steadied. His eyelids grew heavy. And before he even realized it, sleep took him.

The roar of the stadium hit him first.

Blinding lights. Deafening noise. Amani blinked, adjusting to the sheer magnitude of it all. The sea of fans stretched endlessly, shoulder to shoulder, a wave of colors and motion. The air was thick with tension, a pulse that thrummed through the very walls of the stadium.

Wembley. UEFA Champions League Final.

The scoreboard burned into his vision.

89:57

FC Utrecht 1 - 1 Real Madrid

The ball was at his feet.

Everything else faded. The roaring crowd, the flickering cameras, the weight of history pressing down on his shoulders — all of it dissolved into a distant hum.

All that remained was the defender in front of him. He couldn't see his face because of the blur all he could see was a Big, Strong La Liga veteran. The kind of defender who had seen everything. The kind that swallowed attackers whole.

Amani hesitated.

Then — La Pausa. A slight lean forward. Baiting. Waiting.

The defender shifted, just barely, just enough.

Gone.

A sharp cut inside. A flick past the outstretched leg. Amani danced through the space, a blur of movement before a quick glance at the goal.

The keeper rushed out, eyes locked onto him, ready to smother the shot.

Amani didn't hesitate.

Dipping Shot.

The ball curled over the lunging defender, it hung in the air for a single heartbeat, then dipped violently.

The keeper stretched, fingertips grazing the air, but the ball had already decided its path. The net rippled.

For a moment, the entire stadium held its breath.

Then... detonation.

The explosion of sound. Amani barely had time to register before his teammates crashed into him, tackled him, screaming into the night. Cameras flashed.

History was written.

And then...

Through the chaos, through the flashing lights, through the storm of thousands of roaring voices... He saw herein the front row. Her hands were pressed together. Tears in her eyes.

His mother.

She wasn't cheering. She wasn't shouting. She was just watching. Watching him become everything he had promised her he would be.

Then...

BANG!

A sharp noise shattered the dream. Amani jerked awake, heart pounding, breath uneven. For a moment, he was still in Wembley, still hearing the echoes of that goal.

But then...

"BROOOO!"

Amani groaned, rubbing his eyes just as Malik crashed into his room, waving a newspaper like a madman.

"DID YOU SEE THIS?!"

Amani squinted. "What...?"

Malik shoved the paper at his face, nearly knocking him back into the bed.

There it was.

A small section in the sports column — nothing flashy, just a blurry image of him striking the winning goal against Ajax.

"Utrecht's Academy Starlet Stuns Ajax in Closed-Door Friendly"

Malik grinned like an idiot. "YOU'RE IN THE PAPER, BRO! YOU'RE FAMOUS!"

Amani snorted, tossing the paper onto the coffee table. "That's barely even a mention."

Malik dropped onto the couch dramatically. "It doesn't matter! You know how many kids in this academy play for YEARS and don't even get a blurry pic in a paper?"

Amani shrugged, running a hand through his braids. "I guess news travels fast."

Malik nodded sagely. "Bro. This is Utrecht. Everything football-related spreads like wildfire. Even a closed-door friendly."

Amani exhaled, letting the weight of it sink in.

It was a small mention. A tiny ripple. But ripples grow.

And if he kept going if he kept pushing... One day, his name wouldn't just be in a small section. It would be the headline.

Amani tossed the newspaper aside and checked the time — 12:07 PM. He had slept through most of the morning. And now, his body wasn't sore anymore.

The system dinged, the familiar blue notification flickering into his vision.

***

🔔 SYSTEM UPDATE: WEEKLY TRAINING COMPLETE!

🏆 Mission Complete – Progressive Overload Training (Week 2)

🎁 Rewards Unlocked: C-Grade Physical Conditioning Elixir has been added to the inventory.

⚠ Next Training Cycle Begins Tomorrow!

***

Amani sighed in relief.

A whole week of brutal training. And now? Now, he could rest.

But first... The Elixir.

He opened the inventory, selecting the card and a tiny shimmering vial that appeared. The moment he tapped it, the vial materialized in his palm. It was a shimmering liquid inside, faintly glowing, and almost alive.

Without hesitation, he uncorked it and downed the dose.

He had taken it before. He knew what was coming. The taste of mint, ginger, and something vaguely metallic. It burned briefly, then spread through his chest like warm sunlight, chasing away the soreness dull soreness lodged deep in his muscles was fading and the fatigue was eased.

His body wasn't perfect, but it was recharging. Exactly what he needed for an off day.

After showering and throwing on a hoodie, Amani decided to take a walk.

Post-match recovery was important — light movement, letting his body adjust. So he stepped outside, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, taking in the cool January air as he walked through the streets of Utrecht.

And this time?

It was different, just like the morning jog. People recognized him.

The old shopkeeper at the fruit stand, who usually just gave him a nod, smirked this time. "Goedemiddag, Hamadi. That was some goal."

A group of kids playing football in the alley paused when they saw him.

"That's him!" one of them whispered. "The guy from the newspaper!"

Amani smiled, raising a hand in greeting as he kept walking. Even though the match had been closed door, the story had spread. Utrecht's academy kids had beaten Ajax U17.

And his name was part of the final score. As he turned the street leading back to his apartment, he passed by the newsstand.

The old vendor was there again, flipping through a newspaper, his usual sharp eyes twinkling with amusement.

Amani slowed his steps. The old man glanced up, folding the newspaper under his arm.

"Well, well," he said, smirking. "One match, and people already know your name."

Amani chuckled. "Didn't think it would happen this fast."

The vendor snorted. "It never does. Until it does."

He nodded toward the paper in Amani's hand. "Not bad for a kid from Kenya, eh?"

Amani smiled. "Not bad at all."

For the first time since arriving in Europe, Amani had a day to himself. There was no training, no system missions, no matches, just a full, open day to breathe.

The idea felt almost foreign.

His life for the past two weeks had been a constant cycle of grinding, training, and pushing his limits. Every morning had been a battle against time, against doubt, against the cold reality of competing in a foreign country.

But today? Today, there was no schedule. No expectations.

Just him and the city.

As Amani stepped out onto the cobblestone streets, the crisp winter air hit him like an old rival — biting, sharp, yet oddly refreshing.

The sky was a washed-out blue, with streaks of pale clouds drifting lazily overhead. The city was awake but unhurried, the early bustle of cyclists weaving through narrow streets, the soft murmur of conversations spilling out from warm cafés.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the cold air.

Where to first?

His feet carried him toward Dom Tower, the tallest church tower in the Netherlands. He had seen it before but from afar, its gothic silhouette cutting through the Utrecht skyline. But standing before it now?

It was massive. 112 meters of stone and history, looming over the city like a guardian of time.

The square beneath it was lined with charming cafés, souvenir shops, and street musicians plucking soft melodies from their guitars. Tourists wandered the cobbled paths, snapping photos, their voices blending into the quiet hum of morning life.

Amani tilted his head back, tracing the tower's edges against the sky. Six hundred years. That's how long this tower had stood here — watching centuries of history unfold, standing firm through storms, wars, and time itself.

And now? Now, he was part of this city's story too.

A soft breeze brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of fresh coffee from a nearby café. For a moment, he just stood there breathing it all in.

After wandering through the city center for a while, Amani found himself outside a sportswear store. He hadn't planned on buying anything. But then, he saw them.

A pair of sleek, all-black Nike Air Max sneakers, displayed under the glow of the store lights.

His own sneakers, the ones he had brought from home which he had bought from the second-hand stalls in Mombasa had been through miles of training, jogging, and walking.

He had money now. He could afford this. Stepping inside, the store smelled like new fabric and fresh rubber. A faint hum of Dutch radio played in the background as a sales associate, a tall man with an easy smile, approached him.

"Kan ik je helpen?" the man asked.

Amani hesitated. His Dutch wasn't there yet.

"Uh… English?"

The man chuckled. "Of course! Looking for anything specific?"

Amani pointed to the black Nike Air Max.

"Those. Size 41." Minutes later, he walked out of the store with a fresh pair of kicks, the bag swinging at his side. For the first time since he had arrived, he had bought something just for himself.

Not for training.

Not for football.

Just… something nice.

And it felt good.

As he strolled through the streets, the scent of freshly baked stroopwafels drifted through the air. He followed it, finding himself near a small souvenir shop.

Inside, the shelves were stacked with postcards of windmills, miniature wooden clogs, and blue-and-white Delft pottery.

But Amani's eyes landed on something different. A small, silver bracelet.

Simple. Engraved with one word.

"Utrecht."

He picked it up, running his fingers over the letters.

It reminded him of home. His mother loved small, meaningful things. Trinkets that told stories. Things that carried places and people within them.

He rolled the bracelet between his fingers for a moment before making his decision. Something for Mama. Something to say "I made it here."

He paid for the bracelet and tucked it carefully into his pocket.

By late afternoon, Amani found himself near the canals.

The water moved lazily, reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun. The buildings along the canal were tall, narrow, and leaning slightly toward the water. They looked like they had been frozen in time, whispering old secrets to their rippling reflections.

Amani sank onto a bench, stretching his legs out in front of him, watching the boats drift. A small, white swan floated across the water, gliding with a kind of effortless grace.

For the first time since arriving in the Netherlands, he felt at peace.

No training. No pressure.

Just this city and this moment.

Tomorrow, the grind would start again.

Tomorrow, the fight would continue.

But today?

Today, he was just Amani Hamadi.

A kid from Malindi, sitting by a canal as he is watching the sunset over a city that, piece by piece, was becoming his own.

***

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