The Next Step

The January air was sharp and unforgiving, slicing through Amani's skin. Each breath curled into the icy wind, vanishing into the cold morning as he jogged onto the training pitch. His boots crunched against the frost-covered grass, the thin layer of white clinging stubbornly to the blades.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Taking it all in.

Utrecht's academy was waking up.

Across the pitch, early-rising players were already locked in their routines. Goalkeepers hurled themselves into sharp reflex saves, their gloves smacking against frozen leather, sending dull echoes through the quiet air. Midfielders moved through rapid passing drills, their voices cutting through the morning stillness like clockwork.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, fresh-cut grass, and the faint bitterness of coffee from the coaching staff's thermos on the sideline.

It was cold. It was brutal.

And it was exactly where Amani wanted to be.

Movement near the halfway line caught his eye. Tijmen and Amrabat. Both already warming up as they rolled their shoulders, shaking out their legs, getting loose. Preparing.

Tijmen's grin was instant. "You're late, Hamadi."

Amani rolled his shoulders, matching his smirk. "Nah. Just giving you a head start."

Sofyan let out a low chuckle, stretching out his hamstrings, but his eyes told a different story.

Focused. Calculating. Hungry.

"Good," Amrabat muttered, his voice quiet but loaded with intent. "Because today? We're pushing you even harder."

Amani's smirk faded.

He knew that look. The look that meant today wasn't just another training session.

It wasn't just a test.

It was a challenge.

Across the pitch, Coach Pronk and Assistant Coach De Vries stood near the center circle, watching. They weren't just giving instructions. They weren't shouting orders.

They were just watching.

Because they had seen what Amani did against Ajax.

Now?

They wanted more. And if he wanted to reach the next level, he had to give it to them.

De Vries motioned Amani over as the rest of the team shifted into position for possession drills. His sharp eyes locked onto the young midfielder, his tone measured but firm.

"Alright, Hamadi," he said. "We saw how you used La Pausa against Ajax. It was good. But it can be better."

Amani wiped the sweat off his forehead, his muscles still warm from the rondo drill they had just finished. He nodded, listening.

"The best midfielders don't just slow the game down," De Vries continued. "They manipulate it. They force defenders into mistakes, into traps they don't even see coming. That's what separates good players from the great ones."

He gestured toward a small, square-shaped drill area where three academy defenders stood waiting like hunters, ready to pounce.

"Today, you learn how to escape a pressing trap," De Vries said. His smirk carried an edge of challenge.

Amani's brow furrowed. "How?"

De Vries took a step closer, his voice dropping just slightly. "By making them think they've won."

Amani's stomach tightened in anticipation.

De Vries clapped his hands. "Alright, listen up. You're going to receive the ball under heavy pressure — three defenders closing in fast. If you panic? You lose it. If you force a pass? They intercept. But if you use La Pausa right?"

His smirk widened.

"You walk out of there untouched."

Amani rolled his shoulders, stepping into the drill area. The three defenders who were older, stronger, all with that sharp academy hunger — shifted into position.

De Vries shouted. "Ready?"

The ball rolled toward Amani. It was time to prove he was more than just a kid with talent.

First challenge.

Amani stood near the sideline, the ball at his feet, his back half-turned to the pitch.

The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His entire focus was on the space around him, on the way the imaginary defender pressed in, crowding him, cutting off his angles.

He could feel the pressure without even looking.

No way forward. No easy pass.

Good.

Amani shifted his weight forward, letting his body language scream 'pass.'

His left foot angled slightly, his hips opened as if he was about to send the ball back into midfield.

The defender reacted instantly.

A step forward. A shift of balance. A reach toward where the ball was supposed to go.

Trigger.

Amani didn't pass. He didn't move. He paused. No motion, no reaction — just half a second of hesitation.

The defender, already committed, froze.

Not for long — just long enough. But in football, this half-second was like an eternity.

Trap.

The defender's balance was off — just slightly, just enough. Amani exploited it.

His right foot flicked the ball away from pressure, just beyond reach.

Then... a burst of acceleration. He was gone. Before the defender could recover, Amani was already in open space.

De Vries nodded approvingly, a small smirk forming. "Better. Again!"

Amani rolled his shoulders, breath steady, eyes locked in. He could feel it. This wasn't just about escaping pressure anymore.

It was about control.

And he wanted more of it.

***

Second challenge. This time, it was two defenders. They closed in together, synchronized, cutting off every obvious escape route.

Amani didn't panic. He welcomed it. Instead of rushing his touch, he let the ball run just a little longer than he should have. Just enough to make them think they had him.

Come on. Closer.

The defenders bit. Their bodies angled inward, their legs tensed, their weight shifting forward. They thought they had him trapped. But the real trap wasn't for him.

It was for them.

Trigger.

At the very last second, just before their boots could reach, Amani flicked the ball backward in a sharp, controlled, intentional.

The defenders lunged but they missed.

Trap. Their momentum carried them forward, off balance, off rhythm.

Amani was already gone. He turned into open space, his movement smooth, effortless — like he had never been in trouble at all.

Payoff. Behind him, the defenders stumbled, twisting their bodies too late to recover.

From the sideline, Tijmen let out a long whistle.

"Dirty, Hamadi!" Amani just grinned, his breath steady, his pulse calm.

This wasn't just luck.

This was control. And they were all starting to see it.

***

Final Challenge.

Three defenders. No escape. Or so they thought.

Amani received the ball near the center circle, his back turned, shoulders squared. The press came immediately it was fast, aggressive, and suffocating.

He could feel them collapsing in. One defender on his left, angling his run to cut off a turn. Another closing from behind, ready to pounce if Amani hesitated. The third, waiting just ahead, is positioned to intercept any forward movement.

Every passing lane? Gone.

Every escape route? Blocked.

No time. No space. No options.

Or at least, that's what they thought.

Trigger. Amani faked a sharp turn to his right, his shoulders dropping, his weight shifting. The movement was quick and deliberate as it was designed to sell the illusion.

The defenders reacted instantly. The one on his left lunged to block the turn. The one behind pressed tighter, expecting a shielded pass. The third stepped forward, thinking Amani was about to spin into him.

Trap. Two of them had committed, but it was just a little too much.

And Amani felt it. That half-second of imbalance. That fraction of hesitation.

That was all he needed.

Payoff. Amani planted his left foot as it pivoted, and spun the other way. A half-turn it was smooth, clean, and almost effortless.

The defenders reacted too late. Their bodies were still adjusting to his fake turn — and by the time they recovered, he was already gone.

One moment of hesitation. And he had escaped.

This was control. He burst into open space, his lungs burning, his pulse steady. Behind him, the three defenders twisted around, frustrated and beaten.

De Vries blew the whistle.

A pause and a slow nod. "That," he said, voice calm but firm, "is how you control the game." Amani exhaled, sweat dripping down his forehead. But beneath the exhaustion?

He felt it now.

He wasn't just surviving these drills anymore.

He was mastering them.

And this?

This was only the beginning.

***

The sun was already dipping behind the academy buildings by the time Amani finished training. His body ached, his legs heavy from the day's drills, but there was a deep satisfaction in the exhaustion. He had left everything on the pitch.

Just as he was about to head back to his apartment, a voice called out behind him.

"Hamadi!"

Amani turned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. A staff member stood near the entrance to the academy offices, hands tucked into his jacket against the cold.

"Stein wants to see you. Office."

Amani's pulse had barely settled from training, but now it kicked up again. What now?

He walked through the academy's quiet halls, passing a few players and staff heading out for the day. The familiar scent of disinfectant, worn-out cleats, and freshly printed training schedules filled the air.

At the end of the corridor, Mr. Stein's office door was slightly open.

Inside, Stein sat behind his desk, his reading glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned a file.

Amani's file.

Beside him, Kristen stood with her usual notebook in hand, flipping through pages, unreadable as always.

"Amani, sit," Stein said, motioning toward the chair across from him.

Amani did as told, his muscles still burning from training. His eyes flicked toward the file on the desk.

His name was printed neatly on the tab.

Kristen was the first to speak. "Starting tomorrow, you'll be attending secondary school."

Amani blinked.

"What?"

Stein leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're here on a professional contract, yes. But you're also thirteen. You can't just train all day. Every academy player under eighteen attends school as part of the program."

Amani shifted in his seat, his mind catching up to what they were saying.

Kristen handed him a sheet of paper. "St. Bonifatius College. That's where you'll be going. It's a secondary school here in Utrecht. Classes start tomorrow — February 1st."

Amani took the paper, and scanned it. The words blurred together for a second. The school's name, the address, and the list of required subjects.

Dutch. Mathematics. English. History. Social Studies. Physical Education.

"So… how does it work with football?" he asked.

Stein laced his fingers together. "Your schedule will be adjusted. Morning training, then school. Some days will be full training days, but on matchdays, exceptions are made."

Amani nodded slowly. It made sense.

But that wasn't what was bothering him.

"And if I… don't do well?" he asked carefully.

Kristen looked up from her notes, her expression lighter than usual. "You'll be fine. But if your grades drop too much, the club can't justify keeping you in the academy. It's the same rule for every player." She closed her notebook. "You train hard, and you study hard."

Amani exhaled slowly.

He had left school in Malindi to chase this dream but deep down he knew this was coming eventually.

Now, he was being thrown back into a classroom — in a country where he barely spoke the language.

Stein must have sensed his hesitation because his voice softened slightly.

"Look, Hamadi. We know this is a lot. But this is part of becoming a professional footballer. You have to manage both worlds."

Amani knew a little about how the Dutch school system worked.

Secondary education in the Netherlands was divided into different levels:

*VMBO (4 years) – More practical-based education.

*HAVO (5 years) – A mix of theory and practice, preparing students for higher education.

*VWO (6 years) – The academic route, leading to university.

Kristen had already mentioned that the school had experience with international students. That probably meant he'd be placed in a Dutch as a Second Language (NT2) class at first, learning the language alongside his other subjects.

It wasn't just football he had to adapt to.

It was life.

Amani nodded slowly, still gripping the paper in his hands.

"I understand."

Kristen gave a small smile. "Good. Get some rest today. Tomorrow is a big day."

Amani pushed back his chair and stood. As he left the office, the weight of everything settled onto his shoulders.

A new challenge.

A new battlefield.

Football had always been his escape from school.

Now?

He had to conquer both.

***

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