The Night

Eventually, with the chill growing and dinnertime approaching, they made their way back to the hotel, footsteps lighter and hearts steadied by their shared resolve. Tomorrow would be one of the biggest days of their young lives. They would be ready to face it together.

Back at the hotel that night, the mood was subdued yet optimistic. After a hearty team dinner (where plates of pasta vanished in record time to refuel tired bodies), the players had been encouraged to head to their rooms for an early night. Still, a few of the boys lingered in the lobby, reluctant to let the day end.

Amani, Malik, Tijmen, and Amrabat sat together on a plush couch, recounting some of the day's highlights. They spoke in low voices out of respect for other guests, but their excitement animated every whisper and gesture. Malik was in the middle of reenacting his sliding knee celebration from the Anderlecht game (miniaturized with hand motions) when a familiar voice interrupted.

"Well, if it isn't Utrecht's dream team," Abigail said warmly as she stepped into the hotel lobby, her press badge swinging gently from her lanyard. She was flanked by Mr. Pronk, who wore his usual half-gruff, half-proud expression that couldn't quite conceal the pride in his eyes.

Abigail held up her phone and waved it slightly. "You boys are giving me a lot of work," she said with a teasing smile. "I just filed another piece, this one on the 4–0 win over Bayern Munich. The headline reads: 'Giant Killers of Group B – Utrecht's Rise to the Final'."

The four boys: Amani, Malik, Tijmen, and Amrabat grinned as they exchanged looks. They were huddled on one of the plush lobby couches, still flushed with the afterglow of victory and the quiet thrill of what was to come.

"How's it feel?" Abigail asked, eyes bright with curiosity.

Amani sat up slightly, brushing a hand through his curls before answering modestly, "It feels good. We worked hard, and we earned it."

"You can quote him on that," Malik added with a cheeky grin, nudging Amani with his elbow.

Abigail chuckled as she tapped a quick note into her phone. "You know what? I think I will. Also," she turned her phone screen toward Amani, "your free kick photo in the group stage is blowing up. It's all over social media. One of the Ajax fan accounts reposted it. You've got fans, captain."

Amani rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide the flush in his cheeks. "That's… cool, I guess."

Mr. Pronk rested a hand on Amani's shoulder, firm but gentle. "He's also catching the attention of some important eyes," he said cryptically, his tone low but intentional.

Amani looked up, eyebrows raised. "Really?"

Pronk gave him a knowing nod and a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a silent "we'll talk later."

Then he turned his attention to all four boys, his voice taking on that familiar gravelly warmth. "I want you to know how proud I am. Not just because you're winning but because of how you're winning. Together. Fearless. Playing for each other. That's the Utrecht way."

"Thank you, sir," Tijmen replied first, nodding sincerely. Amrabat followed with a respectful dip of his head. Malik gave a small salute.

Pronk's gaze lingered on them a second longer, and then his expression shifted just slightly. "Tomorrow's going to be harder. Ajax is sharp, and there will be more eyes, more pressure." His gaze flicked to Amani for a fraction of a second. "But the pitch is still the same size. The ball still rolls the same way. Trust yourselves. Trust each other. That's what got you here."

Abigail smiled, stepping back and slipping her phone into her pocket. "And get some sleep, will you?" she said, pointing at the group. "I've got my fingers crossed I'll be writing about a final win tomorrow night. Don't let me down."

She gave a playful wink before turning to leave, heading toward the elevators to finalize her story.

Pronk lingered a moment longer. His voice dropped into a softer, almost fatherly tone. "Lights out soon, alright? You've got this city to take on tomorrow, you'll need every bit of strength."

He turned to go but paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Oh," he added with a raised eyebrow, "and no more supermarket raids. Yes, I heard about the snack stash."

Malik and Tijmen immediately burst into laughter, while Amrabat did his best to look innocent.

"Was all for recovery," Tijmen said between chuckles. "Fast carbs."

Pronk smirked. "Save your fast carbs for post-final. Goodnight, boys."

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving the group in a warm bubble of laughter and anticipation.

Malik and Tijmen stifled laughter while Amrabat managed a poker face. "Yes, sir," Amrabat replied dutifully. Pronk chuckled and headed for the elevator.

Up in their room, Amani and Malik got ready for bed. The hotel was quiet now; the hallways were dimmed. In the silence of their room, the magnitude of what awaited tomorrow began to settle in.

Malik was scrolling on his phone, likely looking at messages from friends or family back home. "Everyone's going crazy in Nairobi," he commented softly. "My sisters keep texting about how they can't believe we beat Barcelona and drew United."

Amani slipped under the cool sheets of his bed. "They must be proud."

"Oh, they are. Though one of my sisters said if I don't score tomorrow, he's disowning me," Malik joked.

Amani snorted. "No pressure, huh?"

They shared a quiet laugh. Malik set his phone aside and turned on his side. "Hey, you feeling alright? About tomorrow?"

Amani stared at the ceiling, where faint shadows danced from the streetlights outside. There were nerves, yes, but not the paralyzing kind more like a keen edge of anticipation. "I am, actually," he said after a moment. "I thought I'd be more nervous. But I feel... calm."

Malik yawned, already sounding half-asleep. "That's good. You're ready. We all are."

"Mhm," Amani murmured. Elite Composure indeed, he mused internally. Whatever the system had given him, it meshed perfectly with the quiet confidence he'd gained through experience. He felt steady, focused.

As Malik's breathing evened out, drifting into sleep, Amani whispered a few words of prayer in Swahili, a habit he maintained before big days. He prayed for strength, clarity of mind, and the safety of all his teammates on the field.

When he finished, he glanced at the digital clock by the bedside: 10:07 PM. Outside, a distant siren wailed softly and then faded. The world was settling.

Amani rolled over and closed his eyes. In his mind, he didn't replay the goals or the cheers. Instead, he visualized the pitch for tomorrow's match. He saw himself in his white and red kit, armband on, leading the team out. He pictured the moves they might make, the challenges Ajax could pose, and how they would respond.

A final thought flickered through his head as he began to drift: a memory of running on a beach in Malindi, chasing a ball under the scorching sun, dreaming of moments like this. A smile touched his lips.

Tomorrow is another step, he thought sleepily. We've got this.

And with that, Amani fell into a deep, restful sleep, ready to turn the next page of his footballing journey when the new day dawned.

***

In the quiet dark of Room 312, with only the whisper of Amsterdam's rain tapping against the windowpane, Amani slipped into sleep deep, silent, undisturbed. But not dreamless.

At first, there was only blackness. Then, like a sunrise over the ocean, color bled into his subconscious, warm and golden.

He found himself standing barefoot on a stretch of sand on Malindi Beach, endless and familiar. The tide was low, and the waves whispered calmly as they rolled up the shore, retreating like breath. The sky was painted in hues of orange and blue, the sun a glowing pearl on the horizon. It was peaceful but not quiet.

Somewhere nearby, he could hear the sound of a ball bouncing against bare feet.

He turned, and there he was. A younger version of himself, maybe nine or ten, shirtless and grinning, chasing a worn-out football across the shoreline. His feet kicked up small bursts of sand as he weaved through invisible defenders. His arms spread wide as he finished the move, sending the ball between two driftwood sticks acting as goalposts.

From further back on the beach, his mother's laughter rang out, clear and full of pride. She was seated beneath a lone palm tree, waving at him with one hand, the other resting on a small cooler of mango slices and water. She looked exactly as he remembered: radiant, calm, full of gentle strength.

"You still have the same feet," she called with a smile.

Amani walked toward her, but the beach shifted underfoot. The horizon wavered, and suddenly, the sky cracked open with the sound of drums and roaring crowds.

The beach dissolved into a stadium, a pitch wrapped in silver light. The stands were overflowing with faces, some familiar, some strangers, but all watching him. The roar was not of waves now, but of thousands chanting his name.

"Hamadi! Hamadi! Hamadi!"

He looked down. His bare feet were now laced in clean white boots, his Utrecht kit gleaming, the number 37 glowing faintly. Amani stood at the center circle, surrounded by shadowy outlines of players. His teammates? His past selves? He couldn't tell. The pitch underfoot pulsed like it was alive, thrumming with energy.

And then, across the halfway line, a figure emerged.

It was him again, but older. Stronger. Taller. Amani in his twenties, eyes sharp, beard grown in, moving with a presence that radiated calm. He didn't smile but nodded once like a general passing the torch.

The crowd faded.

The world narrowed.

And in that strange stillness, the System reappeared not as floating text, but as a golden outline above the pitch, like the sun itself had morphed into code.

A voice, not a voice, but a thought echoed in his head:

"One more game. One more page. Lead not with your feet, but with your heart."

Suddenly, the match began.

Time collapsed.

He saw snippets: a pass threaded through four defenders, a sliding tackle from Amrabat, Tijmen racing down the right, and Malik cutting inside everything in flashes. He felt the sweat, the pressure, his lungs burning. But always clarity. Elite Composure. The same stillness that began on that beach.

And then the goal.

Not one he'd already scored, but one that hadn't yet happened. He saw it from above like the heavens themselves were watching. Tijmen's cross. Malik's dummy. Amani arriving at the top of the box.

The shot. The net.

Silence.

Then rapture.

The final whistle blew.

And this time, it wasn't just his teammates running to him.

It was his mother, crossing the pitch with tears on her cheeks, hugging him tightly, whispering in Swahili:

"Ni fahari yangu. Umefika."(I am proud of you. You've arrived.)

The light enveloped him.

And just like that 

He woke.

Amani's eyes fluttered open in the dim hotel room. The digital clock read 5:41 AM. The rain had stopped. The sky outside was pale, stretching toward dawn. He could hear Malik's gentle snoring across the room.

He sat up slowly, hands still tingling. He wasn't shaken.

He was centered.

That dream hadn't felt like a fantasy.

It had felt like a message.

A memory of where he came from.

A vision of where he was going.

Today, the final awaited. And somewhere, across the sea, his mother would be watching, not with her eyes, maybe, but with her heart.

He rose quietly, opened the curtain an inch, and watched the light begin to change.

Time to write the ending.

***

Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.