Utrecht's Star

After the short celebration from the team, Amani quickly peeled off his damp jersey and padded to the showers. The hot water drummed on his skin, washing away the sweat and chill of the night.

As the steam rose, he replayed flashes of the match in his mind: the deafening roar after his first assist, the astonished faces of the opposing defenders after one of his killer passes, the thump of his heart when he first stepped on the field.

He braced his hands against the cool tile and let the water hit his face. It didn't fully feel real yet. That goal! It was beautiful!

Minutes later, clean and changed into a thick navy tracksuit and a beanie pulled low over his ears, Amani emerged into the brisk night. He found Malik outside the stadium's side exit, faithfully straddling their two battered academy-issue bicycles.

The night air was sharp enough that their breaths puffed white. Above, the moon hung low and bright over Stadion Galgenwaard. The floodlights had been turned off, and the old concrete walls of the stadium loomed quiet and hulking behind them now.

Malik tossed Amani his gloves. "Figured you'd need these. It's freezing, bro," he said, mounting his own bike. Indeed, Amani's hair was still damp from the shower, and the cold bit at his neck. He gratefully tugged on the knit gloves and climbed onto his bike.

They set off down the lane, the gravel crunching under their tires. For a few moments, neither said a word. The only sounds were the whir of the bike chains and their breathing as they pedaled. Amani took the lead, guiding them out from the players' parking lot to the main road. His legs felt like jelly now that the adrenaline was ebbing, but he didn't mind one bit.

Just outside the stadium gates, a small cluster of fans lingered, still riding the high of the win. Most were older men in scarves, finishing the last gulps of their beers, and a couple of parents bundling up their kids for the ride home.

One of the kids, a boy of maybe 12, noticed the two cyclists coming through the gate. He peered at Amani in the dim light, eyes widening with recognition.

"That's him, Pap!" the boy hissed, tugging on his father's sleeve. "That's Hamadi!"

At the boy's shout, a few heads turned. Amani felt heat rush to his face. Sure enough, in the glow of the streetlamp, the fans began to realize who was pedaling past. An excited murmur rose. One man raised his plastic cup in salute. "Mooi gespeeld, jongen! Well played, boy!" he called, his voice hearty.

"Thank you," Amani called back, a little embarrassed and not entirely sure if they could hear his quiet reply. He gave a small wave, nearly wobbling as he did so. Malik steadied the handlebars of Amani's bike with a laugh.

Another fan, this one draped in a red-and-white Utrecht flag as a cape, jogged a few paces alongside them. "Hamadi! Magic tonight, man. Absolute magic!" he shouted, beaming. "You've given us hope again!"

Amani didn't know what to say. He managed a grin and nodded. The fan slowed, letting them roll on. As he fell back to the group, Amani heard him exclaim to his friends, "Kid's a real deal, mark my words!" The others clapped him on the shoulders as if they had just won something too, their laughter ringing out in the cold night.

The two friends continued into the city, riding past rows of bicycles locked to metal racks and shuttered snack kiosks. The glow of the stadium receded behind them. Utrecht's streets were quieter now, only the distant thump of music from a bar or the swish of a passing car interrupted the peace.

The chill of early spring seeped through their jackets, but Amani felt warmed from within. Every so often, Malik would let out an incredulous chuckle, as if still processing everything. Amani would respond with a shake of his head and a grin, a kind of Can you believe it? passed back and forth in comfortable silence.

They crossed a canal, the water below black and still, reflecting specks of light from nearby windows. The tires bumped over old cobblestones as they turned onto the street where the academy's residence hall stood.

It was a narrow, tree-lined lane with a few small shops that the academy kids frequented: a bakery (now dark for the night), a tiny barbershop, and on the corner, a newsstand that was just closing up.

Though it was late, the newsstand's owner, Mr. Janssen, was still there, arranging the next morning's newspapers in neat piles before pulling down the metal shutters. The stand's lone yellow bulb cast a warm halo in the night. Mr. Janssen was an elderly man with round glasses and a flat cap, moving with a deliberate care as he locked up stacks of unsold magazines.

Malik was the first to spot him. "Ooh, Mr. Janssen sighting at 11 o'clock," he murmured to Amani, nodding toward the corner. They often joked that the old man had a sixth sense for knowing everything happening in the neighborhood. If anyone had caught wind of tonight's events already, it was him.

Sure enough, as they coasted to a stop by the stand, Mr. Janssen turned and gave them a broad smile. "Well, if it isn't Utrecht's hero of the night!" he greeted, voice gentle and warm.

He left the padlock half-finished on the shutter and came around the front of the kiosk, hands tucked in his coat pockets for warmth. His breath fogged as he spoke. "Late evening ride, boys? Or should I say victory lap?"

Amani dismounted, cheeks flushing. "Good evening, sir," he said, dipping his head respectfully. "We're just heading home." He wasn't sure how much the old man knew, but there was a twinkle in Mr. Janssen's eyes that suggested everything.

Malik, ever the exuberant one, bounced on the balls of his feet. "Mr. Janssen, you should've been there! This guy..." he grabbed Amani by the shoulders from behind, giving him a little shake, "this guy was on fire. An assist and a goal! They'll be writing songs about him, I swear."

Mr. Janssen let out a delighted laugh. " An assists and a goal? Hah! I knew you'd make the papers sooner or later, Amani." He gestured to the top copy of the newspaper stack, its headline about some political tussle. "Tomorrow morning, I expect I'll have to make some space on the front page for you."

Amani rubbed the back of his neck, a habit when he got bashful. "Maybe just a small mention," he said softly. "It was only one game."

The old man's eyes crinkled kindly. "One game can be the start of something big, son. And I've got a feeling about you." He leaned in a little, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "A friend of mine who listens to all the matches on the radio told me he hadn't heard a debut like that in years. They were talking about you on NOS Radio already, could hardly believe their tongues, he said."

Amani's eyes widened. He hadn't even thought about the radio or news broadcasts, but of course, people all over the country might have heard what happened by now. The idea made his stomach flutter.

Beside him, Malik nudged with a grin. "Hear that? Your quiet little debut is national news, bro."

Mr. Janssen chuckled. He removed one hand from his pocket, and Amani saw he was holding something, two folded papers. "I saved a couple of the evening edition for you boys," he said, offering the newspapers to them. "There's a short recap of the match in there. I suspect by tomorrow's print, they'll have a lot more to say."

Amani accepted the newspaper gratefully. The front page was dominated by a large photo of a politician, but in the corner, a small headline read: "Utrecht Triumphs 6-2 Over VVV – Late Heroics by Debutant Hamadi." Seeing his name in print sent a jolt through him. It was real, all of it. He wasn't dreaming.

Malik peered over his shoulder, reading aloud dramatically, "…teenager Amani Hamadi provided an assist and a goal in a stunning second-half performance after the 75th…" He whooped and slapped the paper. "Stunning! They got that right."

Mr. Janssen's weathered face glowed with pride. "Well done, Amani. Everyone at the academy has been buzzing about you for weeks, and now the whole city knows. Just remember," he added, wagging a gentle finger, "this is only the beginning. Stay humble and keep working hard. Today's news becomes tomorrow's fish-wrapping, eh?"

Amani smiled. "Yes, sir. I will." It struck him that Mr. Janssen had watched generations of youth players pass through this street, some who made it big, many who didn't. His encouragement was genuine but grounded.

Malik shivered and hopped from one foot to the other. "As much as I love a good heart-to-heart, it's freezing out here," he said through chattering teeth. He flashed Mr. Janssen an apologetic grin. "We should get inside before we turn into ice sculptures."

Mr. Janssen clapped Amani on the shoulder with surprising strength for someone his age. "Go on then. Warm up, celebrate a little. You both earned it." He stepped back toward his stand, finishing the task of locking up. "Congratulations again, Amani. You've made all of us in Utrecht proud tonight."

With parting waves and thanks, the two boys hopped back on their bicycles and pushed off down the final stretch of the lane. Amani's hands were numb on the handlebars despite the gloves, but he didn't care. The glow from Mr. Janssen's praise and the surreal sight of his name in the newspaper sustained him against the cold.

They turned into the small courtyard of the academy apartments, a modest six-story brick building that housed a dozen or so youth and reserve players. The lights in most windows were out, silhouettes of drawn curtains behind glass. It was nearly midnight; the younger boys would be asleep, and those old enough to have been at the stadium were likely still out celebrating the win somewhere.

Amani and Malik rolled their bikes into the rack by the door and chained them up. Malik fumbled with his keys, hands shaking from cold and excitement in equal measure. After a moment, he got the door open and they stepped into the entryway, the sudden warmth making their faces sting and noses run. The familiar scent of old carpet and whatever tonight's dinner was (a hint of pasta sauce still hung in the air) greeted them.

They crept upstairs, mindful of the late hour. The staircase creaked regardless of their weight. On the second floor, Amani unlocked the door to the small apartment he shared with Malik. The door swung open into a cozy living space barely big enough for a couch, a TV, and a kitchenette along one wall. It wasn't much, but it was home, and tonight it felt like stepping into a sanctuary after the whirlwind of the stadium.

Malik tossed his coat on a hook and immediately went to flick on the electric kettle in the kitchenette. "I don't know about you," he whispered (still riding the habit of staying quiet at midnight, though no one was nearby), "but I need some hot chocolate or I might literally freeze solid."

Amani shut the door softly behind them. The sudden quiet was striking. After all the noise and adrenaline, the apartment felt almost too still. He stood there for a moment in the middle of the room, taking it in: his boots by the door, the training schedule pinned to the fridge, the small stack of books on the coffee table. All the ordinary details of his life that somehow remained unchanged, even though he felt utterly changed.

Malik handed him a steaming mug a few minutes later, and they both collapsed onto the couch, sitting shoulder to shoulder. For a rare moment, Malik was quiet. He sipped thoughtfully, then set his mug down. "What a night," he breathed, finally breaking the silence.

Amani let out a long exhale. "What a night," he echoed. He stared into the whirl of marshmallows Malik had unceremoniously dumped into his hot chocolate. "It still doesn't feel real, you know? I keep expecting to wake up and be back in Malindi, late for practice or something."

Malik nudged him. "If this was a dream, bro, I'd be having it too, 'cause I was there!" He laughed softly. "Nah, this is as real as it gets. You did it. We did it. And tomorrow," he said, pointing at the folded newspaper Amani had set on the table, "everyone's gonna read all about it."

They shared a grin that was equal parts joy and disbelief. Amani felt a pleasant heaviness settle into his limbs as he drank the last sweet dregs from his mug. The fatigue was catching up at last, and his muscles begged for rest. "I think I should sleep," he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

He knew the next day would bring training and possibly even more responsibilities now that he was officially on the team. Coach would not be happy if his new prodigy showed up late or sluggish.

Malik yawned and stretched. "Yeah, yeah. Sleep. Right after we check everything about you, blowing up the internet." He was already reaching for his phone with a wicked grin.

Amani chuckled, though his eyelids were heavy. "Alright, a quick look," he conceded. He pulled out his own phone, and as it lit up, he saw dozens of notifications flooding in messages from unknown numbers (maybe former schoolmates or distant relatives who suddenly remembered him), a few friend requests, and countless social media pings.

His eyes widened at the sheer volume. It was as if the whole of Kenya had decided to text him at once, plus a good portion of Utrecht.

Malik leaned over, peering at Amani's screen. "Told you. You're trending, man."

Amani scrolled in awe. The top trend on Dutch Twitter indeed read #Hamadi in bold letters with a little soccer ball emoji. It had thousands of tweets. He saw one in English: "Remember the name: Amani Hamadi.

An assist and a goal on debut! Unreal. @FCUtrecht", and another in Dutch: "Hamadi – de tovenaar van Galgenwaard! (the wizard of Galgenwaard!)" accompanied by a short clip of one of his assists. Amani's heart skipped as he realized people had clipped and shared his every touch already.

He glanced at Malik, who was busy tapping away on his own phone, likely firing off excited replies to half of Nairobi. Amani couldn't help a smile tugging at his lips. This was really happening. Outside their window, the city of Utrecht slept under the cold spring night, but here in this tiny apartment, two friends sat bathed in the pale glow of their phones, witnessing the opening lines of a story that was just starting to be written.

Tonight, Amani Hamadi was the name on everyone's lips from the boys in the locker room to strangers on the street, from an old newsstand owner to faraway friends online. He was too exhausted to celebrate more, too wired to fully rest, and too happy to care either way.

As he finally set his phone aside and dragged himself to his bedroom, Amani allowed himself one last backward glance at Malik, who was still scrolling excitedly through reactions. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new expectations. But for now, in the quiet of the late night, he closed his eyes with a contented heart.

Outside, a lone bicycle bell chimed faintly down the street, and a gust of wind rattled the window. The sounds of the city were distant and peaceful. Amani slipped under his blankets, his body aching in that satisfying way after giving everything on the pitch.

His mind, though, still flickered with images of the day: Tijmen's surprised grin, Jacob's proud handshake, the flash of cameras as he left the stadium, the warmth of Mr. Janssen's encouragement.

He let out one more long, slow breath. This is just the beginning, he thought to himself. And with that comforting knowledge, he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, the cheers of the crowd still echoing softly in his ears.

***

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