Prelude to the Trial

Marcel wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he pushed through his final sprint. The setting sun dipped behind the distant rooftops, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, yet the heat still clung to his skin. His calves burned, his thighs ached, and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed—but he kept running.

This was the last training session before the biggest trial of his young career.

Fourteen days of relentless preparation, morning till night, had led him to this moment. He had pushed his body beyond its limits, waking before dawn to train, spending his afternoons refining his dribbling, his evenings locked in tactical drills. Every passing day had been a test, each session harder than the last. His world had shrunk to one singular goal—being ready.

Near the edge of the field, Coach Oumar Njike stood, arms folded, his gaze as sharp as ever. He had the air of someone who had seen it all—the broken dreams, the wasted talent, the rare few who turned sweat and blood into something greater.

"Last lap, Marcel!" Oumar's deep voice rang out, unwavering. "Push! This is where it counts!"

Marcel didn't hesitate. No slowing down. No stopping.

His cleats dug into the dry earth, kicking up dust as he pushed forward, every step an effort to silence the doubts creeping at the edges of his mind. His shirt clung to his body, heavy with sweat, his heart pounded like a drum, but a fire inside him burned brighter than his exhaustion.

Finally, as he crossed the invisible finish line, he slowed to a jog, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths. His legs trembled, and his entire body ached—yet beneath the exhaustion, there was something else.

Satisfaction. Progress. Readiness.

Oumar nodded, stepping toward him. "That's enough for today."

Marcel bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the dirt beneath him. The two weeks had transformed him.

At the start, he had been sluggish, rusty. Months of studying for his BEPC exams had stolen his sharpness, dulled his movements. He had felt it on the first day—his speed was off, his touch unsure, his stamina weaker.

But Oumar had beaten the rust off him.

Every morning had begun with endurance drills—long runs that tested his will, short sprints that burned his legs, footwork drills that left him gasping for air. By noon, the real torture began—squats until his thighs screamed, push-ups until his arms gave out, core work that made him question why he was doing this to himself.

And when he thought the worst was over, Oumar's voice would cut through the haze:

"Again."

By the second week, something changed. The workouts still hurt, but now, his body responded faster. His legs felt lighter, stronger. His dribbling, once rusty, was sharper. His endurance—while still far from perfect—had grown. He could now sprint at full speed and still recover quickly.

And then there was the mental training.

"Football isn't just about speed," Oumar had told him after a particularly grueling cone drill. "If you don't know when to slow down, when to change direction, when to anticipate… you'll never be great."

So, Oumar tested his decision-making under pressure. Tight spaces, fast touches, unpredictable movements.

It was brutal. But Marcel thrived.

Now, standing at the edge of the field, on the brink of his trial, he knew one thing for certain—

He was ready.

Oumar watched him closely, then spoke. "You've worked hard. You're better than when you started. But tomorrow's the real test."

Marcel met his gaze, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "I won't let you down."

Oumar smirked. "Good. Because I expect you to be the best player on that pitch."

Marcel felt his heartbeat steady, the weight of those words settling in his chest.

Tomorrow, he would prove himself.

...

When Marcel wasn't training under Oumar's strict regimen, he found time to return to where it all started—the dirt pitch in his neighborhood.

There was something about this place, about the rawness of the game here, that reminded him why he played. No structured drills, no rigid tactics—just pure, instinctual football.

The pitch itself wasn't much. The makeshift goals were two large stones, the ground was uneven, half-dirt, half-patchy grass, and the boundary lines? Imaginary. Yet, for Marcel and his friends, it was a sacred battleground.

This evening, as the golden sun stretched across the sky, the usual crowd had gathered for a 5v5 match. Marcel stood alongside Jordan and Dimitri, waiting for the game to begin.

Jordan, ever the loudmouth, smirked. "So, Mr. Trialist, you still remember how to play without all that fancy training?"

Marcel rolled his shoulders, cracking a grin. "We'll see, won't we?"

Dimitri, ever calm, adjusted his bandana and muttered, "Let's just play."

With that, the game kicked off.

The first few minutes were chaotic, fast, and physical.

Street football was different from the structured game—no referees, no whistles, no time to think. You either adapted or got left behind.

Marcel let himself ease into it, playing with an effortless rhythm, using quick one-twos, slick turns, and his natural flair to glide past defenders. He wasn't forcing anything—just feeling the game, reacting, flowing.

Jordan, being his usual self, tried to nutmeg a defender and immediately lost the ball. The sideline burst into laughter.

"Keep it simple, Jordan!" Marcel called out.

Jordan groaned. "Let me cook, man!"

Dimitri, was the opposite—clean touches, simple passes, and a calmness under pressure. He was the kind of player every team needed, the one who did the dirty work without complaint.

As the game wore on, Marcel started to take over.

The score was 2-2 with only minutes left.

The ball landed at Marcel's feet near his own goal, and in that instant, he wanted to unleash his skills and play like his favorite player Ronaldinho.

Jordan noticed and grinned. "Oh, here he goes! Showtime, everyone!"

Marcel smirked.

The first defender rushed in. Too slow.

Elastico. The ball snapped from his right foot to his left in a single motion, and the defender lunged at nothing but air.

Another boy stepped in to block him. Marcel barely paused.

Marseille turn. A spin, a flick, and he was past him.

The boys on the sideline erupted into cheers.

Two more came at him. He waited, baiting them, letting them think they had a chance—then with a swift croqueta, he slid the ball between his feet and escaped through the gap before they could react.

Now, only one defender stood between him and the goal.

Marcel stopped the ball with the sole of his foot, staring him down. Waiting.

The defender hesitated.

Marcel took a step forward—step-over left, cut inside right.

Gone.

He was through on goal.

With a simple, smooth strike, he rolled the ball between the two stones.

Silence.

Then groans of frustration from the losing team, followed by laughter.

A few of the boys collapsed onto the ground in mock despair.

Jordan jogged over, shaking his head. "You didn't even have to try, did you? Show-off."

Marcel shrugged. "Maybe a little."

Dimitri, gave a short nod. "Good goal. But don't burn yourself out before the trial."

Marcel grinned. "Don't worry. This was just for fun."

...

Friday afternoon brought a familiar comfort to Marcel—good food, good company, and a moment to breathe.

Between the intense weeks of training and playing with his friends, he sometimes had time to unwind with Christina, his girlfriend.

They met at Le Normalien, his mother's restaurant on Rue Mpondo Akwa.

The scent of grilled fish, fried plantains, and rich peanut stew filled the air as they stepped inside. The restaurant buzzed with life—regulars chatting, waiters weaving between tables, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

Behind the counter, Francine gave them a knowing look. She had always liked Christina—she was grounded, serious about her studies, and most importantly, she kept Marcel focused.

They found their usual spot by the window, where the golden sunlight cast a warm glow over the table. Their plates were already filled with ndolé and plantains, the food steaming as they dug in.

"So," Christina started, watching Marcel between bites, "how's training been?"

Marcel smirked. "Brutal. Oumar is pushing me harder than ever, but I feel stronger. The trial's in a few days, and I'm ready."

She raised an eyebrow. "No nerves?"

He shook his head. "Not really. This is what I've been working for."

Christina studied him for a moment before smiling. "That's good. You always have this weird confidence before big things. It's annoying but impressive."

Marcel laughed. "Annoying? You should be proud that l am that confident, that means l will succeed."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "We'll see about that after your trial."

There was a comfortable silence as they ate, the warmth of the food matching the ease between them.

Then Christina spoke again, her tone softer. "What happens after the trial?"

Marcel paused. He knew what she was really asking.

If he made it into Dragons FC's U17 team, everything would change.

He exhaled, leaning back slightly. "If I get in, I'll have to train even harder. Maybe even travel for matches. It'll be different, but… this is what I want."

Christina nodded, swirling a piece of plantain in sauce. "And if you don't get in?"

Marcel didn't answer right away. It wasn't because he hadn't thought about it—he had. But the idea of failure felt distant, almost impossible.

"I will," he said finally. "There's no other way."

She sighed, placing her fork down. "I just don't want you to put too much pressure on yourself. Football isn't always fair."

Marcel smirked. "That's why I have to be too good to ignore."

Christina shook her head, amused. "Same old Marcel. Always thinking like you are already a superstar."

"You'll see," he said confidently. "One day, I'll be playing in Europe. And when I do, I'll take you with me."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Take me with you?"

"Of course," he said, his tone serious. "When I make it big, we'll go together. You can study wherever you want—France, England, even Spain."

Christina chuckled. "You make it sound easy."

"It is," Marcel grinned. "I get rich, you get smart, and we will swim in money together."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"But you love it," he shot back, winking.

She rolled her eyes again but didn't deny it.

The conversation drifted to school—her dream of becoming a Businesswoman and be the owner of a company, her worries about the BEPC results, the uncertainty of the future. Marcel listened, offering encouragement where he could.

Before they knew it, the sun had dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet.

They decided to take a walk through the small park near the restaurant, the air cooling as the evening settled in. Children still played, their laughter carrying through the trees, while the occasional rustle of leaves added to the peaceful atmosphere.

As they reached a bench under a mango tree, Marcel sat down, leaning back.

"You ever think about the future?" he asked.

Christina smiled. "Yeah. It's exciting… and kind of scary."

Marcel nodded. "I can't wait to see how things turn out. If this trial goes well, everything could change fast."

She turned to him, admiration in her eyes. "You'll make it. You always do."

He smiled. "Thanks. And when I do, don't worry—I'll make sure you're right there with me."

Christina laughed softly. "You better not forget your promise and forget about me when you're famous."

Marcel shook his head. "Forget you? Never."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Now let's go we need to go back since you have to rest."

They walked back together, the streets now quieter, the sounds of Yaoundé shifting from busy markets to the steady hum of nightlife.

At the main road, Marcel flagged down a taxi.

"Dépot for Fouda," he told the driver.

They climbed in, the ride passing in comfortable silence.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at their apartment building.

Christina stopped at the entrance and turned to Marcel. "Good luck with your trial again."

Marcel smirked. "Thanks, but I don't really need it."

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "You and your confidence… Just don't get too ahead of yourself."

Marcel chuckled, his tone light but firm. "Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm capable of."

Christina studied him for a moment before nodding, satisfied. "Alright then. Now go get some sleep—you'll need it."

Marcel grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the small smile she tried to hide before she turned and disappeared into the building.

Marcel lingered for a second, staring after her before exhaling deeply. The trial was right around the corner, and the anticipation buzzed in his veins.

With a final glance up at the darkening sky, he turned toward his own home, excitement thrumming through him.

...

...

Marcel stood in his room, staring at himself in the mirror. His breath was steady, his expression calm, but his heart pounded beneath his chest.

This was it.

The most important day of his young life.

His room wasn't extravagant, but it was a reflection of everything he had dreamed of. The walls were lined with posters of football legends—Cristiano Ronaldo mid-celebration in his Real Madrid jersey, Ronaldinho with his signature carefree grin, and Ronaldo Nazário, the Brazilian phenomenon, staring down at him as if passing on a challenge.

His wooden desk was cluttered with schoolbooks, crumpled notes filled with football tactics, and old BEPC exam papers he had barely glanced at in the past two weeks. On a nearby shelf, his PlayStation 4 sat neatly beside stacks of FIFA, Call of Duty, and a few other games he used to clear his mind.

But Marcel's eyes were locked on one thing.

The boots.

They sat untouched beside his bed—Nike Mercurials, sleek and pristine, the same model worn by Cristiano Ronaldo. His mother had gifted them to him for his birthday, and he had saved them for this exact moment.

Now, it was time.

He took a deep breath, carefully packed his bag, and placed the boots inside last—almost as if sealing a promise to himself.

Downstairs, Francine had already prepared a light breakfast. The familiar sounds of Yaoundé waking up filtered through the open window—the honking taxis, the hum of motorcycles, the distant shouts of vendors setting up their stalls. She placed a plate of toast and fruit in front of him.

"How are you feeling?"

Marcel exhaled slowly. "I'm ready, Mama. I just have to show them what I can do."

Francine watched him closely before reaching out, squeezing his hand. "You've already made us proud, Marcel. No matter what happens today, remember that. Just go out there and do your best."

He nodded and forced himself to eat, even though his stomach was tight with nerves. He needed the energy.

The drive to Stade Militaire at Ngoa Ekélé felt longer than usual.

Francine maneuvered her old RAV4 through the congested Yaoundé streets, passing roadside vendors selling roasted maize, fresh fruit, and bottled drinks. Motorbikes weaved dangerously between cars, their horns blending into the chaotic morning symphony.

But Marcel barely noticed any of it.

His mind was locked on what lay ahead.

As they approached the stadium, the streets narrowed, and the atmosphere shifted. There were no roaring crowds, no flashing cameras—just a simple field where dreams could be made or broken.

At the entrance, Coach Emile Atangana was waiting.

Stocky, with a graying hairline and the sharp eyes of a man who had seen countless players come and go, he extended a firm handshake. "Bonjour, Marcel. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do today."

Marcel straightened his back. "Thank you, Coach."

Emile handed him a red practice jersey with the number 20 printed on the back. "You'll start with the substitutes for the first half. Show me why you belong here."

Marcel gripped the jersey tightly. This is it.

Francine placed a hand on his shoulder. "Remember why you're here. You've worked for this, and no matter what happens, we're proud of you."

Marcel swallowed the lump in his throat, gave her a final nod, and walked toward the dressing room.

The atmosphere inside was tense.

The dressing room was basic—wooden benches, metal hooks for bags, and the faint scent of sweat and damp jerseys lingering in the air.

The other players were already there, tying their boots, adjusting their jerseys, exchanging quiet words. Marcel found a spot in the corner, pulled on his number 20 jersey, then reached for his boots.

His boots.

He laced them up carefully, feeling the leather mold around his feet. They were perfect.

Just as he was about to step out, a shadow loomed over him.

A tall, broad-shouldered player blocked his way, arms crossed. His confident smirk carried an unmistakable challenge.

"You must be the trialist."

Marcel met his gaze, waiting.

The boy scoffed. "We're supposed to be preparing for the Cameroon Brasseries Football Tournament in a week, and now they bring in a trialist? Let me guess—you got in through the back door. Paid your way in, didn't you?"

The room went silent.

All eyes turned toward them.

The words stung—not because they were entirely false (his father had pulled strings to get him here), but because they questioned his ability.

Marcel's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. Instead, he held the boy's gaze and answered without hesitation.

"Yeah," he said evenly. "But that doesn't mean I'm not good enough. We'll see on the pitch."

The boy blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct answer.

After a pause, his smirk widened. "Alright. If you prove yourself, maybe I'll tell you my name."

The tension broke, and the other players turned back to their preparations. Marcel finished tying his boots, adjusted his jersey, and stepped out onto the field.

The players lined up—red jerseys for substitutes, blue jerseys for starters.

The field was rough, patches of dirt stretching across the grass, the goalposts rusted along the edges. It wasn't pretty, but none of that mattered.

Coach Emile stepped forward, addressing the team.

"Most of you already know me, but for the new player today, I'm Emile Atangana, head coach of the U17s. We're playing a full 90-minute match. Marcel, you'll start on the left wing with the substitutes. After halftime, you'll switch to the starters. Show me what you can do in both roles."

Then, Emile's sharp gaze locked onto Marcel.

"I'll be looking at your positioning, awareness, and decision-making. Prove to me that you belong here."

The players began their warm-ups, stretching, jogging, and passing the ball around. Marcel rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of expectations settle over him.

But then, another thought crept into his mind.

The lottery ticket stored in his system.

Should he use it now?

One click, and he could gain an edge.

The temptation was real.

But then, he shook his head.

No.

I don't need the system. I trained for this. I can do this on my own.

He took his position on the left wing.

The referee raised his whistle.

A deep breath.

A final moment of calm.

Then—

The whistle blew.

The match had begun.