Chapter 16
Hilton Hotel, Yaoundé
The soft hum of music played in the background as an elderly man, dressed in a black tracksuit, stepped through the revolving glass doors of the Hilton Yaoundé. The warm glow of chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floors, while the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee and expensive cologne lingered in the air.
Across the spacious lounge, a younger man, likely in his early 40s, sat comfortably in one of the plush leather armchairs near the bar area. His posture was relaxed but focused—one arm draped over the chair while his other hand rested on a laptop keyboard. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat beside him, condensation forming against the rim, a sign that he'd been waiting. A scouting database was open on his screen, and beside it lay a small notepad filled with hastily scribbled observations.
The bartender, accustomed to the presence of foreign visitors, wiped down the counter with practiced ease, occasionally glancing at the guests. Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dim glow of streetlights illuminated the quiet streets of Yaoundé.
As the older man approached, the seated one looked up, a serious but intrigued expression on his face.
"Gonçalo, why were you so cryptic on the phone? You called me like it was urgent but didn't say a thing." Rui asked, raising an eyebrow.
Gonçalo exhaled, his expression betraying both excitement and urgency. "I know our scouting budget is tight, and we were supposed to head straight to Senegal after Cameroon... but I need to change the plan."
Rui frowned, setting his whiskey down. "Change the plan? To where?"
"Ghana."
Rui leaned back, rubbing his temple as he processed the request. "Ghana? Gonçalo, you know if we go there, Senegal is off the table. We won't have time." His voice carried the calculated hesitation of a man balancing schedules, priorities, and financial constraints.
"I know," Gonçalo admitted. "But I think I've found something—a gem. Raw, unpolished, but a gem nonetheless."
Rui scoffed, leaning forward with mild amusement. "Who is this wonderkid that has you ready to throw our entire plan off course? A young star at Coton Sport? Canon de Yaoundé?"
He smirked. "Didn't you say you were just sightseeing? Now I find out you've been sneaking into matches?"
Gonçalo chuckled. "Well, I was sightseeing... but I stumbled upon a match at Stade Ahmadou Ahidjo. The Cameroonian season hasn't started yet, so I got curious. Turns out, it was the U17 AFCON qualifiers—Cameroon against Ghana."
Rui tilted his head. "You were supposed to be on vacation, Gonçalo."
"I know, I know. But sometimes you find gold when you're not even looking." Gonçalo leaned in. "I was watching the game, and suddenly, there he was—a kid dancing through the defense like Ronaldinho in his prime."
Rui rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. Every youth tournament has at least one flashy dribbler. You, of all people, should know that. How can you be sure he's actually worth it?"
Gonçalo raised a finger. "I wasn't finished. He wasn't just a showboater. His positioning was excellent, his shooting was sharp, and his decision-making was ahead of his peers. He finished the match with two goals and was the clear man of the match. I recorded the whole thing—watch it and tell me I'm wrong."
Rui exhaled, rubbing his chin. "Fine, let's see it. What's his name? Which club is he with?"
"Marcel Ndonga. 14 years old. Plays for Dragon FC Yaoundé's U17 squad."
Rui's eyes narrowed slightly. "You sure he's actually 14? You know how messy youth football ages can be, especially here."
Gonçalo's expression darkened slightly. "Are you seriously going there?"
"Relax. It's not an accusation—it's a valid concern. Age fraud happens. You know how many so-called 'wonderkids' turned out to be years older?" Rui gestured toward the laptop. "But if you say he looks his age, I'll take a look at the footage first."
Gonçalo crossed his arms. "You'll see. Watch the tape and judge for yourself."
…
One Hour Later - Hotel Room
The room was dimly lit, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating Rui's face as he leaned forward, studying the recorded footage. Gonçalo sat beside him, arms crossed, waiting for a reaction.
When the video ended, Rui leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. "I see what you mean. He's still raw, but there's definitely something there. The ball control, the movement, the confidence—it's all there. He's not just another flashy kid with tricks. He has substance."
Gonçalo smirked. "So, do we change plans?"
Rui sighed. "Not that easy. We need permission from the Chief Scout. Changing our itinerary affects the whole operation."
Gonçalo waved a hand dismissively. "Then let's request it. Send an email with the footage and a report. If they say no, we go to Dragon FC anyway. We start building contacts now—with the club, with his parents. If we wait too long, someone else will take him."
Rui shook his head with a small chuckle. "You're that confident?"
"Call it instinct. This one is special."
Rui smirked. "Like the others you vouched for who never made it past the second team?"
Gonçalo laughed. "You'll see. This time, I'm right."
Rui closed his laptop and stretched. "Alright. I'll send the request. If they approve, we go to Ghana. If not, we still check out Dragon FC before leaving."
Gonçalo nodded, his mind already racing ahead. "Good. Because I'm telling you—this kid is different."
He murmured the last part to himself, conviction solidifying in his tone.
"This time... I know I'm right."
...
...
The sun hung low over the Military Stadium in Ngoa Ekelle, casting long shadows across the uneven grass as Dragon FC U17 players trained. Despite having no official matches scheduled in the coming days, training sessions continued, though attendance wasn't mandatory. Because of that, fewer players were present, but the intensity remained high as they played a fast-paced 5v5 match on half the pitch.
"Hey, pass it!" Marcel called out, sprinting into the left channel, his voice cutting through the humid afternoon air.
The ball was played toward him, but the pass was too heavy, accelerating across the rough, uneven ground. The pitch wasn't in great condition—the bounce was unpredictable, forcing him to pick up speed to reach it before it rolled out.
Jean had been watching and immediately reacted, charging toward the ball at full speed. Both reached it at the same time, just outside the box.
Jean lunged forward, extending his leg to poke it away, but Marcel, reading him perfectly, placed his foot on top of the ball and spun away with a Marseille turn. The movement was quick, smooth—Jean's outstretched foot hit nothing but air as Marcel slipped past him, his back to goal for a split second before turning forward into the box.
The defenders barely had time to react before Marcel curled a shot toward the top right corner. The ball soared past the goalkeeper's fingertips, nestling beautifully into the net.
Marcel smirked as he turned and flexed his arms toward Jean.
"Huh, Jean, didn't you say you were going to stop me from scoring?" he teased, still catching his breath.
Jean exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, you got me this time… but next time, I'll shut you down."
Marcel laughed. "I don't think so. The defender who can stop me completely hasn't been born yet."
The game resumed, the players pushing themselves as if they were preparing for a real match. Not long after, Coach Emile raised his hand, signaling for a pause.
"Good play, boys. Keep it up. I need to step away for a moment, but I'll be right back," he said before turning and walking toward two light-skinned men standing near the fence.
Marcel's eyes followed him briefly, noticing that the two men had been watching the session for some time. They looked out of place—not locals, and definitely not parents of any players. One of them, the older man, was holding a notebook and pen. The other stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"What do you think that's about?" Marcel murmured, his gaze still lingering.
Jean barely looked over. "Dunno, bro. Best to focus on training. We need to stay in top shape—we're heading back to the national team in two days for the second leg against Ghana."
Marcel nodded, pushing his curiosity aside. "Yeah, you're right. We have to win and qualify for AFCON."
Still, before returning his focus to training, he stole one last glance at the men. It was rare to see foreigners at their training sessions, and something about this felt important.
Meanwhile, away from the pitch, Coach Emile extended his hand to the older man.
"My name is Gonçalo Figueiredo, and this is my colleague Rui Valente," the man introduced himself, shaking hands firmly. His accent was unmistakably Portuguese. "We're scouts from Benfica, and we're here to gather more information about one of your players."
Coach Emile, surprised but remaining composed, nodded. "Benfica? And which player are you interested in?"
"We've already spoken to the club and the first-team coach," Rui added, producing an official Benfica scouting ID as proof. "He directed us to you, saying you'd be the best person to speak to."
Coach Emile folded his arms. "Alright. Who exactly are you here for?"
"Marcel Ndonga." Gonçalo's answer was immediate.
Coach Emile wasn't entirely shocked—Marcel had been impressive at the Brasseries tournament and had just put in an eye-catching performance with the national team. But still, the speed at which he was attracting European attention was remarkable.
"He's only been with us since July this year," Emile explained, "but he played in the Brasseries tournament with us. Despite being eliminated in the semi-finals, he was one of our best players. That's the only competitive tournament he's played for us so far."
"And do you have any recorded footage of his performances?" Gonçalo asked, though he already expected the answer.
Coach Emile shook his head. "No. We don't have match recordings."
Gonçalo let out a quiet sigh, his frustration barely concealed. "I figured as much. Thank you for your time, Coach Emile. That's all for now."
After exchanging a firm handshake, the two scouts turned and walked back toward the street, where they would hail a taxi.
As they strolled away, Gonçalo exhaled in frustration.
"It doesn't surprise me that they don't have video footage. If clubs here had better infrastructure and scouting systems, we'd probably see way more African talents making it to Europe. I bet there have been incredible players lost to history just because they never had the right exposure."
Rui smirked slightly. "It's Africa. What can I say?"
"Still, I'm not giving up. The club has given us permission, so I'll be going to Ghana for the second leg. If Marcel performs again, I'll ask for approval to follow him to the U17 AFCON in Niger."
"That's a lot of investment in a 14-year-old," Rui remarked.
Gonçalo glanced back toward the field, where Marcel was still playing. "Trust me. I have a strong feeling he is worth it."
Back on the training ground, Coach Emile returned to the sideline, his mind still on the conversation.
His eyes lingered on Marcel for a moment longer.
European scouts.
Benfica, no less.
And all this after just one tournament and one international match.
He blew the whistle to resume training, but there was something different in the way he watched Marcel now.
For the first time, he wondered if he was looking at a future star.
...
...
During the break after the first leg against Ghana, Marcel spent his time either training with Dragon FC Yaoundé U17 or attending school. Even though he had permission to skip classes for the match, his mother insisted he keep up with his studies.
"You can play football all you want, but if your grades drop, I'll stop everything," she had warned him.
If it were up to him, he would have quit school entirely. He never liked it—sitting in class, memorizing things he didn't care about. He would rather be on the pitch, where everything made sense. But his mother had a point: "Even if you're talented, you never know what can happen in the future. One bad injury, and football might not be an option anymore."
She wanted him to have a backup plan. A diploma, at least.
When he went back to school, he expected things to be the same. But from the moment he stepped through the gates, he noticed the stares. It wasn't just his usual classmates anymore—even students from higher grades were looking at him, whispering.
At first, he didn't understand why. Then he found out.
"Jordan…" Marcel sighed when he realized his best friend had been bragging about him all over school. Most students didn't follow youth national team matches, so his performance against Ghana could have gone unnoticed—but Jordan made sure that didn't happen.
Now, girls who had never spoken to him before were suddenly smiling at him in the hallways, and some even found excuses to talk to him.
In class, Marcel sat at his desk, trying to ignore the attention. But that didn't last long.
A girl turned in her seat and leaned against the wooden bench in front of him, resting her chin on her folded arms.
"Marcel, do you still have a girlfriend?"
She had long, dark braids that framed her face, her skin smooth with a warm brown complexion. The blue pullover of the school uniform rested slightly off her shoulder, revealing a neatly ironed white-collared shirt underneath. Her dark brown eyes were filled with curiosity as she gazed at him, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
Marcel sighed. Again?
Among all the girls who had started hanging around him, Madeleine was the only one he actually knew well. They had been classmates since 6e (6th grade), and somehow, every year, she ended up in the same class as him—even now, in Seconde (10th grade).
Madeleine wasn't bad—in fact, she was beautiful. She had a warm personality, was friends with almost everyone, and was one of the most popular girls in school. But she was also stubborn.
Years ago, back in 4e (8th grade), she had confessed to him, telling him she liked him. Marcel had brushed it off, thinking it was just a passing thing. But since then, she kept asking, again and again, as if waiting for his answer to change.
"Yes, Madeleine," Marcel replied, already tired of the conversation before it even started. "I'm still in a relationship, and I don't plan on changing that anytime soon."
"That's too bad," Madeleine said, resting her chin on her hand. "What did she do to you? Some kind of magic spell? I've never seen a relationship last two years from people our age."
"Yeah, we're still young," another girl added. "Why are you so serious about one girl? You should explore a little. Maybe you'll find someone better."
Marcel frowned. "Stop trying to make me cheat or break up with my girlfriend. It's not going to happen."
Madeleine simply smiled and leaned in closer, her voice lowering slightly.
"You know… I could make you happy too," she murmured.
Marcel immediately leaned back, putting distance between them.
"Madeleine," he said, his tone firmer this time. "You need to stop this. I've told you before—Christina is my girlfriend, and that's not going to change."
Instead of looking disappointed, Madeleine just chuckled. "I know. But I also know you don't hate this attention."
Marcel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but she was making this more difficult than it needed to be.
Before he could say anything else, the classroom door swung open.
Jordan and Dimitri walked in, immediately scanning the scene.
"Everyone, back off!" Dimitri announced dramatically, waving his arms. "Let my bro breathe!"
The girls laughed but scattered, either returning to their seats or leaving the room.
Jordan shook his head, grinning. "Marcel, what are you doing? You already have a girlfriend, and here you are with a whole fan club. Meanwhile, Dimitri and I are struggling!"
"Exactly," Dimitri added. "You need to leave some for us."
Marcel rolled his eyes. "You two are ridiculous."
Dimitri smirked. "But seriously—if you cheat on our future sister-in-law, we'll have problems with you."
Marcel grinned. "You know I'm not like that."
"Yeah, yeah," Jordan said, leaning against a desk. "But tell me, Marcel… if you're really not interested, why do you let Madeleine get so close?"
Before Marcel could answer, Madeleine suddenly leaned in, kissed his cheek, and walked away with a smirk.
Marcel sat there, stunned.
Dimitri sighed. "Bro, if you don't shut that down completely, she's going to cause problems in your relationship."
"I know," Marcel admitted. "But we've been friends for so long… I don't want to just cut her off completely."
Dimitri shrugged. "Well, you either end the friendship, or you risk losing Christina."
Jordan smirked. "Or…" he leaned in, whispering, "You could have both."
"Jordan!" Dimitri shoved him playfully, shaking his head.
"But it's true," Jordan continued, grinning. "My older brother has three girlfriends, and none of them know about each other. If he can do it, why can't Marcel?"
Marcel rolled his eyes. "That's dumb."
"It's cool," Jordan said, shrugging. "Anyway, let's be real—have you even done it yet?"
Marcel frowned. "Done what?"
Jordan and Dimitri exchanged looks before bursting into laughter.
"You know…" Jordan smirked.
Dimitri, who was usually the quieter of the two, looked away awkwardly.
Marcel suddenly understood.
"Wait… you guys already…?" He looked at both of them in shock.
"Yeah, I did when I was 12," Jordan said casually.
"And I did last year," Dimitri admitted, scratching his head.
Marcel blinked. "And I didn't even know?"
"You never asked," they both said at the same time.
Just then—
DIIIIING! DIIIIING!
The school bell rang, signaling the end of the break.
Marcel sighed, grabbing his books. "We're going to talk about this later."
Jordan and Dimitri laughed, walking away before the second bell rang.
For the rest of the school day, Marcel found himself distracted, his mind replaying the conversation with his friends. He knew Jordan was just messing around, but Dimitri's words stuck with him. Was he really being too lenient with Madeleine? Was he unknowingly giving her hope?
The final bell rang, signaling the end of classes. Marcel packed his things and left quickly, eager to escape the lingering stares of students still buzzing about his recent performance for Cameroon's U17s.
By the time he arrived home, the house was quiet. His mother was still at work, leaving him alone to eat a quick meal before pulling out his phone. After a brief hesitation, he called Christina, wanting to spend time with her before his mother returned.
A few minutes later, she arrived, stepping into the living room with her usual bright presence.
They settled onto the couch, the TV playing in the background, but Marcel wasn't really watching. He glanced at Christina, noticing how she absentmindedly played with a strand of her hair, her mind still focused on school.
"How was your day?" he asked.
Christina sighed, leaning her head back against the couch. "Annoying. Our French teacher already gave us a test. School just started! Why is he in such a rush?"
Marcel chuckled. "Maybe he wants to see if you actually studied during the break."
Christina rolled her eyes. "He could have at least waited a few more weeks."
She turned to him. "What about you? How was school?"
"It was fine, I guess," Marcel shrugged. "Apart from Madeleine still being on me, asking if I'm still in a relationship."
Christina immediately sat up, her eyebrows furrowing. "What? Again?"
"Yeah."
"I know she's your friend, but why is she not giving up? That's getting annoying," Christina muttered, crossing her arms.
Marcel hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "She also kissed me on the cheek today… but she caught me by surprise, I swear."
Christina's expression darkened. She looked straight at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "You see? This is why I keep telling you to talk to her seriously and end this—even if it means ending the friendship. If you let this keep going, she'll just get bolder. Now she's kissing you. What's next?"
Marcel rubbed the back of his neck. "I get it, but she knows I love you. She knows I'm not going to break up with you. She's my friend, I can't just cut her off like that."
Christina exhaled sharply. "I know she's your friend, but it bothers me. And if she really respected you—or me—she wouldn't keep pushing like this. I just want you to make it clear to her."
Marcel met her gaze, seeing the frustration beneath her words. He knew she wasn't being unreasonable.
"Okay, Christie," he finally said. "I'll have a serious conversation with her. I'll make it clear. But for now, I need to focus on my next game. That's my priority."
Christina studied him for a moment before sighing. "Alright. But don't let this drag on too long."
She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest as they continued watching TV. Marcel gently wrapped an arm around her, letting the moment calm them both.
They stayed like that until around 7 PM, when Christina finally had to head home.
After walking her to the door, Marcel returned to his room and pulled out his books. No matter how much he wanted to focus only on football, his mother had made it clear—if his grades slipped, there would be no more football.
For the next hour, he studied, flipping through his notes, but his mind occasionally drifted back to the conversation with Christina.
Later that night, just before heading to bed, he lay on his mattress and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then, as if on instinct, he opened his system interface.
Marcel wanted to check his attributes. It had been a while since he last looked at the attributes section, and after his recent performances, he was curious to see how much he had improved.
A familiar blue interface materialized before him.
[Elite Boost System]
Level: 1 (20/500 XP)
Name: Marcel Ndonga
Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)
Height: 168 cm
Weight: 64 kg
Position: Left Winger / Right Winger
Special Boosts:
Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot available)
Lottery Tickets: 0
Market: Locked (Unlocks upon joining a professional first team)
Points: 42
Marcel's eyes lingered on the locked Market section.
He already knew he couldn't access it until he joined a professional first team, but seeing it still grayed out frustrated him. He had already gathered 42 points, meaning by the time he reached that stage, he would have a significant number of points to use. That would give him a huge advantage when he arrived in Europe, allowing him to be ready to compete at a high level right away.
He pushed those thoughts aside for now and opened the attributes section.
Attributes
Pace: 75 ↑
Dribbling: 83 ↑
Shooting: 63 ↑
Passing: 64 ↑
Technique: 68 ↑
Vision: 60
Composure: 60
Agility: 75
Flair: 80
Balance: 63 ↑
Decision-Making: 60 ↑
Physical: 58 ↑
Defending: 20
Tactical Awareness: 58 ↑
Overall: A rising talent—his raw ability is sharpening, but there's still a long road ahead before reaching the elite level.
As he scanned the numbers, he immediately noticed something.
His biggest improvements were in tactical awareness, shooting, and decision-making. That made sense. He had been trying to make better runs and take smarter shots, and it was paying off. But another number caught his attention.
His Physical stat—only 58.
It wasn't great, but considering he was only 14, it wasn't terrible either. There were definitely young players his age who were stronger, but it wasn't like he was completely behind. Still, if he wanted to compete in Europe, he knew he had to improve.
He had already struggled against some of the bigger defenders in the Brasseries tournament. If he was having trouble now, how would he handle the physicality of European defenders when he eventually moved? He couldn't afford to ignore this aspect of his game. Speed and agility were useful, but strength mattered too.
It wasn't an urgent problem yet, but he needed to start working on it before it became one.
He had no doubt that he was the best young player in Cameroon, but what about Europe? He had no way of knowing how he compared to the best young talents on the continent. There were probably players his age who were already far ahead of him. He couldn't allow himself to be satisfied with where he was.
His journey was only beginning.
Satisfied for now, Marcel closed the system and lay down in bed.
As he closed his eyes, his mind drifted to a dream—a dream of standing on the biggest stage in football, lifting the World Cup for Cameroon.
Maybe, if he worked hard enough… that dream would become reality.