Sunlight crept through the thin curtains of the small academy apartment, nudging Amani Hamadi from a heavy, dreamless sleep. He blinked awake slowly, the events of the night before rushing back in hazy fragments: the red blur of the Galgenwaard pitch, a deafening roar as the ball hit the net, teammates' arms thrown around him, his own laugh of pure astonishment.
Was that all real? For a moment, he simply lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling. His body ached in new places – a satisfying dull soreness from a real Eredivisie match – but inside, he felt almost weightless. He remembered how free he'd felt on the pitch, how all the nerves had melted away once the ball was at his feet.
