The final bell rang at Lycée Bellevue, and the school cracked open like a shell.
Students spilled into the courtyard in waves—backpacks half-zipped, phones already in their hands and voices raised. Friday in Bellevue always carried a different energy. A kind of low-key freedom.
Some kids were grinning, already planning the weekend: street games, café meetups, or catching the train into the city. Others moved slower, they were tired already, putting their headphones on, hoods up and dragging themselves toward home like the week had drained everything from them.
The sky was a hazy gray, not quite sunny but not threatening rain either. The air was cool, but not cold. It was a typical Marseille spring, just humid enough to make your shirt stick after a long day.
Yanis stepped out into it all like he wasn't part of the noise. His boots bounced in his bag and his shoulders rolled slightly, not from fatigue, but from routine. His body was tight from training, and his mind was already working through drills.
"Weekend starts now," Samir said beside him, stretching his arms overhead as they passed through the gate. "You got plans?"
Yanis adjusted the strap on his backpack. "Same as every day."
Samir laughed, "Let me guess, ball, ball and more ball."
Yanis smirked, "Yeah, I'm training solo today."
Samir chipped in, "You going back to AS Bellevue?"
Yanis replied, "Yeah, I guess. I have no other option, and I can't be training alone everyday."
It had been a month since Yanis last trained with the AS Bellevue players, he had stepped away from the local youth team because the drills seemed and felt basic to him. And Yanis needed to train for the trials, if he wanted to go next level. He needed the rhythm and space. He had the talent, but it was left with the work. He needed to train on a pitch, and not in a small bedroom everyday.
They turned the corner down the side alley that led to the rec pitch with their sneakers slapping against the concrete and the smell of fried chicken and exhaust thicking in the air.
The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the Bellevue estate.
On the wall near the café, a group of older boys leaned against the brick, trading jokes and music. One of them glanced at Yanis and gave him a nod of respect. The kind that said: we see you training. Yanis returned the nod, but kept moving.
"Look who it is," Samir said, nudging him gently.
Ahead, on the pitch, a familiar figure was setting out cones with methodical precision, Coach Malik.
Malik, the coach of Bellevue's local youth team, moved slowly across the pitch with his head down and setting down cones like he was building something sacred. He wore the same grey tracksuit he always did—sun-faded, a little too big—and his whistle swung from a thick cord around his neck like it weighed something heavy.
He didn't just place cones, he measured and angled them. He paused like he was imagining the drills before they even began.
"Man still builds drills like he's training a Champions League team," Samir whispered.
"Maybe he is," Yanis said.
Yanis and Samir walked side by side toward the AS Bellevue training pitch, the local field was surrounded by cracked fencing and uneven turf. It wasn't glamorous—just a rectangle of worn-down grass and dust. But this was where they learned the game.
The U-17 boys were already there changing into boots, tossing passes and stretching out their legs.
They started their training with warm-up laps, they were sharp and focused. Yanis approached Malik to talk about his INF trials.
After the short conversation with Coach Malik, Yanis didn't walk onto the pitch to join the others. He didn't ask for cones and he didn't wait for a drill. He simply moved to the far corner of the field, dropped his bag, pulled out his boots, and started getting to work.
Samir followed him without a word, holding a ball under one arm. He followed—not as a coach, not as a teammate—just as a friend helping him get sharper. Coach Malik, still standing near midfield, watched silently.
The turf under Yanis's boots was uneven in places and worn out in others, but that didn't matter. He started by stretching his stride, feeling the ground under him and letting his legs open up after a day of sitting in class.
Then, he stood in a square no bigger than a parking space with cones already laid out by Samir and began his rhythm.
He proceeded to tight touches in the box. He started with his left foot, then his right foot, rolling and resetting. He was fast but balanced, he wasn't thinking about who was watching and he wasn't there to impress. This was about discipline.
"Clean," Samir muttered, feeding him rhythm.
Every touch was sharp and every movement, tight. He had ten days to close the gap between being good and being ready.
Coach Malik walked over after five minutes, stopping at the edge of the cones. He knew and believed that Yanis would be great, and he wanted to be part of the story.
"You working your rhythm first?" he asked. Yanis nodded.
"Good," Malik said. "Most players start too fast. Then their touch breaks under pressure." He didn't interrupt the drill, he just stood there with his arms crossed, watching and observing.
Yanis kept going, now with his left foot only.
"Don't slap the ball," Malik said. "Glide it. Let it move like it wants to stay with you." Yanis adjusted to softer touches and quicker steps.
Samir now stood twelve meters out and began rifling passes toward him—some fast, some bouncing and some with spin.
Yanis had to react: he had to trap the ball with his right foot, reset with his left and pass clean back to Samir with no hesitation.
"Add a scan before the trap," Malik said. "Check your shoulder, always."
Yanis did. Everytime, now glancing left before contact like a match.
Samir upped the pace but Yanis met every ball like it was a test—and he passed.
Then: turning drills. "Simulate pressure," Malik said, stepping in now. "I'll approach. You take it on the half-turn, make the space and explode out."
Yanis nodded and set himself with the ball at his feet. Coach Malik jogged in like a defender. Yanis pivoted—one touch with his back foot, a drop of the shoulder, inside cut and drive.
"Again," Malik called out. They did it five times, each turn faster and sharper.
"Try the Zidane turn next with less flash and function."
Yanis did as he was told, he executed it with a perfect spin and clean recovery.
Now sweat dripped from his jaw as his breathing was fast, but steady. He wasn't tired, he was active, awake and locked in.
Coach Malik finally said, "You look like a player two weeks out from camp. Not ten days."
"That's the goal."
"You're pushing the tempo. That's good. But don't forget rhythm is control and not speed," Yanis nodded.
Coach paused. "You'll face players who look faster and louder but don't copy them."
"I won't," he muttered, catching breath.
Malik stepped back. "Then keep going. You've got the ball and you've got time. So show me."
Samir now played the role of setup man, feeding passes in from different angles. Yanis hit them with his left foot under a low drive.
Then, one-touch finish. He did it perfectly as Coach Malik watched every step.
"Don't power through every ball," he said. "Let the angle decide. If you fight the shape, you lose the shot." Yanis nodded and adjusted.
Next strike: quick touch, open body and guided shot into the bottom corner. He did it out of perfection.
After an hour, the rest of the U-team had already left. Only Malik remained, leaning against the goalpost with his arms folded.
The sun was sinking into the rooftops as the pitch cast long shadows and the city was beginning to glow orange. Yanis dropped onto the grass as his chest heaved, but his mind was still alert. Samir sat beside him. "That's the hardest I've seen you work."
"Not even close," Yanis said.
Coach Malik stepped forward again. No lecture this time, just quiet.
"You're sharper than you were a month ago," he said.
"Because I'm scared," Yanis said, with no ego but just the truth.
Malik smiled faintly. "That's good because fear sharpens the honest ones."
Then, softly: "You're not chasing a dream anymore but you're preparing for it. That's the difference."
He clapped Yanis on the shoulder once, but firm. "Take the weekend. Come back on Monday if you want space. It's yours."
"Merci Coach," Yanis said respectfully.
Malik nodded. "Go home. You've done enough—for now."
Yanis stood and picked up his ball. His shirt was soaked and his knees ached, but his eyes were clear. This version of Yanis wasn't the loudest, not the fastest and not the one doing tricks for a camera.
But he was the most prepared person on that field and every second of today's training had made him more dangerous than he was yesterday.
They left the pitch and started walking home again.
Samir chipped in. "Damn! That was serious."
"He always is," Yanis muttered.
"I thought he was gonna slap you."
"I thought he was, too." They both laughed.