Chapter 43 — Winter Grinds Iron
The cold hit differently during morning training. It wasn't just the wind — it was the way it sliced through gloves and jackets, settling deep inside bones. Even the floodlights looked frozen, glowing weakly through a grey sky dusted with snowflakes.
Kweku tightened the drawstrings of his hoodie and tapped his boots against the turf, trying to warm his feet. His breath came out in white clouds. Around him, his teammates groaned as Coach Duret blew the whistle for the warm-up sprint.
"Move! Winter doesn't forgive slow legs!"
The players burst forward. Louis surged ahead, shouting, "Race you, Kweku!" even though he was already ten steps in front.
Kweku pushed harder, lungs burning. He wasn't the fastest, but he ran like he had something to outrun — doubt, pressure, expectation. The cold punished every mistake, but the grind felt good. Honest. Clear.
After sprints came passing drills. Cones. Tight spaces. One-touch moves that felt impossible with numb fingers. The ball hit like a stone against his instep.
"Quick, #14!" Coach barked. "Don't wait for the ball — meet it!"
Kweku adjusted. A small shuffle, a quicker step. The pattern clicked. He began threading passes through the narrowest gaps, feeling rhythm return to his limbs despite the cold.
Louis laughed after one neat exchange. "See? Winter can't slow the Ghana engine."
"Speak for yourself," Kweku replied, rubbing his frozen ears.
They moved on to small-sided games — the real test. The pitch was slick with snowmelt, and every turn risked ending in a slide. Kweku found the ball under pressure and shielded it as two defenders closed in. He dropped his shoulder, feinting right, cutting left. One defender slipped.
Louis called for it. Kweku backheeled the ball through the remaining gap — the kind of move you didn't think about; it just happened.
"YES!" Louis shouted, catching it and finishing in the bottom corner.
Coach Duret's whistle cut the air. "More of that! If you can create under this weather, you can create anywhere!"
Kweku grinned despite the cold gnawing at his fingertips. Moments like that — flashes of instinct, of something pure — reminded him why he loved the game.
After two hours, they huddled near the sideline, steam rising from their clothes.
"Listen," Coach said. "Our next match is today. Home game. The opposition is Montpellier — same level as Lille. Not easy. Not hard. It depends on you."
The team nodded.
"Kweku, Louis — you're starting again."
Kweku tried to hide the burst of pride warming his chest.
"You two showed chemistry last match. Don't force it — but don't be shy either. You earned this."
Louis bumped his shoulder. "Told you. Rising star."
Kweku rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop smiling.
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Later that evening, the stadium lights lit up the field in a white blaze.
Snow had stopped, but the air felt sharper than ever. Fans — mostly parents, academy staff, and students — hugged themselves in thick jackets. Their cheers blended with shivering breaths.
The commentator's voice cracked through the cold:
"Welcome, everyone, to Marseille vs. Montpellier! The youth sides meet tonight in what should be a balanced and exciting contest. Keep your eye on Marseille's #14 — the Ghanaian midfielder who impressed in last week's win."
Kweku stepped onto the pitch, feeling the ground vibrate beneath his boots. Louis adjusted his gloves beside him.
"You ready?" Louis asked.
"No," Kweku answered honestly. "But I will be."
The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
Montpellier came in fast — faster than Lille. Their midfield pressed high, forcing Marseille to play long balls early.
Coach Duret shouted, "Settle! Don't panic!"
But the pressure was real. In the fourth minute, Montpellier stole the ball and fired a shot that the Marseille keeper barely tipped over the bar.
"Oof! Early scare for Marseille!" the commentator barked.
The crowd gasped, the sound sharp like snapping ice.
Kweku tightened his gloves and lowered his stance as he positioned himself deeper in midfield. He needed to get on the ball — to calm things.
The moment came in the ninth minute when the centre back slipped a risky pass into him.
Two Montpellier players charged.
Kweku took one touch, then spun — a tight pirouette that left the defenders sliding past. He burst forward, feeding a pass into space for Louis.
"Lovely turn by #14! Marseille breaks!"
Louis ran onto it and shot — blocked.
But the danger was real. The crowd felt it. Montpellier felt it.
From then on, the game tilted into a thrilling rhythm — attack and counterattack, each team pushing, neither backing down.
Montpellier scored first in the 22nd minute — a low drive from the edge of the box, unstoppable. Their bench erupted.
"A brilliant finish! Montpellier leads 1–0!"
Louis swore under his breath. "We're still in this."
"Play," Kweku said simply.
And he led by example.
He dropped deeper, asked for the ball, fought for every inch. His movements sharpened. His passes grew braver. The cold felt distant now — swallowed by adrenaline.
In the 34th minute, he dribbled between two defenders and slid the ball to the left winger, who crossed low.
Louis attacked it.
The keeper dived—
The ball ricocheted—
"GOAL! Equaliser for Marseille! Louis finishes after a brilliant buildup from #14!"
The stadium came alive. Fans stomped their feet, snow shaking off their boots.
Louis pointed at Kweku. "That's two games in a row, bro!"
Kweku just breathed, chest rising like he was inhaling the whole stadium.
Montpellier came hunting again, but this time Marseille stood taller.
The half wound down with both sides exchanging maddeningly close chances. A tackle here. A near miss there. The pitch glittered under the lights like a battlefield.
When the referee blew the halftime whistle, the commentator summed it up perfectly:
"What a first half! 1–1, end-to-end football, and #14 once again at the heart of Marseille's most dangerous moments."
Kweku jogged toward the tunnel, exhausted but alive with momentum.
The night was far from over.
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