Chapter 64 – Empty Seats, Full Stadium
The injury crisis hit the club like a quiet storm.
It didn't arrive all at once, not with a dramatic announcement or a single catastrophic training session. It crept in through physio rooms and medical reports, through shortened drills and muted conversations between coaches. A pulled hamstring here. A swollen ankle there. Then a knee. Then a muscle tear that refused to heal on schedule.
By midweek, everyone felt it.
At the academy, whispers travelled faster than official news. Older youth players were suddenly training in smaller groups. Sessions were rescheduled. A few names disappeared from the pitches altogether, replaced by cones and silence.
Kweku noticed it most in the way the coaches watched.
They lingered longer now, clipboards tucked tighter under their arms. They spoke in lower voices, eyes scanning not just the senior youth squads but drifting further down, toward players like him—young, raw, still officially "not ready," but suddenly closer than expected.
Still, life didn't stop.
School remained school.
Cold mornings. Grey skies. Breath visible in the air as students crowded into hallways, stamping snow from their shoes. Kweku had learned, slowly, how to dress for winter—thicker socks, an extra layer under his jacket—but snow itself still felt unreal to him. It looked soft and harmless, but turned the sidewalks slippery and made fingers numb within minutes.
Camille noticed his fascination the first morning it really settled.
"You're staring," she said, amused.
"It just… falls," Kweku replied. "In Ghana, rain comes loud. This is quiet."
She smiled. "You'll get bored with it soon."
"I don't think so."
They sat together during lunch, as usual. School was the only place they were allowed to exist normally, without raised eyebrows or quiet reminders about schedules and priorities. Football talk stayed light—mostly her asking questions, him answering carefully.
But even here, football found a way in.
"Dad says the first team's in trouble," Camille said casually, peeling an orange. "Too many injuries."
Kweku's hand paused around his water bottle. "He said that?"
"He complains about it every evening. Says they'll have to improvise."
Improvisation.
The word followed him the rest of the day.
---
Two days later, Camille invited him to something that felt almost unreal.
"We're going to the match on Saturday," she said after class, her tone deliberately casual. "My parents asked if you wanted to come."
Kweku looked at her, unsure he'd heard correctly. "The match?"
"At the Velodrome."
He hesitated. Not because he didn't want to—because he wanted to too much.
"With… everything going on?" he asked.
"That's exactly why," she replied. "They want to see how the team handles it."
He agreed before doubt could catch up.
---
The Stade Vélodrome felt different this time.
Not quieter—never quieter—but heavier.
The crowd still came in waves of blue and white, scarves raised, voices loud enough to shake the concrete. But underneath the chants was tension, a restless edge that Kweku felt the moment they stepped inside.
He walked beside Camille's family, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes drawn instinctively to the pitch. During warm-ups, he noticed it immediately.
The bench.
There were gaps where bodies should have been.
Players he recognised from previous matches were missing. In their place, younger faces. Fringe squad players. Men warming up with something to prove and something to fear.
Camille's father leaned forward in his seat. "Look at that lineup."
Kweku followed his gaze.
Pau López stood in goal, composed as ever. The back line was patched together—Balerdi still there, Mbemba alongside him, but the usual balance felt altered. Clauss stretched on the right, expression focused, while the midfield looked thinner. Veretout remained, barking instructions, but even he glanced toward the bench more than usual.
Up front, Aubameyang jogged lightly, but there was a sharpness to him tonight—less joy, more responsibility.
"They're stretched," Kweku said quietly, surprising himself.
Camille's father glanced at him. "Good eye."
The teams emerged from the tunnel to a wall of sound that seemed to press down from above.
Blue and white scarves spun in slow circles, the Velodrome alive in that familiar, restless way that meant expectation mixed with impatience. Kweku felt it in his chest as much as his ears. Even seated, even wrapped in a coat, the stadium demanded attention.
As the whistle blew, Marseille started fast—almost recklessly so.
The opening ten minutes were pure pressure. The ball barely left the opposition's half as Veretout dictated the tempo, snapping passes wide, urging Clauss forward with sharp gestures. Aubameyang hovered on the shoulder of the last defender, always threatening, always moving.
"Too quick," Camille's father muttered. "They're burning energy."
Kweku nodded without realising he was doing it.
He saw the same thing. The pressing was intense but uneven. One midfielder jumped early, another hesitated. The distances weren't quite right—small gaps opening between lines that wouldn't exist if the usual starters were fit.
The opposition survived the initial surge and slowly began to breathe.
They dropped deeper, invited pressure, and then—suddenly—broke.
The first warning came from a misplaced Marseille pass near midfield. The counterattack was swift, clean, almost surgical. A diagonal ball split the pitch, pulling Balerdi wide, forcing Mbemba to step up earlier than he wanted.
The shot went wide.
A sharp inhale swept through the stands.
"Careful," Kweku whispered.
The second warning was louder.
This time, Marseille lost the ball high up the pitch. The press failed to recover. One midfielder slipped, another arrived late. The opposition surged through the centre, drawing defenders toward them before slipping a pass into the half-space.
The goal came not with brilliance, but with precision.
A low cross. A touch. A finish that left Pau López stranded.
For a moment, the stadium froze.
Then came the noise—anger, disbelief, whistles mixed with shouted encouragement. On the pitch, Veretout clapped aggressively, his voice carrying even to the stands. Aubameyang stood with hands on hips for half a second before turning, already pointing, already demanding a response.
Marseille tried to regain control, but the injury crisis showed itself again in hesitation. A fullback checked his run instead of overlapping. A midfielder chose safety over ambition. The crowd sensed it, groaning when the ball went backwards.
Minutes dragged.
Then something shifted.
Clauss began to push higher, almost recklessly. Aubameyang dropped deeper, drawing defenders with him. The midfield triangle adjusted, subtly but noticeably, tightening the space between them.
Pressure returned—not frantic now, but deliberate.
The equaliser came from persistence.
Clauss surged down the right, beating his marker with a burst of pace that drew the crowd to its feet. His cross wasn't perfect—it was messy, driven hard into a crowded box—but chaos favours the brave.
The ball ricocheted off a defender's thigh, skimmed past a sliding midfielder, and fell loose.
A scramble.
A boot swung.
The net rippled.
The roar was thunderous, relief pouring out of the stadium like a held breath finally released. Kweku felt his ears ring, his heart racing despite himself.
At halftime, Marseille walked off neither victorious nor defeated—but alive.
The second half was heavier.
The tempo dropped, not from lack of effort but from fatigue. Every sprint carries consequences now. Every duel mattered more. Marseille probed, cautious but determined, while the opposition grew braver with each minute that passed without conceding.
Aubameyang chased everything, dragging defenders out of shape. Veretout covered impossible distances, tracking runners, intercepting passes, shouting constantly. Younger players hesitated less as the match wore on—fear slowly replaced by necessity.
There were chances.
A header that skimmed the bar.
A curling shot that Pau López tipped wide with strong hands.
Each moment brought the crowd back to life, then dropped them into anxious silence again.
By the final whistle, the draw felt earned and unsatisfying all at once.
Applause rang out—not celebration, but recognition.
As the players gathered at the centre circle, applauding the supporters, Kweku noticed something else.
The coaches.
They weren't angry.
They were thinking.
Calculating.
As they left the stadium later, Camille glanced at him. "You watched that like you were on the pitch."
Kweku exhaled slowly. "It felt like it."
Because now, with injuries mounting and solutions running thin, the distance between watching and being watched had never felt smaller.
And that thought followed him into the cold Marseille night, heavier than the winter air.