The trial match kicked off uhe unfiving midday sun.

  The red team, made up of substitutes, squared off nervously against the blue team, the clear starters.

  Even though it was just a practice match, the stakes were high—especially for Marcel.

  This was his moment. His one shot to prove he has a p this team.

  From the opening whistle, the blue team pressed aggressively. Their shape was good, their i clear. They weren't just pying casually—they were dominating.

  The red team, however, struggled to get going. Their passes were hesitant, their first touches slightly off. The starters' iy was suffog, and every attempt at pying out from the baded with a rushed clearance or a mispced pass.

  For the first few mihe ball rarely left the red team's half.

  The blue team's number 9, their forward, ressing like a predator hunting its prey. The red team's striker, number 19, tried to drop deeper for support, but every time he received the ball, he was instantly swarmed.

  They needed relief.

  Now.

  Number 19 id the ball off to number 15, the tral midfielder. But before he could even raise his head, an oppo was already on him.

  With barely a sed to react, he pyed it wide to the left-back, who found himself immediately trapped by the blue team's right winger.

  Under pressure, the left-back panicked and pyed a risky pass back toward the ter-back.

  The red team was now passing just to survive.

  Each touch was being heavier.Each deore frantic.Each pass, riskier tha.

  The blue team could feel it.

  Marcel could feel it.

  Their nervous energy, their ck of posure—they were moments away from losing possession.

  His instincts kicked in. He had to get them out of this.

  "Here!" Marcel called out, his voice cutting through the tension.

  The right-back, desperate for an optioated for a split sed before making a desperate back pass to the goalkeeper.

  But the blue team was ruthless.

  Two forwards immediately charged the keeper.

  No time. No spao options.

  The goalkeeper panicked.

  His attempted clearance wasn't —it came off his shin slightly, causing the ball to travel in a high, awkward loop down the left fnk.

  Straight toward Marcel.

  A bad pass. Awkward height. Too fast.

  Marcel had no time to adjust.

  The blue team's right winger had already locked onto the ball, rag forward to intercept.

  If Marcel hesitated, even for a sed, he'd lose the ball.

  He didn't.

  As the ball desded, he timed his movement perfectly, letting it bounce.

  The right winger lurying to trap Marcel before he could react.

  But Marcel was a step ahead.

  With a sharp flick of the outside of his right foot, he lifted the ball over the onrushing winger's head, spinning around him iion.

  The wiwisted in fusion, realizing too te that Marcel was already past him—sprinting into space.

  Now, he had an opening.

  The blue team scrambled tanize, but their right-back, a tough and aggressive defender, was already closing in fast.

  Marcel slowed down slightly, rolling the ball under his foot, waiting.

  The defeook the bait.

  He lunged.

  That was all Mareeded.

  With a quick chip, he lifted the ball over the defender's outstretched foot, darting past him and colleg it oher side.

  It wasn't perfect—the ball bounced a little farther thaended, f him to take ara touch tain trol.

  Now, he was just outside the penalty area.

  Two defenders closed in from both sides.

  No time. One decision.

  Marcel gnced up.

  A curling shot to the far post?He had the teique. The angle was there.

  But then—he spotted somethier.

  On the far side of the box, the red team's right wiood wide open.

  The defenders had been so focused on him that they had left the opposite fnk pletely exposed.

  This was it.

  Marcel stood his ground, the ball at his feet, the two defenders ready to pounce.

  He stayed calm, shifting his weight left, then right, using quick body feints to keep them guessing.

  The tall ter-back, the same one who had challenged him in the locker room, was getting frustrated.

  Then—he lost patience.

  He lunged.

  Marcel was waiting for it.

  With a smooth, effortless roll, he slipped the ball through the defender's legs—a perfeutmeg.

  The croed.

  The ter-back, momentarily frozen, twisted his body, scrambling to recover—but it was too te.

  Marcel was already past him, sprinting into open space.

  Two more defenders rushed in from either side.

  No time. One ce.

  Marcel angled his body and, without breaking stride, swung his right foot around the ball—a trive pass, curliifully through the gap between the defenders.

  It wasn't perfect.

  The ball bounced slightly as it traveled, causing the right wio adjust his first touch—but he trolled it well enough.

  Theruck it low, first-time, aiming for the far post.

  The blue team's goalkeeper reacted—diving te, his fiips grazing the ball.

  But not enough.

  The ball whizzed past him aled into the back of the .

  GOAL.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Then—celebration.

  The red team erupted as the right winger sprioward Marcel, his face lit up with excitement.

  "What a pass!" he shouted, throwing his arms around Marcel.

  "That was amazing!"

  Marcel, breathing heavily, allowed himself a small smile.

  "Just keep finding space," he said. "I'll keep feeding you."

  ...

  The red team's lead didn't st long. The starters, stung by the early goal, tighteheir grip on the game. Their pressing became relentless, their passing sharper, their movement quicker. The substitutes were already struggling, and now, they were barely holding on.

  The blue team's midfield took trol, cutting off passing nes and f mistakes. Every clearance from the red team felt rushed, every pass under pressure. The ball barely left their half.

  Iwelfth mihe iable nearly happened.

  The blue team's number eight, a posed pymaker, spotted a gap and threaded a perfect pass between the ter-backs. Their striker reacted instantly, bursting through the space.

  One-oh the keeper.

  For a sed, it looked like a certain goal. But the red team's goalkeeper was quick off his line, closing the angle fast. As the striker tried to slot the ball past him, the keeper threw himself low, blog the shot with his outstretched leg. The ball spun wide for a er.

  The blue team took it fast. Their tall ter-back, the same one Marcel had embarrassed earlier, rose highest and smashed a header toal. The power behind it was undeniable.

  The goalkeeper reacted again. He leaped, fiips grazing the ball just enough to push it over the bar. Another save.

  But the pressure didn't stop.

  The red team couldn't get out of their own half. Every attempted terattack was snuffed out before it even started. Passes went astray, clearances came straight back. Marcel barely touched the ball.

  Then, iwenty-seinute, a rare opening.

  Instead of bsting the ball forward, the goalkeeper spotted Marcel in spad pyed a quick pass out to him.

  Marcel turned sharply, sprinting down the left wing. The right-back chased, but Marcel was already ahead. He feinted inside before cutting back out, leaving his marker ft-footed.

  With space to work, he pyed a quie-two with the tral midfielder, breaking into the final third.

  The striker was waiting.

  Marcel whipped in a low cross, the ball rolling perfectly into his path. A first-time strike sent the ball curving toward the far post.

  It looked perfect.

  It wasn't.

  The ball skimmed just wide.

  A wasted ce.

  The blue team puhem immediately.

  Their right-back surged forward, linking up with his winger. A sharp owo sent him free, and he whipped a low cross into the box.

  The striker, lurkihe six-yard line, made his move.

  A flick of his foot, a quick rea—goal?

  No.

  The red team's ter-back threw himself into a desperate block, defleg it away for another er.

  The blue team pyed the set-piece the same way as before—aiming for their dominaer-back. This time, his header erfect, bulleting toward the top er.

  Somehow, the goalkeeper got there.

  Another unbelievable save.

  But the red team was breaking.

  The warning signs were everywhere. The midfield was exhausted. The bae anig. The blue team had plete trol.

  Then, iwenty-fifth mihe equalizer came.

  The blue team's defensive midfielder lifted a precise long ball over the defense.

  The striker timed his run to perfe, slipping past the ter-backs just before they reacted.

  This time, the keeper couldn't save them.

  Oouch to settle.

  Oouch to score.

  The ball rolled into the bottom er.

  The blue team roared in celebration.

  Game on.

  ...

  The red team, though rattled by the equalizer, refused to crumble. They regrouped, tightening their shape, but the blue team was relentless, pushing forward in waves. Marcel, reizing the daook on more defeies. He tracked back, c the left fnk, blog passing nes, and helping his full-back deal with the stant overload. Each time the blue team switched py, stretg the defense, Marcel was there, ensuring they had no easy way through.

  Despite their effort, the red team was visibly tiring. The blue team's pymaker dictated the tempo, moving the ball from side to side, pulling defenders out of position. The substitutes chased shadows, struggling to get a touch. Marcel could feel the weight of fatigue settling in.

  Then, in the fortieth minute, a rare opportunity.

  A diagonal ball from the right fnk found Marcel in space. His marker, exhausted from the relentless pace, hesitated. Marcel trolled it smoothly and immediately pyed a quie-two with his midfielder, bursting past the right-bad colleg the return pass.

  This was his ce.

  The ball sat up perfectly, inviting the strike. Marcel didn't think—he just reacted. He caught it first time, his volley arg toal.

  For a brief moment, time seemed to slow.

  The ball soared, cutting through the air with venom. The goalkeeper barely moved. It was destined for the top er.

  But then—

  A deafening thud.

  The crossbar rattled violently as the ball ricocheted bato the box.

  Marcel barely had time to react before the blue team's ter-back cleared it long. His ce to equalize—gone in an instant.

  And suddenly, disaster.

  The clearaurned into a perfect terattack. The blue team's striker sprinted onto the long ball, outmusg the st defender, who stumbled and colpsed uhe pressure.

  One-on-one.

  The goalkeeper rushed out, but the striker stayed posed, slotting the ball calmly into the .

  2-1.

  The red team had gone from nearly retaking the lead to trailing in a matter of seds.

  Marcel stood frozen, hands on his hips. His missed goal repyed in his mind like a cruel taunt. A few inches lower, and he would have been the hero. Instead, they were behind.

  The whistle blew for halftime.

  As the pyers walked off, frustration hung in the air. Coach Emile gathered both teams, his voice steady but firm.

  "Alright, listen up!" His tone was direct but encing. "This isn't just a trial for Marcel. It's a ce for all of you to show you deserve your spot in this squad. I want iy. I want sharpness. I want to see who steps up in the sed half."

  His eyes settled on Marcel.

  "You've done well. You've been involved, created ces, got an assist. That volley? Nearly perfect. But football is like that—it's a game of inches. Shake it off. The sed half is yours to make a real impact."

  Marcel exhaled, nodding. "Yes, Coach."

  He knew he had pyed well, but well wasn't enough. Not today.

  He headed toward the bench, sing his red jersey for a blue one.

  This wasn't just about a new color—it was a step up. He was now pying with the starters. A bigger challenge, a bigger stage.

  Marcel didn't feel pressure. He felt ready.

  As the referee prepared to restart the match, he took a deep breath.

  This was it. His moment to shine.

  ...

  ...

  The sed half kicked off, and Marcel, now in the blue jersey, stepped onto the pitch with a quiet determination. No lohe underdog, he art of the starters now—part of the team that dictated the game.

  With the blue team leading 2-1, their fidence was evident. Their midfield trolled possession, stringing together passes with purpose, shifting the red team from side to side. Marcel, positioned out wide on the left, stayed patient, watg, waiting for his moment to strike.

  Ih mihe ball switched to his fnk. He trolled it smoothly, his marker—the red team's right-back—already on high alert. The defender hesitated, knowing what Marcel was capable of.

  Marcel feinted left, then right, testing his oppo's bahe defender bit too early. That was all Mareeded. He burst fliding past him in a fsh.

  As he drove toward the box, the red team scrambled to recover. A ter-back rushed to cut him off, but Marcel had already spotted the better option. Instead of f a shot, he whipped in a precise cross with the outside of his foot.

  The blue team's striker had read it perfectly. Timing his run, he lunged forward, meeting the ball with a powerful first-time strike.

  The rippled.

  3-1.

  Marcel allowed himself a small smile as his teammates celebrated around him. He goward the sidelines and caught his mother watg from a distance, hands csped together, a flicker of pride in her eyes. She wasn't the type to jump and cheer, but the way she nodded slightly told him everything he o know.

  The red team, unwilling to roll over, pushed forward in respohey upped their iy, pressing higher and trying to cut off passihe blue team, however, remained posed, f their oppos into rushed decisions. Each time the red team mao break forward, they struggled to find an opening, the blue team's midfield closing down space with ruthless efficy.

  By the 55th minute, Marcel was fully locked in. His touches were , his movement sharp. He received the ball on the left again, immediately fag his right-back for a sed duel.

  This time, he didn't use tricks—just speed. A quick touch past the defender, and he was gohe defender lunged in desperation, but Marcel was already cutting inside, gliding past another challeh a slick drag-back.

  He had space. He took the shot.

  The ball flew toward the far post, curving dangerously—but the red team's goalkeeper reacted in time, diving at full stretch to tip it over the bar.

  A murmur of appreciation spread across the field. Close.

  Moments ter, the red team found a way through. A quick ter, a precise through ball, and suddenly their striker was bearing down on goal. The blue team's st defender was too slow—Marcel wasn't.

  He sprinted back, closing the distance just as the striker wound up to shoot. Timing it perfectly, he slid in, hooking the ball away ly before the shot could be taken.

  His teammates patted him on the baodding in approval. Even as an attacker, he roving his worth all over the pitch.

  By the 68th mihe blue team's trol was undeniable. They passed with precision, dragging the red team's defe of shape. The ball made its way to Marcel again.

  This time, two defenders rushed to stop him.

  Marcel stayed calm. He let them it first. Then, with a deft flick, he slipped the ball through the first defender's legs—a hat left the oppo stunned.

  The sed defender lunged wildly. Marcel anticipated it, spinning away with a Marseille turn, his movement seamless.

  Now, it was just him and the goalkeeper.

  He stayed posed, waited for the keeper to it, thehe ball into the bottom er.

  4-1.

  No excessive celebration, no over-the-top reas—just a quiet nod to himself as he jogged back, ready for the py.

  …

  …

  On the sidelines, Coach Emile stood with his arms folded, his sharp eyes locked on Marcel. Every touch, every movement, every decision the boy made was being scrutinized. One of his assistants, a wiry man in his te thirties, leaned in slightly.

  "The kid's got something special," the assistant muttered, shaking his head in quiet amazement. "His awareness, his trol under pressure... you don't see that often at this level."

  Emile nodded but didn't take his eyes off the pitch. "He's got vision beyond his years. You see it in the way he ss before receiving the ball, how he anticipates the py."

  Another assistant, a former defender himself, crossed his arms. "And he's not just a fshy dribbler. He tracks back, he presses, and he makes the right decisions. We could use him in the wide areas for the Brasseries Tour. Defenders won't know if he's cutting inside oing down the line."

  Emile's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "He's in the squad," he said decisively. "With him, we stretch teams and create more openings. He's the kind of pyer who turn a mat its head."

  The assistants exged knowing ghe Brasseries Tour was just weeks away, and with Marcel in their ranks, their ambitions suddenly seemed much bigger.

  …

  …

  By the 75th mihe blue team had pletely taken trol of the match, their fideransting into fluid, precise passing. Every touch, every movement seemed synized, as if they had been pying together for years. The red team, exhausted and outcssed, struggled to keep up.

  A quick sequence of oouch passes from the blue team's midfield carved open space, shifting the ball from the left to the right fnk. Just as the red team adjusted, the ball was switched again—this time finding its way to Marcel on the edge of the box.

  Marcel took oouch, lifting his head. He spotted the blue team's right winger making a perfectly timed te run into the penalty area. He had options—he could goal himself, curl a shot toward the far post—but he didn't hesitate.

  Instead, he disguised his i, shaping to shoot before slig a low, driven cross across the face of goal. The ball zipped past the scrambling defenders, arriving perfectly at the feet of the right winger. Without breaking stride, the winger met it first-time, slotting it ly past the goalkeeper.

  5-1.

  The red team was broken.

  On the sidelines, Frane cpped, her smile wide with pride. She wasn't an expert in tactics or formations, but she didn't o be. She could see how much Marcel was influeng the game, how his teammates gravitated toward him.

  Even with the match winding down, Marcel didn't ease off. Ih minute, he found himself deep in his own half, trag back to help his team defend. But as soon as he intercepted a loose ball he toue, he sensed an opportunity.

  With a sharp turn, he escaped his marker and accelerated forward.

  One pyer, then aried to close him down, but his feet moved too quickly. A flurry of stepovers sent the first defeumbling. The sed, desperate to stop him, lunged in with a reckless challenge, but Marcel flicked the ball over his outstretched leg befliding past him like a shadow.

  Now, with the penalty area in sight, only one defeood between him and the goal.

  Marcel slowed for a brief sed, watg the defender's stahen, with a sudden shift of his weight, he dropped his shoulder to the left before cutting inside, leaving the defewisting helplessly.

  One-oh the goalkeeper now.

  The keeper rushed out, trying to close the angle. Marcel stayed calm.

  With a delicate touch, he scooped the ball over the diving keeper, watg as it floated gently into the .

  6-1.

  The final whistle blew.

  A rush of emotions surged through him as his teammates swarmed him, g his back, ruffling his hair, throwing their arms around his shoulders. Laughter and cheers echoed across the field as the blue team celebrated a dominant victory.

  On the sidelines, Frane pced a hand over her heart, her chest swelling with pride. Marcel wasn't just pying well—he was standing out. He had walked into this trial as just another hopeful pyer. Now, there was no doubt. He had left his mark.

  …

  …

  As the pyers gathered he ter of the field, Marcel wiped the sweat from his forehead, his breathing still heavy from the iy of the match. The weight of the trial had lifted, repced by the buzzing energy of victory and acceptance.

  Even Jean-Pierre Mvondo, the tall defender who had beeical before the game, walked over with a smirk that no longer carried its earlier doubt. He extended a hand, his previous hesitation gone.

  "Yood, Marcel. With you oeam, we do some real damage iour," Jean-Pierre admitted, his voice carrying a new yer of respect. "Sorry for doubting you earlier."

  Marcel grinned, shaking his hand firmly. "No worries, Jean. We'll make a great team."

  A few of the other pyers joined in, patting Marcel on the baodding at him in approval. The atmosphere had shifted—he was no longer just the trialist, the outsider trying to prove himself. He was now one of them.

  Coach Emile stepped forward, calling the pyers together. His voice, though firm as always, carried a distinote of satisfa. "Great job today, everyone. You all put in the effort, and I saw some strong performances. But I think we all know who stood out today."

  He let the words settle before turning to Marcel. "Wele tons FC Yaoundé U17, Marcel. You've earned your pce."

  A small cheer broke out among the pyers, some g, others simply nodding in approval. Marcel felt a surge of pride swell in his chest. He had do.

  But Emile wasn't done. His tone became sharper, shifting into coach mode. "That said, don't think this was the hard part. We've got the Brasseries Football Academy Tour ing up. A me remind you, roup is no joke—Brasseries Football Academy, Yaoundé U17, and Union Doua U17. These teams don't mess around, aher will we."

  The pyers' post-match buzz dimmed slightly at the mention of their uping oppos, but in its pce came a focused determination. Everyone uood the challenge ahead.

  Emile smirked, his gaze flig baarcel. "Oh, and o thing. Marcel here is only 14, the you in the squad. You're all 16 or 17. So if you let him outwork you in training, don't e g to me!"

  Laughter erupted from the group, the lingering tension dissolving. But beh the jokes, Marcel could sehe respect they now held for him. The trial had beehing, but earning his spot in the squad was only the first step.

  As the pyers began heading toward the locker room, Emile made his way to the sidelines, where Fraood waiting, her hands csped together, eyes still glowing with pride.

  "Mrs. Ndonga," Emile greeted, a smile, "your son is something special. We're bringing him into the team immediately. He'll start training with us this week. He's got a bright future ahead of him."

  Frane, uo tain her joy, returhe smile warmly. "Thank you, Coach. He's been waiting for this moment."

  Emile nodded, gng back at the pyers. "And knowing him, he won't be waiting much longer before he makes an even bigger impact."

  As Marcel approached, his exhaustion evident but overshadowed by his wide grin, Frane couldn't hold baymore. She pulled him into a tight hug, squeezing him as though she could somehow freeze this moment in time.

  "You were incredible today, Marcel," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I might not uand all the tactics, but I knew when you were the one making things happen. I'm so, so proud of you."

  Marcel felt the warmth of her words settle deep within him. This wasn't just his victory—it was hers too. "Thanks, Mom," he said softly, returning her embrace. "Let's go home and celebrate."

  With that, they walked off together, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the field where Marcel had just takeep closer to his dream.