Marcel woke up much ter than usual, the bright light slipping through his curtains reminding him it was already well into the m. He turo his bedside clo. Normally, his mother wouldn’t allow him to sleep in this long, aill had household chores waiting for him. But today, he just didn’t feel like getting up.

  The sting of elimination was still fresh. He kept repying the mat his mind—the missed ces, the referee’s call, the way he felt when the final whistle blew. He k was just a youth tour, that bigger petitions would e if he kept pying well. But that didn’t matter to him right now. Losing hurt. More than he expected.

  He thought back to the Brasseries Academy match. That loss had frustrated him, but at least they weren’t eliminated. Now, it was different. He hated this feeling. It sat heavy in his chest, a kind of burning frustration he didn’t know how to shake off.

  For the first time since he met her, he ignored Christina. It wasn’t her fault, but he just couldn’t bring himself to talk to her. She had sent several messages, asking how he was, but he left them unread. He wasn’t in the mood. His mind was still stu the loss, on how it made him feel.

  He y there for awenty minutes, staring at the ceiling. Just thinking.

  Eventually, he forced himself to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Enough sulking.

  The first thing he did was make his bed—partly to avoid his mother’s nagging, but also because he knew if he didn’t start moving, he’d stay in this mood all day.

  His eyes drifted to his poster of Cristiano Ronaldo, frozen mid-air in his famous Siuuuu celebration. Marcel let out a deep breath. Ronaldo had it harder than him growing up—no stability, h, no privileges. A, he worked his way to the top. Marcel couldn’t let oour define him. He had to work harder.

  He stepped into the hallway, rubbing his face, his mind still clouded from everything that had happened ierday.

  In the small living room, Frane was already dressed for work, seg her hair into a tight bun as she g the small mirror he door. She was in her usual rush, adjusting the strap of her bag while making sure everything was in pce before heading out to her restaurant.

  She noticed Marcel standing there, still in his crumpled sleeping clothes, looking half-awake.

  "Good m, Mom," Marcel said, his voice quieter than usual. He kept his head down, feeling a twinge of guilt for how he had ignored her yesterday.

  Frane g him while adjusting her work apron. "Hmm, so you finally decided to join the living?" She teased. "I was beginning to think you'd spend the whole day locked in your room. Good thing you woke up on your own—otherwise, I would’ve dragged you out by the ear."

  Marcel forced a smile, a bit embarrassed. "Ha, ha, ha… No way, Mom. I wouldn't do that. I have too much to do today."

  "Good. I don’t like seeing you sulking," she said, adjusting her headscarf. "But just so you know, I wasn’t joking about dragging you out by the ear."

  Marcel shuddered slightly. Knowing his mother, she really wasn’t joking.

  Before leaving, Frane looked at him seriously. "When you’re doh your chores, go talk to Christina."

  Marcel frowned slightly, but she tinued before he could say anything.

  "She’s sad because yn her. I don’t care how upset you are about football—she didn’t do anything wrong. She shouldn’t be the one suffering just because you lost a game."

  Marcel exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. He knew his mother was right.

  Fraepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I want to see both of you smiling before I get back," she said, kissing his forehead.

  And with that, she left for work, leaving Marcel standing there, thinking about what she said.

  ……

  Marcel finally finished his chores, wiping sweat off his forehead as he stepped back to i his work. The ptes from the night before had been scrubbed , stacked ly on the drying rack. The living room floor, which had been coated in the fine dust that always seemed to creep in from the street, now gleamed after he had swept and mopped it. He had wiped dowable, rearrahe chairs, and even straightehe small family shelf holding framed pictures and a few old books.

  It wasn’t a grand house, but it was home. A modest but well-maintained apartment, not in the poorest part of Yaoundé but far from the wealthiest. The lingering st of palm oil from st night’s cooking still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the breeze slipping through the open window.

  Satisfied with his work, Marcel grabbed his phone, opened his messages, and typed quickly.

  > Marcel: Hey, I’m really sorry fn you yesterday. we talk? I’ll wait outside.

  The reply came almost immediately.

  > Christina: Okay.

  It wasn’t much, but at least she responded.

  Marcel exhaled, put down his phone, and stepped outside, leaning against the wall he entrao his building. The miicked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

  By the time he hit thirty minutes, he began to wonder if she would e at all. Just as he was about to send another message, he spotted her walking toward him.

  She had her stressed braids tied back loosely, her brown skin a shade lighter than his but still rid warm uhe m sun. She wore a sleeveless denim vest over a fitted sheer top with a bold tiger print, tucked slightly into a pair of distressed denim shorts with frayed edges. Her blue sneakers, well-worn but stylish, matched her rexed but effortlessly put-together look.

  Marcel watched her approach, his heart thudding slightly—not from nervousness, but because he suddenly felt like an idiot for making her wait so long to talk.

  She stopped in front of him, folding her arms. Her expression was ral.

  He met her gaze and swallowed. “Sorry…”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m really sorry,” he tinued. “I know football shouldn’t affect how I treat you.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  “Look, I know I messed up. I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting you out. I don’t want to ignore you again just because I lost a match.”

  Christi out a soft sigh, finally breaking her silence. “I’m not mad at you, Marcel. I was just… thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  She nodded. “It’s been two years since we got together, and I thought I knew you pletely. But yesterday, I realized how much you hate to lose.” She looked him in the eye. “I expected you to be upset, but I didn’t think you’d pletely ignore me.”

  Marcel opened his mouth but found no words to say.

  Christina shifted her weight slightly, her voice softer now. “If a youth tour loss affects you this much, what happens if you lose something bigger? Will you shut me out again? Will you push me away if things get hard?”

  Her words struck him more than he expected.

  He scratched the back of his head. “Holy… even I didn’t realize how much I hate losing until now. It’s not just disappoi, it’s like…” He struggled for the right words. “Like something I ’t stand, no matter what.”

  Christina studied him for a moment before smiling faintly. “Well, at least now you know.” Then she lightly tapped his forehead. “But promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “No matter how much you hate to lose, don’t shut me out again.”

  Marodded. “I promise.”

  She smirked. “Good.”

  “So… do you five me?”

  Instead of answering, she suddenly leaned in and kissed him—just a quick, pyful peck. Then she pulled bad held up her fingers, ping the air slightly. “A little bit.”

  Marcel blinked, slightly stunned, befaining his posure. “What do I have to do for full fiveness?”

  Christina grinned. “Take a walk with me.”

  He chuckled. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Alright then.” Marcel reached out, gently taking her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, soft against his own.

  “Let’s go,” she said, squeezing his hand lightly before leading the way.

  ……

  ……

  After his walk with Christina, Marcel returned home feeling lighter than before, but the momeepped inside, he was met with the loud voices of his two best friends, Dimitri and Jordan, who had just arrived.

  "Acer bi, how are we sending you text messages and you don’t respond?" Jordan grinned, his hands on his hips like an annoyed parent.

  "That’s right," Dimitri added, shaking his head. "We texted you so many times that we even thought you were dead or something."

  Marcel chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, don’t worry, bros. I just wasn’t in the mood to talk after losierday in the Brasseries tour."

  Jordan dramatically stepped back, clutg his chest like he’d been hit. "Ekié, you lost?! Since when does Marcel, the Ronaldinho junior, lose?"

  Marcel sighed but smiled—it was typical Jordan, always the loudest in the room.

  "It’s because we weren’t there," Jordan tinued, pointing to himself with exaggerated fidence. "Didn’t you notice the difference? When you pyed with us, you didn’t lose a sich, but immediately after we’re not here, you lose! Maybe it wasn’t you that was that good, maybe I was the reason!"

  Marcel simply shook his head, smirking.

  "If I wao py football as a career, I’d already be at Real Madrid, repg Cristiano Ronaldo," Jordan decred, puffing out his chest.

  "Ha! You’re always exaggerating," Dimitri scoffed, crossing his arms.

  Marcel chuckled. "Don’t worry, I’m not that sad about it anymore. I just o do better ime."

  Dimitri suddenly looked up from his phone. "Yeah, ime means the matches with Cameroon U17. You have to win the U17 and the U17 World Cup! If you make it to at least the semi-finals of U17, you’ll qualify for the World Cup in Chile!"

  Marcel raised an eyebrow. "You’ve already looked all that up?"

  Dimitri turned his phooward him, showing the tour format on Wikipedia.

  Jordan cpped his hands together. "Ahh! So bi will py in the World Cup?! That’s it—I’m posting on Facebht now! ‘My best friend will py in the World Cup!’ I’ll even add a photo!"

  "Wait!" Marcel panicked, reag to grab Jordan’s phone. "I haven’t even been called up yet, and you’re already telling the world?"

  Jordan ducked away, holding his phone high. "Ekié, what are you saying?! You’re doubting that you’ll be called up? If they don’t call you, everyohat gets picked instead is a fraud! Who deserves it more than you?"

  "Yeah," Dimitri nodded. "I’m sure you’ll be called up."

  Marcel appreciated their fiden him, but he remained cautious. "I really like your support, but it’s better to wait. Besides, I saw many other pyers that deserve to be called up too—Jean Mvondo, our captain… Ignatius Ganago, Brasseries Academy’s striker… and especially Ngono Ngoah, the midfielder from Kadji Sports. He was a nightmare to py against."

  "If you’re talking about them like that, that means they’re really good," Dimitri said, nodding thoughtfully.

  Jordan suddenly cpped his hands again. "Acer Marcel, aren’t you watg the Real Madrid match today?!"

  Marcel blinked. "Real py today?" Then, as memory hit him, he smacked his forehead. "That’s right! The UEFA Super Cup!"

  Without hesitation, Jordan grabbed the remote and switched the TV to al+.

  As soon as Real Madrid vs. Sevil filled the s, Dimitri groaned. "I hope they lose."

  Marcel and Jordan burst into ughter at the exact same time.

  "There’s only jealous Bara fans like you that say that," Marcel teased.

  Dimitri scoffed. "Laugh now, but you’ll see. This season will belong to Bar?a! With Messi, Suárez, and Neymar, we’ll wihing, and Messi will win another Ballon d’Or, proving again that he’s miles ahead of Ronaldo."

  "Yeah, yeah, sure, Dimi, sure," Jordan said, waving him off.

  They settled in to watch the game, stretg out fortably in Marcel’s living room. The TV was a solid ft-s, not the test model but good enough for clear football broadcasts. A standing fan hummed in the er, cirg the air in the warm room. The furniture was simple but well-kept, refleg his mother’s care in maintaining their home. Marcel’s house wasravagant, but it had everything they needed, and his mother e always felt weling.

  As the match kicked off, Real Madrid dominated but struggled to find the . Ih minute, Gareth Bale whipped in a cross, and Cristiano Ronaldo meet it with his leg while sliding.

  BOOM!

  The ball rocketed into the . 1-0!

  At that exaent, Jordan jumped up from the couch, spread his arms wide, and shouted along with Ronaldo on TV:

  "SIIIIUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!"

  He even did the celebration in front of Dimitri, who was rolling his eyes.

  "I swear, Jordan, you’re unbearable."

  Marcel ughed as Jordan tinued prang around the room like an overjoyed fan.

  By full-time, Real Madrid had won 2-0, thanks to another Ronaldo goal.

  As the pyers lifted the trophy, Marcel felt a pang in his chest. Watg Real Madrid celebrate made him think of what could have been—he could have been celebrating too if they had reached the Brasseries Tour final and won.

  It stung.

  But not as much as before.

  He took a deep breath ahe feeling pass. There would be more tours. Bigger tours. He just had to make sure he won the one.

  As his friends got up to leave, Dimitri turo him seriously.

  "Even if you lost this time, don’t doubt yourself for the one. Yoing to get called up. You have to win the U17."

  Jordan grinned, spping Marcel on the back. "Yeah, bi. When you get back from the U17, I want to see you with a medal around your neck."

  Marcel bumped fists with both of

  them. "By God's grace."

  As he watched them walk away, he made himself a silent promise.

  ime, he wouldn’t lose.

  Author's Note:

  I need your ho opinion on the romantic sequences in this chapter. Romance isn’t my strong suit, and I don’t have much personal experieh it outside of movies and anime, so I know I probably didn’t write it perfectly. That said, I think I’ve improved pared to the earlier chapters, but I want to hear your thoughts.

  Was it natural? Did it fit the flow of the story? Or did it feel forced or awkward? Your feedback will help me decide how to improve—or if it’s really not w, I’ll just keep those moments to a minimum.

  I included romance because I believe a story like this ’t be just about football—Marcel’s life isn’t only about what happens och, aionships help build his character. But if it’s not adding to the story in the right way, I’ll adjust how I use it.

  Let me know what you think!