CHAPTER 44— "Second Half"
Marseille's U-18 squad stepped back onto the pitch, steam rising from their bodies, their breath visible in the cold air. The referee brought his whistle to his lips, and for a moment there was a hush—only the soft pulse of drums from the tiny cluster of supporters in the stands.
"Marseille kick us off for the second half!" the commentator's voice echoed faintly from the stadium speakers, carried by the chill breeze.
"Level at 1–1. Montpellier started strong, but Kweku's equaliser has brought this game to life."
Louis jogged beside Kweku, bumping his shoulder lightly.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Kweku replied, even though his heart thudded with a mix of nerves and rising confidence. "Let's finish it."
The ball rolled back to the midfielders. Immediately Montpellier pressed high.
Coach Bernard shouted from the sideline, "Stay compact! Don't give them space to swing it wide!"
Montpellier's captain, Ferrand, drove forward, combining with his winger. A quick step-over, a feint, and suddenly Marseille's right-back was exposed.
"Danger here! Montpellier slicing through the flank—cross comes in!"
The ball whipped across the box. Their striker rose.
Kweku held his breath—
THUD.
It hit the crossbar and bounced down into the keeper's hands.
Louis exhaled sharply. "We can't keep letting them do that."
Kweku nodded, scanning the field. He could feel Montpellier's growing confidence. If Marseille didn't settle soon, the match could slip away.
Then came their chance.
Marseille regained possession, and the ball found Louis's feet. He turned sharply and spotted Kweku drifting into space between the lines.
"Kweku!" he called, and rifled the ball toward him.
Kweku let it roll across his body, pressing forward. One defender closed him down, then a defender followed.
"Back!" Jean-Luc barked from behind.
But Kweku didn't pass.
He nudged the ball forward again—one touch, two—then slid a disguised ball through the gap to Antoine on the left.
The commentator's voice rose:
"Lovely threaded ball from the Ghanaian midfielder—Marseille moving with purpose now!"
Antoine crossed early.
Too early.
It floated comfortably for the Montpellier keeper.
Coach Bernard sighed.
Kweku grimaced. "My bad."
"No," Antoine said, jogging back. "Right idea."
The match tightened. Tackles came faster. Space shrank. Every decision had to be instant.
In the 63rd minute, Montpellier surged again. Their midfielder clipped a perfect diagonal into the box.
"They're in! Montpellier with a golden chance—"
The striker took it on the volley—
Saved.
Marseille's keeper flung himself sideways, fingertips pushing the ball wide. The crowd roared with relief.
Kweku clapped for the keeper. "Merci, Ayoub!"
But right after the corner was cleared, Coach Bernard called out, "Kweku! Shift deeper! Help Antoine control that left channel."
He nodded and adjusted his position. This meant more defensive responsibility. More running. More thinking. But it also meant more chances to influence the game.
Montpellier attacked again. This time Kweku was ready.
As their midfielder tried to cut inside, Kweku stabbed the ball away cleanly.
"Good tackle by Mensah—very important intervention from the youngster."
He turned and accelerated down the left. Antoine overlapped, but Kweku held the ball, waited a heartbeat, then reversed direction—sending the defender stumbling the wrong way.
He zipped a pass inside to Louis.
Louis chipped it back.
One-touch football.
Quick. Crisp. Beautiful.
The commentator nearly shouted,
"Marseille is combining brilliantly! This is their best passage of play all half!"
Louis is shaped to shoot from 25 yards—
Blocked.
The ball split loose near the top of the box.
Kweku pounced.
He swung his left foot—
But a Montpellier defender slid across.
Blocked.
The ball bobbled out for a corner.
Kweku leaned forward, hands on knees, panting. His lungs burned. His fingers tingled from the cold.
Louis jogged over. "Close one."
"We're getting there," Kweku replied.
The corner was dangerous, but Montpellier cleared.
Minutes ticked past. 70… 75… 78.
Montpellier were tiring. Their high press wasn't as sharp. Their runs weren't as coordinated.
"Push up!" Bernard barked. "Play in their half!"
In the 82nd minute, the breakthrough almost came.
Antoine switched play beautifully to Louis, who nodded the ball into Kweku's path.
Kweku took a first touch.
A second.
He sprinted toward the edge of the box.
A defender lunged.
He sidestepped.
Another came.
He cut inside again—
But at the last moment, his standing foot slipped slightly on the frost-coated ground.
His shot sliced wide of the near post.
He groaned. "Argh…"
Louis slapped his back. "Still dangerous, bro. They're scared of you."
And they were.
Every time he got the ball, Montpellier players swarmed him, shouting frantic instructions to each other.
But the clock continued to run.
89th minute.
Then 90.
"We have three minutes of added time! Three minutes for either side to find a winner!"
The energy in the stadium tightened into something electric.
Montpellier had a half-chance. Blocked.
Marseille countered. Stopped.
Then came the final chance.
Louis won the ball in midfield and instantly passed to Kweku.
"Kweku! Go!"
And he went.
He drove at the heart of Montpellier's defence, legs pumping, vision clear, the world narrowing into green, white, and possibility. Antoine sprinted left. Jean-Luc surged to the right. The defenders backed up, unsure where to step.
Kweku feinted, dragging the ball just enough to open the tiniest window—
And curled a shot toward the top corner.
The goalkeeper leapt.
Time slowed.
Gloved fingers brushed the ball…
PING.
Off the post.
Gasps filled the stands.
The ball bounced away.
The whistle blew.
Full-time.
1–1.
Kweku sank to his knees, hands on the frozen pitch.
Louis knelt beside him. "Hey—it's fine. You were brilliant."
Kweku forced a breath, nodding slowly. He wasn't disappointed in himself. Not really. But he'd wanted that moment—the winner—so badly.
Coach Bernard put an arm around him as they walked off.
"You changed the game, Kweku. That's what matters."
The commentator wrapped up the match:
"A tight, intense contest here. Marseille 1, Montpellier 1. Mensah, once again, is the standout midfielder. The boy is announcing himself to France—slowly, steadily, confidently."
As they entered the tunnel, Louis tapped his friend's chest.
"Next match, you score that."
Kweku managed a tired smile.
"Next match," he agreed.
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