CHAPTER 63 — WHEN BODIES FAIL
The first sign wasn't an announcement.
It was an absence.
Kweku noticed it during the morning shuttle to the training ground, watching players step on and realising two seats near the back stayed empty. No jokes filled the space. No one asked where the missing boys were. Everyone already knew.
Injuries didn't need introductions; they'd been called up, possibly to play, but mostly to fill the numbers after some first-team injuries.
Injuries were part of the season, part of the game — invisible until they weren't.
School went on anyway.
That was the strangest part.
Kweku sat in class, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, trying to keep his fingers warm as he wrote. Outside, snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the courtyard. He had stopped marvelling at it weeks ago. Now it was just another obstacle — slippery, numbing, inconvenient.
Camille slid into the seat beside him before the bell rang.
"You look tired," she said.
He smiled faintly. "I am."
She glanced at his hands. "Double session again?"
He nodded.
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the low hum of conversation around them.
"Something's happening at the club," Camille said quietly. "I can tell."
Kweku looked at her. "How?"
"You're quieter," she replied. "That usually means you're thinking too much."
He considered denying it. Didn't.
"They're short," he said instead. "Injuries."
Camille frowned. "Is that bad?"
"It can be," Kweku said. "For everyone."
The bell rang, cutting the conversation short. But the weight of it stayed with him through the lesson, pressing down even as equations filled the board.
School felt unreal that day — a place where nothing was wrong, even when everything else was tightening.
Training Without Contact
First team training had been moved.
That alone said enough.
When Kweku arrived at the academy pitch, he saw the senior squad jogging slowly on the adjacent field, their movements controlled and almost cautious. Several players wore bibs that marked them as non-contact. Others trained apart with physios, running straight lines, never turning sharply.
Coach Devereux stood beside the touchline, arms folded.
"Focus," he called. "Tempo without recklessness."
The drill was possession-heavy. No tackles. Minimal pressure.
Kweku felt the restraint immediately. It went against instinct — footballers were taught to compete, to impose themselves. Here, everyone moved like they were made of glass.
That was when it hit him, this wasn't just about missing players.
It was about protecting the ones left.
After the session, Devereux called him over quietly with a pondering look on his face.
Just his name, spoken like it always was.
"You're recovering well?" the coach asked.
"Yes," Kweku replied immediately. Then, more carefully, "I think so."
Devereux studied him for a second longer than usual. "Thinking so isn't enough."
"I know."
"You feel anything, you say it," Devereux continued. "Even if you think it changes things."
Kweku nodded.
He understood what wasn't being said.
Opportunities only came when bodies failed — but bodies failed when players stayed silent.
Whispers, Not Warnings
The academy buzzed that evening.
Not with excitement, but with speculation.
Names were mentioned in low voices. Who might train up? Who might sit on a bench? Who might get minutes earlier than expected?
Kweku didn't join in.
He stretched longer than usual, iced his calves carefully, and ate even when his appetite lagged. He thought of his mother's voice — opportunity isn't permission — and forced himself to listen to it.
Louis noticed.
"You're acting like you're already there," he said.
Kweku shook his head. "I'm acting like I don't want to break."
Louis laughed, then stopped. "Fair."
School Again
The next day, Camille caught him in the hallway.
"They're talking about injuries in class," she said. "The boys are all talking about it, saying Marseille's season is derailed because of it."
Kweku exhaled slowly. "It might be more serious than we think, even the youth coaches are worried."
"Does that scare you?" she asked.
He thought about it.
"Yes," he said honestly. "But not for the reason people think."
Camille waited.
"I don't want my chance to come because someone else is hurt," he said. "But that's how football works."
Camille nodded slowly. "That doesn't make you responsible."
Kweku wasn't sure he believed that.
That night, training ran late again.
Fewer players.
More intensity.
Less room for error.
Kweku felt it in every drill — the way passes had to be cleaner, movements sharper, decisions faster. The margin for hesitation shrank with every missing body.
From the corner of his eye, he saw unfamiliar staff watching.
Not academy staff.
Higher up.
He didn't look again.
Before Sleep
He called his mother.
"I'm tired," he admitted.
"That's different from hurt," she said.
"Yes."
"Good," she replied. "Tired means you're working and one way or the other work is always rewarded."
After the call, Kweku lay awake longer than usual.
Somewhere in the club, a list was growing.
Somewhere else, another list was forming — quieter, unpinned, unwritten.
Players who might be needed.
Soon.