The heavy diesel rumble of the first-team coach faded into the distance, shrinking to a faint, lonely vibration beneath the birdsong drifting over Sportcomplex Zoudenbalch. It left a curious hush in its wake, as though the entire training ground paused, waiting to see what would happen next.
Amani Hamadi stood motionless by the center circle, boots firmly planted on the immaculate grass, his breath visible in the cool April air. Far down the motorway, the last glimpse of red and white paint disappeared behind the treeline, gone, just like that, taking his hopes of playing in Waalwijk along with it.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting down the bitter sting in his eyes. After a week spent diligently training with both the U17 and senior teams, morning drills with Coach Pronk and De Vries, afternoons sweating under the scrutinizing gaze of Coach Jan Wouters, being left behind felt harsh, almost personal. Yet, he knew professional football made no promises.
He had been first on the training pitch every morning, his boots still damp from the previous day's double sessions. With the U17 squad, he honed intricate passing triangles alongside Malik, Tijmen, and Sofyan Amrabat; with the seniors, he had soaked up tactical nuances from veterans like Alje Schut and Alexander Gerndt, absorbing every piece of guidance Coach Wouters offered like sacred scripture.
Now, all that relentless preparation had led here: alone on an empty pitch, staring at the spot where the team bus had vanished.
Fine, he thought, drawing a deep breath. If I'm not going to Waalwijk, then Waalwijk will come to me.
He dropped a mesh bag of balls at his feet and began his first-touch drill inside, outside, lace, drag, repeat- the rhythmic thuds echoing through the empty stands like a lonely metronome. Each touch resonated with precision, sharper than usual, fueled by frustration-turned-purpose.
From the touchline, Malik and Tijmen leaned against the advertising boards, training bibs fluttering gently in the breeze. The academy session had ended half an hour ago, but neither boy had headed to the showers. They stayed, quietly watching their friend channel his disappointment into a one-man training session.
Malik scrolled furiously on his phone until his thumb ached. Finally, he broke the silence. "Bro, social's on fire," he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the empty pitch. "Fans are fuming that you didn't travel today. Listen, 'Leaving Hamadi at home is football crime. Wouters, wake up!'"
Amani paused, placing a foot firmly atop the ball, chest rising and falling rapidly. He glanced over, masking his curiosity behind a composed expression. "What else?"
Tijmen plucked the phone from Malik's grasp and adopted a mock commentator's voice: "'Zero creativity in midfield, kid's cooking in the academy, and we bring cold soup to Waalwijk.'" He whistled appreciatively, tossing the phone back. "You've got an army out there, Amani."
Amani's answering smile was thin, private. Army or not, he was still here, and the bus was still gone. Wordlessly, he launched a driven pass toward an orange cone, sprinted, collected, cut sharply back, and repeated the cycle. Turf sprayed beneath his studs. Each pass and sprint carried a message: Make them regret leaving without you.
When at last the stopwatch around Tijmen's neck beeped, Malik jogged over and slapped Amani encouragingly between the shoulder blades. "Absolute session monster, bro. Coach'll smell your sweat all the way from Waalwijk."
"Or the hunger," Tijmen added, eyes bright with sincerity. Once Zoudenbalch's star prospect before Amani's arrival, Tijmen's voice carried no envy, only a fierce camaraderie born from shared dreams.
From across the pitch, Sofyan Amrabat, calm as ever, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted clearly, "Hamadi! Keep that engine running. The minute they need you, you fly."
Amani placed his hands on his hips, breathing heavily, absorbing their words like embers in his chest. "I will," he promised softly but firmly. He raised his gaze toward the empty road once more, visualizing the day his opportunity returned. "Next time there's a seat on that bus, I'm bolting it down."
He imagined the senior squad arriving at Mandemakers Stadion in Waalwijk, suiting up without him. A tightness gripped his stomach. He visualized the match unfolding - he pictured himself there, threading passes between RKC defenders, his Visionary Pass trait splitting their lines with ease. But imagination wasn't reality. Not yet. He turned back inside and shut the door on the empty field.
Sunset slipped away, and the academy lounge filled with the blue-tinted glow of a battered nineteen-inch television, its gentle buzzing competing with faint, crackling commentary. The boys crowded around the worn, sagging sofa. Malik was cross-legged on the carpeted floor, Tijmen sprawled comfortably like a contented cat, and Amrabat perched rigidly upright on a well-used exercise ball.
Kick-off arrived, and Mandemakers Stadion flickered to life on screen: Utrecht's red shirts hovering energetically against RKC's canary-yellow jerseys. Crowd noise washed softly through the small speakers like distant ocean surf.
Amani leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced so tightly together his knuckles turned pale. His dark eyes darted rapidly across the pixelated image, noting each formation shift, every hesitation, every subtle opening.
Thirty-eight minutes ticked by a tense moment as Alexander Gerndt scuffed an inviting chance just wide. Malik groaned dramatically, flopping backward onto the floor in exasperation.
At forty-two minutes, Anouar Kali threaded an ambitious through-ball, but it rolled harmlessly into the grateful arms of RKC's goalkeeper. Halftime arrived with the scoreboard stubbornly fixed at 0-0. Malik thumped the coffee table impatiently with his heel. "I told you, no spark. If you were there…"
Amani said nothing, his jaw set firm. Inside him, frustration coiled tighter with every stalled attack, yet he forced his restless gaze to catalogue the action instead of his emotions. His eyes flickered over the movements of Utrecht's right-back, hesitating on overlaps, captain Alje Schut demanding an outlet that never came, midfield lines fracturing during transitions. Record everything, the System whispered quietly within his mind, and his special trait, De Zwarte Doos, meticulously stored every detail away, waiting for a future moment to be unleashed.
In the seventieth minute, Utrecht won a corner. All four boys shifted forward in anticipation. The camera zoomed in on Schut's imposing figure jostling at the near post. The cross curled elegantly through the air, Schut rose powerfully thunked the net ripple. The lounge exploded with jubilant shouts, cushions tossed skyward, plastic cups of cola spilling onto the threadbare rug. Amani shot to his feet, relief and excitement lighting his face for just an instant.
Eight minutes later, Gerndt reacted quickest to a loose ball in the box, driving home a decisive second goal. Malik whooped loudly, grabbing Amani in an enthusiastic, brotherly hug. "They did it!" Tijmen cheered, gleefully tossing a pillow upward again. For a brief moment, Amani allowed himself to grin alongside them. The club had secured the victory. Yet as the final whistle echoed from the TV speakers, his smile slowly faded. They had won without him; he remained behind, unseen and unneeded.
As his friends energetically debated the goals, Amani's quiet gaze drifted back to the flickering television. The Utrecht players exchanged satisfied handshakes, and the away section of Utrecht fans, bathed in stadium lights, bounced joyfully at Mandemakers Stadion. In their exuberance, they likely spared no thought for the young midfielder stranded at the academy.
Amani exhaled slowly. He was genuinely happy for his teammates, but the nagging uncertainty returned: would this comfortable win persuade Coach Jan Wouters that no changes were necessary? He rubbed a weary hand across his face and quietly stood up.
"I'm hitting the gym," he murmured softly. Malik and Tijmen instantly fell quiet, recognizing the frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.
Moments later, Amani entered the academy fitness room a small, windowless space affectionately called the Iron Church by the players. It was dimly lit by a single row of fluorescent tubes, their low, constant hum filling the silence.
Mirrors reflected his lone figure dressed in black training tights and a grey Utrecht hoodie, damp with lingering sweat from earlier sessions. He stepped up to the barbell rack and methodically loaded the weights for Bulgarian split squats: thirty kilos first, then thirty-five, finally forty, each rep sending tremors of effort through his exhausted legs.
In his mind, he replayed every missed opportunity from Utrecht's match, every timid pass or hesitant decision burned into his memory.
Fix the tempo, he coached himself fiercely. Pre-scan, one-touch release. He vividly imagined Mandemakers Stadion's uneven pitch beneath his studs, RKC midfielders aggressively closing down space, his Visionary Pass carving effortlessly through their defensive shape and each repetition concluded with an explosive upward thrust as if powering through invisible defenders.
The gym gradually turned humid, the air heavy with the scent of iron and determination. After the last punishing set, he racked the bar and immediately dropped to the mat for push-ups thirty, thirty-five, forty reps, his elbows creaking softly, droplets of sweat pattering rhythmically onto the floor beneath him. In the mirrored wall, he met his own intense stare, noting the burning resolve reflected back at him.
"Soon," he whispered fiercely, his breath briefly fogging the glass. The single word echoed softly through the quiet gym, a private vow no one else could hear.
He stood up, towelled his face and neck dry, then flicked off the lights, plunging the small room into darkness. As he stepped outside, midnight cold embraced him sharply, snapping his focus fully awake once more.
Beyond the shadowed dormitory rooftops, the distant glow of Stadion Galgenwaard's floodlights pierced the low-hanging clouds a silent, beckoning beacon in the dark.
Amani tightened the straps of his backpack, angled his face into the brisk, starless wind, and began the slow walk back to the academy dorms.
Gravel crunched steadily beneath his footsteps, each determined stride reinforcing the quiet promise he'd made to himself, his teammates, and those unseen fans now calling out his name online:
When that door finally opens again, I'll already be sprinting through it.