The moment Amani and Malik slipped through the wrought-iron gates of St. Bonifatius College, the usual before-class buzz shifted unmistakably toward them, drawn like a magnet to metal. Amani tugged at his blazer's collar, suddenly wishing he could blend into the bricks of the building. An impossible wish, given half the school was now whispering his name.
Near the bicycle racks, three second-years crouched behind handlebars, eyes following his every step.
"That's him, right? Number 37?" one boy murmured excitedly.
The second looked him over skeptically. "Seriously? He looks… normal."
"Normal," the third shot back with a mischievous grin, "until he threads a pass right through your legs."
They dissolved into laughter, and Amani quickly turned his attention to the Dutch grammar book clutched tightly in his hand. Eighteen months at the academy had come with plenty of stares, but this was something entirely different.
Four senior appearances, three goals, six assists, and more newspaper headlines than homework had turned him into an overnight celebrity at just fifteen.
By the time the first bell echoed through the halls, the corridors were humming with chatter. Yassir, Joreon, and Wesley; the renowned mischief-makers, intercepted Amani just outside the history classroom, forming an exaggerated welcoming committee.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Yassir announced dramatically, arms flung wide. "Behold, the Eredivisie's youngest-ever assist king!"
Joreon bent into an extravagant bow, nearly losing his balance under the weight of his overloaded backpack. "Would you prefer a guard of honour, Your Majesty?"
Wesley mimed holding a microphone. "Red carpet's delayed hat-trick orders only, sorry."
Amani's cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, though the reluctant grin that escaped betrayed his amusement. "Come on, guys," he pleaded softly, "cut it out."
Yassir wouldn't be deterred, proudly unfurling a newspaper he'd folded neatly in his pocket. He thrust it forward triumphantly. The bold headline practically shouted from the page:
HAMADI: WONDER VAN UTRECHT
Beneath, a vibrant photograph caught Amani mid-celebration, fists raised triumphantly, mouth open wide in pure joy.
"My uncle texted me this at six a.m.," Yassir announced proudly. "He's never been awake for school news in his entire life."
"Same here," Wesley laughed. "Suddenly, my granddad's an expert on 'that Hamadi boy'. Bet you anything he asks why I can't volley like you at Parents' Evening."
Questions fired at him from every angle as they walked: Was the locker room filled with liniment and victory? Could Takagi really speak Dutch? Did Jan Wouters shout as loudly in real life as he sounded on TV?
Amani replied as best as he could, yes, the locker room smelled strongly of muscle balm; Takagi preferred English; Coach Wouters truly did have a voice powerful enough to shake the rafters.
The history teacher, Mrs. Vos, finally rescued him, tapping her watch and shaking her head fondly at the group. "Enough celebrity interviews, gentlemen. Mr. Hamadi, congratulations on your successes, but today we're discussing the Dutch Golden Age, not Utrecht's golden boy."
The classroom burst into gentle laughter as Amani gratefully slipped into his seat, feeling his racing pulse slow to something resembling normality. For a brief, blissful moment, he was just another student again, opening his history notebook and focusing on the neat handwriting on the board.
But the spotlight didn't dim for long.
Between the second and third periods, a surprise appearance caught Amani completely off guard. The headmaster himself strode down the corridor, stopping abruptly at Amani's locker.
In flawless Swahili, the older man quietly remarked, "Hongera, kijana," before continuing onward, leaving Amani staring speechlessly after him, nearly dropping his textbooks in shock.
"Bro!" Malik burst out laughing. "Did he just congratulate you in Swahili?"
Amani shook his head, dazed. "I think so."
At the bottom of the stairs, a cluster of first-years rehearsed a rhythmic chant, their voices echoing down the hallway: "Ha-ma-DÍ! Ha-ma-DÍ!" Malik soaked it all in, spreading his arms wide as if he were Amani's official hype man.
"You see?" Malik teased, eyes gleaming. "I roll with the main character now."
"The main character still has a biology test," Amani retorted dryly, brandishing a stack of flashcards in Malik's direction.
At lunchtime, Malik slid into the seat opposite Amani, dramatically dropping his tablet onto the table. "Fresh off the presses," he announced. "You've officially become bigger news than Dutch ice skating."
The headline blazed across the screen in bold letters from Voetbal International:
FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAMADI: THE FUTURE OF DUTCH FOOTBALL?
Yassir nearly choked on his broodje kaas as he leaned closer, reading the article with wide eyes. "Bro, my little sister's class is drawing you today instead of Van Gogh. This is crazy."
Joreon peered at the screen with a low whistle. "Better practice your autograph. Scribbles only pass for art when you're famous."
Wesley nudged in closer. "What's the going rate for signing maths homework? Asking for a friend named Wesley."
Laughing, Amani scrolled through a flood of Instagram notifications. Blue-ticked messages popped up from top-flight clubs abroad France, Germany, even Italy. A particularly cheeky DM, half-Dutch and half-emoji, read: "Ciao Hamadi! Juve scouts kijken mee 😉." He quickly locked the screen, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Crazy, right?" Malik said softly, elbowing him. "Serie A, Bundesliga, Ligue 1, they all want a piece of you."
"Everyone but the biology teacher," Amani replied, feigning despair as he flipped a flashcard about cell mitosis.
Biology class brought another wave of laughter. Mid-lecture, Mr van Heek paused dramatically, holding up the morning newspaper. "Today's lesson is mitosis, one cell splitting into two. Which reminds me, Mr. Hamadi recently split Roda JC's defence spectacularly, didn't he?"
The room erupted in amused groans, claps, and laughter. Amani hid his face behind his notebook, the grin he couldn't suppress hidden safely away from view.
When the final bell rang, signaling the end of another surreal school day, Amani and Malik strolled toward the gates. A crowd of students lingered nearby, some timidly snapping pictures on their phones. Malik threw a protective arm around Amani's shoulders, guiding him gently through the gathering.
"You know," Malik said thoughtfully as they headed toward Zoudenbalch, their shadows stretching long behind them, "a year ago, nobody here knew who we were. Now you're basically Utrecht royalty."
Amani chuckled softly, the warm May breeze rustling leaves overhead. "Today felt like I walked through a dream."
Malik grinned knowingly. "And tomorrow, it starts again."
Amani nodded slowly. "Tomorrow we wake up and do it all over school, training, whispers. But right now?"
He looked up, taking in the peaceful afternoon skies above Utrecht, feeling grounded by Malik's familiar presence at his side.
"Right now, we enjoy the quiet," Malik finished softly.
Amani smiled gratefully. He knew it wouldn't last, but in this brief moment, he allowed himself the luxury of feeling proud, content, and utterly at peace.
Returning to the academy gym after school, the system chimed again with its usual 'DING!' as he changed into training gear. SYSTEM NOTIFICATION floated before his eyes, its small pane sliding into view:
***
NEW MISSION UNLOCKED:
"Active Recovery Ritual"
Objectives:
- Follow the scheduled stretching routine for 20 minutes.
- Complete the low-intensity bike session in the gym.
- Apply ice and compression to sore muscles for 30 minutes total.
***
Amani sighed with a smile. It was summer, but the system didn't give him a vacation. He accepted the prompt with a nod. "Physical therapists call this off-season work, you know," Malik teased as they headed to the small gym area under Coach Pronk's watchful eye. Malik bounded ahead, and Amani followed, focusing on the structured drills that came without question.
The routine was demanding but clear. As his muscles protested each stretch and pedal stroke, Amani pushed through, trusting the process more than complaining. With each measured movement, he reminded himself that even now his body was being prepared for challenges ahead.
Between sets on the stationary bike, Amani stole a glance at his phone. Notifications blinked: his follower count on the club's social media page had jumped.
A final message popped up from a friend of a friend: "Hamadi 37 in the headlines! Utrecht legend in the making!" Amani felt a mix of pride and disbelief. Malik noticed the look on his face. "Champ," he said quietly, "they can say whatever, but you know the truth: you earned this on the pitch."
Amani nodded and steadied his focus.
Walking back to the dorm in dusk's cool hush, Yassir, Joreon, and Wesley flanked him, still buzzing as Amani was confused about who let them onto the academy premises.
"So," Yassir asked, genuinely now, "what's next? Champions League? World Cup?"
Amani kicked a pebble along the pavement. "Next is biology homework, I think," he said, grinning. The boys laughed.
Inside his room later, he finished the System's recovery checklist, earning a faint MISSION COMPLETE glow. Then he texted his mother in Malindi:
Working hard in the gym. But I'm studying hard too. Love you.
Her reply came quickly: Proud of you, my son. Stay humble and keep praying.
Amani set the phone down, muscles pleasantly sore, heart steady. Outside, the distant lights of Stadion Galgenwaard flickered against the night sky, an ever-present reminder of how far he'd come and how much farther he wanted to go.
The fame was still a strange new game, but tonight he reminded himself he was still the same kid who loved to play, no matter how many promises or offers came his way.