The heavy oak door of the boardroom clicked shut behind Amani, the sound echoing softly in the sudden quiet of the corridor. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the bright daylight that streamed through the tall, arched windows, painting stripes of light across the polished floor. Beside him, Mr. Stein's hand rested gently on his shoulder, a silent anchor of support, while a proud, almost paternal smile crinkled the corners of his weathered eyes.
In Amani's left hand, a thick manila envelope felt substantial, almost impossibly heavy. It contained the freshly signed contract, pages of dense legal text that now bound his future to FC Utrecht. Tangible proof.
Everything they had fought for, every hurdle overcome, was now real, solidified in ink on paper. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm of elation, disbelief, and a dawning sense of immense responsibility.
Just minutes ago, he had scrawled his name, Amani Hamadi, on the dotted line, his hand surprisingly steady. Now, the world outside that hushed boardroom felt at once intimately familiar and utterly, irrevocably transformed.
Waiting for him, positioned strategically in front of the large, gleaming FC Utrecht crest mounted on the corridor wall, was Jan Wouters. The senior team coach, a bona fide club legend whose name was whispered with reverence by fans and players alike, stood with an air of patient anticipation.
The iconic red-and-white shield logo, with its bold "FCU" lettering, seemed to radiate a quiet power under the ambient hallway lights. The moment Amani and Mr. Stein emerged, Jan Wouters's stern features broke into a broad, welcoming grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He extended a hand, his posture exuding warmth and genuine pleasure. A club photographer, a young woman with a friendly smile, hovered nearby, her camera already raised, poised to capture the momentous occasion.
Amani quickly, almost too quickly, wiped his damp palm on the side of his trousers. His hand was slick with nervous sweat, a betrayer of the calm he tried to project. He stepped forward, his worn sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor, and met Jan Wouters's handshake.
The coach's grip was firm and surprisingly warm, his other hand coming up to clasp Amani's in a gesture of sincere, heartfelt congratulations. Behind them, the FC Utrecht crest provided a proud, symbolic backdrop.
The camera shutter began to click in a rapid, rhythmic succession. Amani tried to stand tall, pulling his shoulders back, remembering Kristen's gentle advice from earlier: "Chin up, Amani. Look confident. You've earned this."
"Congratulations, Amani. This is a big day for you, and for the club," Coach Wouters said, his voice a low rumble, rich with approval and a hint of something that sounded like genuine excitement. Up close, Jan Wouters was an imposing figure, not just in stature but in presence.
He was a man who had witnessed decades of footballing history, his graying hair swept back from a high forehead, his deep-set eyes carrying a blend of ingrained kindness and unshakeable authority. He's the first-team coach, Amani reminded himself, the thought sending a fresh jolt, a thrill of almost electric intensity, through him. My coach now, too. Officially. The realization was still sinking in, a profound shift in his young life.
"Thank you, sir," Amani managed, his voice respectful, perhaps a little awed, but steady. He met Wouters's direct gaze and saw not just pride there, but also a clear glint of expectation. "I… I won't let you down." The words were out before he could second-guess them, a solemn vow made in the presence of a legend.
Jan Wouters chuckled, a light, reassuring sound that eased some of the tension in Amani's shoulders. He gave a single, firm nod. "I know you won't, jongen," he said.
"Just keep working hard. Keep that hunger. This is only the beginning, remember that." With a final, encouraging squeeze of Amani's hand, Wouters released him and turned slightly, gesturing towards the photographer, indicating they were ready for the more formal shots.
They posed together in front of the crest, Amani and the senior coach, side by side, a portrait of the club's present and its promising future. The photographer directed Amani to hold up the back of a brand-new Utrecht jersey – his jersey.
Bold black letters, stark against the vibrant red fabric, spelled out 'HAMADI' above the number 37. He had worn that number since his first tentative days in the academy, a random assignment that had somehow become his own. Now, it would officially be his squad number as a professional footballer for FC Utrecht.
The moment felt utterly surreal, a dream made tangible. As the photographer snapped away, her lens capturing the scene from various angles, Amani's mind, unbidden, strayed to the simple, almost arbitrary significance of those two digits: three and seven.
He remembered the day he had arrived at Sportcomplex Zoudenbalch, bewildered and a little lost, when an academy kit man, a gruff but kindly older gentleman, had tossed him a training shirt with '37' printed on its back.
At the time, it had meant nothing to him; just an available number for a newcomer, one of the many anonymous hopefuls. But over the ensuing months, the number 37 had become an unlikely companion, stitched onto the jerseys he wore during grueling winter training sessions when the icy Dutch air burned his lungs and his fingers were numb with cold.
It was printed on his back during fiercely contested youth matches where he'd battled frustration with unfamiliar tactics, the relentless pace, and the persistent language barrier. It was emblazoned on his chest the first time he'd found the back of the net in a scrappy friendly match, a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.
The number 37 was on his shirt each time he had slogged through Coach Pronk's intense, demanding drills, his muscles screaming in protest, yet his spirit fiercely determined to prove he could handle the workload, that he belonged.
He had briefly considered requesting a change, perhaps to a more "prestigious" number now that he was signing professionally – one of the lower numbers that established first-team regulars usually wore.
But in the end, he couldn't bring himself to part with it. The number 37 had become a symbol of his journey, a silent, steadfast witness to his struggle, his resilience, and his quiet, incremental growth. It represented humility, perseverance, and the long, arduous road he had traveled from the dusty pitches of Mbakari to this hallowed corridor.
As he held the jersey aloft for the photographs, a small, genuine smile touching his lips, Amani felt a distinct swell of pride in his decision to keep the number 37. It was his way of honoring that difficult road, of remembering where he came from, of staying grounded amidst the whirlwind that his life was rapidly becoming.
His gaze flickered past the photographer and the coach, seeking out familiar faces in the small group observing from the side. He caught Kristen's eye. She stood slightly apart with the club's Technical Director and Mr. Stein, a picture of composed professionalism, yet her smile was radiant, her eyes glassy with unshed tears she was clearly holding back.
When Amani met her gaze, she pressed a hand to her heart for a fleeting second and gave him a subtle, encouraging nod. Mr. Stein, usually so stoic and reserved, looked positively delighted, his chest puffed out like a proud grandfather, his eyes shining with an almost boyish excitement behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
Even the Technical Director, a man known for his shrewd business acumen and often inscrutable expression, wore a look of satisfied pride, his arms crossed, his posture relaxed now that the day's momentous task was successfully concluded.
This small, dedicated circle of people – Kristen, Mr. Stein, Coach Pronk (who was likely still inside the boardroom, meticulously tidying the contract documents), Jan Wouters, and the Technical Director – they were all beaming at him, their faces reflecting a shared sense of joy and profound relief. They were proud of him. The thought, simple yet profound, almost overwhelmed the boy from Mbakari, a wave of warmth washing over him.
After the final handshake poses and the jersey shots were deemed perfect, the photographer lowered her camera, a satisfied smile on her face. The club's Head of Communications, Ms. Van Pelt, a sharp, energetic woman with an iPad already in hand, stepped forward.
She quickly showed Amani some of the shots on the camera's small preview screen. In one particularly striking image, Amani and Coach Wouters were both looking directly and determinedly into the lens, the vibrant Utrecht crest positioned perfectly between them – the ideal image to announce the news to the world.
"This one is excellent. It will go out on our social media channels in just a few minutes," Ms. Van Pelt said, her voice brisk and efficient, though her eyes held a friendly sparkle. "Ready to be a bit more famous, Amani?" Her tone was light, teasing, but the question hung in the air.
Amani felt a familiar heat rise to his cheeks, a blush that even his dark skin couldn't entirely conceal. He laughed, a shy, slightly breathless sound.
"As ready as I can be, I guess." It was all happening so incredibly fast now, a cascade of events that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. A small, incredulous part of him still couldn't quite believe that the club, his club, would be tweeting about him, Amani Hamadi. Just 2 years ago, practically nobody in Utrecht, let alone the wider footballing world, knew his name. Now, the entire fanbase, and likely many beyond, was about to see his face, to learn of his commitment.
Kristen came over then, her earlier composure giving way to open emotion. She wrapped an arm around Amani's shoulders, giving him a quick, firm squeeze. "We are all so incredibly proud of you, Amani," she whispered, her voice thick with the emotion she had been holding back. "This moment… you earned every single bit of it." He leaned into her half-hug for a brief second, grateful beyond words for her unwavering support.
Kristen Stein had fought countless battles for him, many of which he hadn't even been aware of, navigating complex legal hurdles, bureaucratic red tape, and subtle club politics with a fierce determination. Seeing her so openly proud, so genuinely happy for him, made him happier than any potential applause or public adulation ever could.
The Technical Director approached, extending his hand one more time, his demeanor more informal now that the official proceedings were concluded. "Congratulations again, son," he said warmly, his handshake firm. "Enjoy this day. You truly deserve it. We'll manage the initial press inquiries so you can relax and let this sink in. Just be ready – the expectations will be high from here on out."
"I understand, sir. Thank you," Amani replied, the man's words about expectations echoing in his mind, a sober counterpoint to the elation. Coach Wouters, before heading off to his next engagement, ruffled Amani's hair in a rare, almost fatherly gesture of affection, a silent promise of mentorship. Mr. Stein hovered by Amani's side, his expression a mixture of pride and protectiveness, clearly unwilling to stray far from his protégé on this landmark day.
As they began walking back towards the academy side of the sprawling Sportcomplex Zoudenbalch, the formal atmosphere of the administrative wing giving way to the more familiar sounds and sights of the training grounds, Amani heard the distinct ping of a notification from Kristen's phone.
She pulled it out of her pocket, her eyes scanning the screen, and her face lit up even more, if that was even possible. "There it is," she said, her voice tinged with excitement, turning the screen for Amani and Mr. Stein to see.
Displayed on her phone, stark and official, was the FC Utrecht Twitter announcement, already live and rapidly gathering interactions:
@FCUtrecht: We are proud to announce that Amani Hamadi (15) has signed his first professional contract with #FCUtrecht! ✍️🎉 The Utrecht Wonderkid has already made a significant impact with 3 goals and 6 assists in just the last 4 Eredivisie appearances for the first team. Future secured! @amani #Hamadi37 #UtrechtAcademy #Eredivisie
Below the text was the very photo they had just taken minutes earlier: Amani and Coach Jan Wouters shaking hands, the iconic club crest behind them, Amani grinning from ear to ear, proudly holding aloft the jersey with his name and the number 37.
Even though he knew it was coming, seeing it there – an official tweet from the club, about him – made Amani gasp softly, his breath catching in his throat. A complex flood of feelings rushed through him: pure, unadulterated excitement, a deep sense of pride, a touch of lingering disbelief, and a sudden, sharp flutter of anxiety. This. This made it real to the entire world.