The front door creaked as Yanis stepped inside their apartment, then quietly clicked shut behind him.
He stood still for a moment in the dim hallway—just long enough to let his lungs settle. His shoulders drooped and his breath was slow and shallow. Every step home from the pitch had been heavier than the last, like his legs were dragging invisible weights.
His backpack hung loosely on one shoulder, the bottom soaked slightly from where he'd dropped it during drills. The laces of his muddy boots dangled from one of the straps, swinging side to side as he moved deeper into the apartment.
He dropped his boots beside the mat, half-kicked them off, and stood there for a second with his head tilted up and eyes closed.
The session had been tough, Coach Malik hadn't gone easy on him, and that was exactly what he'd wanted. Ball work, one-touch drills, tight space movement and explosive sprints. Every rep mattered and every word from Malik was taken like gospel. And though he'd trained side by side with Samir, much of the session felt personal—like a war between him and the pitch.
Inside the apartment, it was quiet, except for the low buzz of the TV from the living room.
"Lina?" he called out with a voice that was still a little hoarse from shouting during drills.
"Ici!" she chirped back from the living room.
He turned and found her sprawled across the couch, cocooned in her blanket, with eyes wide as she watched her usual cartoon—some hyperactive French animation with talking animals in space suits. She was completely locked in, but as soon as she saw him, she grinned.
"Yanis! You look tired."
"I am," he said honestly, dropping into the armchair like a sandbag.
"Did you play good?" She asked.
"I trained, like crazy," Yanis muttered.
"You look like you did," she giggled.
Yanis glanced toward the kitchen as he expected it to be empty. But then—his dad was still home, wearing a worn grey T-shirt tucked into track pants, standing by the stove flipping a pan of sizzling onions.
"Still alive?" his father asked.
Yanis blinked and sat up straighter. "Yes, papa."
"Have you eaten yet?" his dad asked.
"Not yet, I will."
His dad nodded, then gave him a long and thoughtful look.
"You pushed yourself today?"
"Very hard," Yanis replied.
"That's good," his father said proudly.
There was something in his voice, something measured. It was calm, but weighted. Yanis noticed, but didn't ask.
Instead, he stood up slowly, feeling the burn in his thighs. "I'm gonna shower."
"Before that," his dad said, setting down his tea. "Come with me first."
Yanis followed him as he walked past, wiping his hands on a towel. His dad opened the hall closet—the one usually stuffed with folded laundry and old coats—and pulled out a new box.
It was unmistakable as Yanis's body tensed slightly like it wasn't sure if this moment was real yet.
The box was black and matte, with the Adidas logo gleaming in silver. His father walked back and handed it to him without a word first. Yanis took it slowly as his fingers grazed the upper, it felt so unreal and too perfect.
"You've been working," his father said. "I have seen you training in the stairwell, morning, night, before school and after school. We've seen it, even your sister has seen it too."
Yanis stared down at the box as his heart beating in his ears.
"I know we've always kept it simple," his dad continued. "But sometimes… sometimes you invest in the ones who prove they're all in."
Yanis opened the box as his breath caught. It was a brand-new pair of Adidas X Crazyfast boots. It was sleek and black with a chrome trim, that was light as air. It had an aggressive silhouette and was laced perfectly, shining like something out of a pro kit bag.
He'd watched reviews about them for weeks. He'd read articles and seen pros break records in them. Now they were here in his hands.
"You don't need them to become the player you want to be," his dad said. "But sometimes the right tools can keep you one step ahead."
"Papa…" Yanis said softly, still stunned. "These are expensive."
His dad nodded. "And worth it, if they're going on feet that earn them."
Yanis's fingers curled around the boots, then paused again and looked up at his father.
"Merci, Papa," he said softly.
His father gave a simple nod, but the silence between them said more. Yanis didn't say anything at first, he just looked at the boots, then at his father. The words were there—but stuck behind the lump in his throat. So he stepped forward and hugged him.
Not the kind of quick hug boys give when someone's watching. This one was tight, real and quiet.
His arms wrapped around his father's back, and for a moment, everything else—the exhaustion, the doubts, and even the pressure—went still.
His father didn't flinch, he hugged him back, firm and steady, resting his hand lightly on the back of Yanis's head.
"Tu mérites ça," he said under his breath. You've earned it. Yanis nodded into his shoulder. "Merci… vraiment."
They stood like that for just a few seconds, but it was one of those seconds that lasted for years. Then his dad pulled back slightly, looked at him with that same calm gaze, and tapped his shoulder twice.
"Now go wash off the pitch," he said with a smirk. "You're getting sweat on my living room." Yanis nodded, still thanking his father.
He turned to leave—but not before glancing back once more at the boots. They weren't just a gift, but they were a message that his family believed in him.
"Allez! Allez!" his father barked again. "Go shower, you've got things to do." Yanis turned and headed toward his room.
He closed his bedroom door softly and leaned against it for a second, just breathing.
He sat down slowly and ran his hands across the side of the new boots again—his fingertips tracing the raised texture of the synthetic upper. The weight, the cut, the smell, and everything about the boots felt sharp and clean.
He imagined wearing them under the lights, on the big pitch against real talent. He imagined the first touch, the first sprint and the ball glued to his foot. And he imagined not wasting it.
He'd never had boots like this before. Not even close, it wasn't just the design or the price. It was the feeling—that someone had looked at him and said, "You're worth it."