The air was cooler that week. Not because of the weather—it was still spring in southern France, and Bellevue had its usual mild mornings and warm afternoons. But something in the atmosphere around the house had shifted and it was serious now.
Ever since Yanis got the new boots, his father had turned into a different man. Not angry, not distant, but just… focused and determined. Every evening after school, he transformed from Dad into Coach Malik. There was no delay, no excuse and no skipped session.
His father had cleared his schedule, shifting work hours to support his son. For one week, he wasn't just Yanis's dad, he was Yanis's coach.
Yanis would come home from school
around 4:30 p.m. Most kids collapsed onto the couch or disappeared into their rooms, but not Yanis. He walked through the front door, dropped his bag, drank a glass of water, and changed. No one needed to remind him that his routine was set.
They trained every evening at the Bellevue municipal pitch, whether rain or shine. They trained on the small synthetic pitch behind the school grounds—barely wide enough for full-sized drills, but it was home.
His dad always got there first, laying out cones, lining up water bottles and folding training bibs neatly. Each session had a focus. Monday was for control, Tuesday was speed, Wednesday, decision-making, Thursday was stamina and Friday was for sharpness and reaction drills.
His dad tracked everything on a notepad—timings, touches, number of reps and even how Yanis responded to feedback.
Every session started the same: warm-up jog, mobility and footwork. Then came the drills.
First touch under pressure—his dad fired balls at him from unpredictable angles.
Passing in tight spaces—cones were set like defenders and passes were timed to seconds.
1v1 sharp turns—Yanis had to simulate a press and escape with the ball with eyes always up.
Shooting—limited touches, left foot, right foot, no time to think.
His dad wasn't loud, but his voice cut sharply.
"Don't wait for the ball—attack it."
"Again!"
"Reset your body shape and watch your angles."
"Play the space, not the player."
"You'll only get one chance at the trials, so train like this is it."
Some days were harder than others. Especially on Wednesday, when he had a math test and a full-day of school, his legs felt like lead, and every touch during training felt wrong.
He broke down once, missed three shots in a row and slammed the ball into the fence.
"I'm tired," he muttered. His dad walked over slowly, picked up the ball and handed it to him. "Then push tired!"
That was it. Yanis didn't say a word; he just nodded, reset, and continued. There was no mercy in the sessions, but there was love. It just wasn't spoken but it was in every stopwatch click, every sharp correction and every late-night review of progress.
His father didn't treat him like a kid anymore, he treated him like a player. And Yanis responded by becoming one.
At home, his mother noticed the difference first, so she adjusted the dinners to grilled chicken, rice and vegetables. Yanis was given more fruit to eat. His mother filled bottles with electrolyte mixes she read about online. On Wednesday night, she massaged his calves after training while he sat half-asleep on the edge of his bed. "You're pushing hard," she said softly.
He just nodded, he didn't have the energy to talk. Lina, his little sister, didn't say much either, but she started sitting next to him during his post-training YouTube sessions. He studied players' movement now—not just skills. Movement without the ball, awareness and timing.
She watched quietly, then pointed at the screen one night.
"Is that how you'll play at the trials?"
He smiled. "That's the plan."
Today, the morning light broke through his blinds around 6:15 a.m. Yanis was already dressed in his tracksuit, hoodie and his boots in hand. The house was silent except for the distant hum of the washing machine.
He opened his door and stepped into the hallway. It smelled like fresh laundry and warm bread. He could hear the radio playing from the kitchen, a soft jazz drifting under his mother's humming.
"Bonjour, habibi," she greeted him with a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Your dad's already downstairs, eat a banana before you go." He grabbed it, nodded, and headed out.
They left a few minutes later—father and son duo again, their boots slung over their shoulders. They headed toward the same pitch they'd trained on all week.
The trials was fast approaching and Yanis knew this wasn't just training anymore. This was legacy, his father wasn't just helping him chase a dream anymore, he was passing the torch.
They walked in silence. Bellevue was quiet on Saturdays—just a few early risers heading to the boulangerie and some joggers on the trail.
When they reached the pitch, his dad turned to him.
"Just sharpness today, touches, balance and vision."
Yanis stretched while his dad set the cones. The drills weren't complicated, but they were fast and explosive; One-touch passes between cones, feints, stop-and-go dribbles, accelerations into space and repetitions of cut-and-shoot. Over and over and over.
His legs ached, but his mind was locked in.
They finished with light sprints and stretching. His dad finally spoke, breaking the silence of the cooldown.
"You've done more than most kids your age ever will," he said. Yanis looked up as sweat dripped from his jaw.
"I'm ready."
His dad gave him the faintest smile as one corner of his mouth tugged up. That was as close to "I'm proud of you" as he would ever get. But Yanis didn't need more; he felt it.
After the session, they returned to a quiet home. Inside, the TV was playing cartoons. Lina had her stuffed bear tucked under one arm and was watching quietly.
"You smell like a locker room," she teased.
"Welcome back, coach and player," his mother said with a grin.
Yanis dropped his bag and flopped beside her, stretching out on the couch. His mom brought in a smoothie—banana, almond milk and peanut butter to regain the lost energy. "Recovery starts now," she said.
His dad sat in the corner chair, looking through his notes again with a pen tapping lightly against his lip.