Chapter 30: Week 1 - Done!
The week tore through Amani’s life like a storm: brutal, relentless, and utterly unforgiving. By the time Sunday arrived, he wasn’t sure if the days had flown by or dragged him through the dirt. All he knew was that his body no longer belonged to him. It belonged to the grind.
Every morning began the same: a sharp inhale of freezing air, his breath curling like smoke as he stepped outside before dawn. The cold cut through his tracksuit, sinking into his bones until his skin felt numb, but the system didn’t care about the weather. Five miles. Minimum. Uphill sprints if possible. No excuses.
His shoes crunched over frost-bitten sidewalks, the slap of his footsteps rhythmic against the silent streets. His calves tightened like twisted ropes with every incline, his breath ragged by the time he crested each hill. But stopping? That wasn’t an option. The system’s counter ticked like a silent judge in his peripheral vision, every meter logged, every slowdown punished with flashing red warnings.
Back at the apartment, there was no time to rest. Strength work next. The dumbbells in the team gym felt heavier than they should, each squat-and-press drilling fire into his thighs and shoulders. His arms shook halfway through each set, sweat soaking through his shirt, muscles trembling like an overworked engine.
Malik, who watched one session out of curiosity, had muttered, "Bro, are you training for football or an action movie?"
Amani couldn’t even laugh, his lungs had nothing left to spare.
After strength came yoga, the slow burn. At first, Amani scoffed; yoga was for people with scented candles and herbal tea. But within minutes, he realized the truth.
Yoga was war... a war against his stiffness, tight hamstrings, and neglected flexibility. Holding poses felt like time slowed to torture him, and when the system added a balance requirement, his legs wobbled like jelly.
Some days, Amani trained alone. Other times, Stein arranged for him to shadow the under-17s, moving through drills just behind them, copying every touch and pass.
He wasn’t officially part of the squad yet; the federation’s rules wouldn’t allow it, but Pronk had no interest in keeping him idle. If the system was a drill sergeant, Coach Pronk was a general.
And through it all, the system tracked him silent, unyielding, keeping receipts on every movement.