Chapter 32: Road to Amsterdam
The team bus groaned like an old beast as it carved through the frost-kissed Dutch countryside. Fields blurred into smears of winter brown and faded green, sliced by canals that glinted like steel blades under the slate-gray sky.
Amani pressed his temple harder against the icy windowpane, the cold seeping into his skin as if trying to freeze the nerves churning in his gut.
Ajax. The name thrummed in his head, relentless as the engine’s growl beneath his feet.
The name alone carried weight. This was a club that wasn’t just a team but a legacy. It had produced some of the greatest footballers ever: Johan Cruyff, Marco van Basten, and Dennis Bergkamp. Even now, in 2011, their academy was still the best in the country, a machine designed to create stars.
Even though this was just a closed-door friendly, the weight of the match pressed against Amani’s chest like a second heartbeat. He had no illusions that this was a test. A real one. And there were no retakes in football.
Two weeks in the Netherlands, and he still hadn’t shaken the surrealness of it all the crisp academy pitches, the tactical drills barked in rapid Dutch, the way his breath hung in ghostly clouds during morning training. Now this: a closed-door friendly against a club that minted world-class talent like coins.
The air inside the bus smelled of stale sweat and citrus gum. Near the front, assistant coach De Vries chuckled at a joke while three players debated FIFA ratings, their voices sharp and playful. Tijmen lounged across the aisle, earphones glowing white as he smirked at his phone, untouchably calm, as usual. Amani envied that. His own legs bounced like live wires beneath his seat.
Then he saw him.
A boy sat rigid three rows ahead, shoulders squared beneath a black Utrecht jacket, gaze locked on the horizon. His posture screamed intensity with his chin up, spine straight, and hands clasped tight on his knees like he was already bracing for a tackle. Fresh fade haircut. His hairline was so crisp you’d tell yourself he wouldn’t lose it. Eyes dark and unblinking. Amani didn’t recognize him from drills.
As if sensing the stare, the boy turned.
"You’re Amani, right?" The voice was low and steady, with the control of someone who never wasted words.