Chapter 83: Spatial Puppeteering
Friday, 13 April 2012
Zoudenbalch Training Complex
Time: 07:15
A cold dawn mist clung to the windows outside Coach Pronk’s office, blurring the distant training pitches into grey smudges. Inside, the room felt equally subdued: scuffed linoleum, a single fluorescent tube buzzing overhead, and walls the dull color of weak tea. Only a sun‑bleached team photo and a battered tactics board broke the monotony.
Amani stood at parade rest, feet shoulder‑width apart, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The strobe glasses dangled from his wrist like a pair of futuristic shackles. Fatigue shadowed his eyes, but there was an ember of purpose burning behind them.
Pronk set both elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. "So," his voice a low, incredulous growl, "our Future Cup MVP wants to scratch himself from Willem II away. Tomorrow. Captain’s armband and all. Explain."
"Sixty more hours of isolation," Amani said, keeping his tone calm. "I’m adapting to my training. If I break that focus now, I risk plateauing, maybe worse. Playing half‑baked helps nobody."
Mark De Vries, leaning against a filing cabinet, clicked the end of his pen like a ticking metronome. "Points dropped could cost us the top two," he cautioned. "Fans, board members, scouts, they’ll all talk."
Amani met De Vries’s gaze head‑on. "They’ll talk louder when I return sharper. This isn’t ego; it’s investment."
Outside, a groundskeeper fired up a leaf blower, sending a whirring drone through the thin office walls. Pronk exhaled heavily, glanced at the bus schedule tacked to a corkboard. "Departure for Tilburg at sixteen‑hundred. You stay. But if those sixty hours go to waste, you’ll run the stairwell until your quads beg for mercy."
Amani’s shoulders relaxed a millimetre. "I’ll make them count, Coach. Promise." He slipped out, closing the squeaky door behind him. The quiet that remained felt heavy with expectation.