Chapter 90: Utrecht’s Star
After the short celebration from the team, Amani quickly peeled off his damp jersey and padded to the showers. The hot water drummed on his skin, washing away the sweat and chill of the night.
As the steam rose, he replayed flashes of the match in his mind: the deafening roar after his first assist, the astonished faces of the opposing defenders after one of his killer passes, the thump of his heart when he first stepped on the field.
He braced his hands against the cool tile and let the water hit his face. It didn’t fully feel real yet. That goal! It was beautiful!
Minutes later, clean and changed into a thick navy tracksuit and a beanie pulled low over his ears, Amani emerged into the brisk night. He found Malik outside the stadium’s side exit, faithfully straddling their two battered academy-issue bicycles.
The night air was sharp enough that their breaths puffed white. Above, the moon hung low and bright over Stadion Galgenwaard. The floodlights had been turned off, and the old concrete walls of the stadium loomed quiet and hulking behind them now.
Malik tossed Amani his gloves. "Figured you’d need these. It’s freezing, bro," he said, mounting his own bike. Indeed, Amani’s hair was still damp from the shower, and the cold bit at his neck. He gratefully tugged on the knit gloves and climbed onto his bike.
They set off down the lane, the gravel crunching under their tires. For a few moments, neither said a word. The only sounds were the whir of the bike chains and their breathing as they pedaled. Amani took the lead, guiding them out from the players’ parking lot to the main road. His legs felt like jelly now that the adrenaline was ebbing, but he didn’t mind one bit.
Just outside the stadium gates, a small cluster of fans lingered, still riding the high of the win. Most were older men in scarves, finishing the last gulps of their beers, and a couple of parents bundling up their kids for the ride home.
One of the kids, a boy of maybe 12, noticed the two cyclists coming through the gate. He peered at Amani in the dim light, eyes widening with recognition.
"That’s him, Pap!" the boy hissed, tugging on his father’s sleeve. "That’s Hamadi!"
At the boy’s shout, a few heads turned. Amani felt heat rush to his face. Sure enough, in the glow of the streetlamp, the fans began to realize who was pedaling past. An excited murmur rose. One man raised his plastic cup in salute. "Mooi gespeeld, jongen! Well played, boy!" he called, his voice hearty.