Chapter Text
Michael was packing his football into his schoolbag, ready to head home, when the senior‑year team came laughing and joking toward the pitch.
The school on a weekend morning was not particularly noisy. The team spotted Michael, yet before they could get close, he had quickened his pace and left through the side gate.
“Who’s that?” Ousmane muttered, his large eyes always seeming to wander off somewhere else.
Saliba set down his bag and replied half‑heartedly, “That first‑year kid with the braids… his name’s Olise, I think? The coach has praised him.”
“He’s supposed to be really odd,” someone else chimed in. “Hardly talks, and I heard he got into a fight with kids from the neighbouring school.”
——— A whistle shrilled.
Everyone looked up. Kylian stood in the middle, holding a ball. “Alright, stop yammering like a baguette‑selling guy at the school gate. Let’s start training.”
Instantly, all joking faded away, and they began dribbling to warm up.
Michael knew nothing of this. On his way home, he spotted a street vendor selling hand‑woven goods.
He squatted down and picked out several pairs of shoelaces in different colours, to match his various boots.
As he was about to pay, Michael caught sight of a small turtle‑shaped plush toy tucked away in the corner out of the corner of his eye.
He hesitated for a few seconds, then reached out, grabbed it, and paid for it along with the shoelaces.
He tossed the shoelaces and the little turtle into his bag.
The weekend slipped by in a blink.
Dawn was breaking. Michael dragged himself out of bed. Waking up early for class was a hundred times more tiring than getting up early to play football.
He grabbed the toast his mother had prepared, stuffed it into his mouth, slung his bag over one shoulder, and hopped onto the bus at the stop.
His home was a fair distance from school, so the window seat at the back of the bus was always waiting for him every time he boarded.
The bus merged into Paris’s morning rush‑hour traffic.
After a few stops, out of habit, Michael’s eyes drifted over the scenery and people gliding past the window.
A boy in the same school uniform as him came sprinting out of an alley, pumping his legs to chase the bus.
The only person Michael had ever seen who could keep a faint smile while running after a bus.
The bus pulled up, and the boy stopped right by the door.
The driver greeted him casually.
“Hey, Kylian. You seem a little slower than usual today.”
Kylian winked at him. “Mondays always make you sluggish.”
The bus was packed with students by now.
So Michael could safely watch everything from the back row, unnoticed.
Kylian had no idea someone had been watching him like this for an entire semester.
Kind of creepy, Michael thought, and couldn’t help a small smile.
When they reached school, Michael was the last one off the bus.
He fell behind the crowd and watched the boy ahead walk toward the senior‑year building.
Someone tapped Michael’s left shoulder. He turned around, and Doué appeared on his right. “Morning, morning, morning!”
Barcola was beside him. Michael rolled his eyes, and the three of them squeezed their way into the classroom.
Cherki was already catching up on sleep at his desk.
Michael grabbed a book and threw it at him. Cherki didn’t even lift his head; he reached into his bag, pulled out a bag of apple juice, and threw it back.
Michael caught it, satisfied.
“Why don’t you move to my neighbourhood? For the convenience of this never‑ending supply of apple juice from the corner shop.” Cherki pushed himself up from his desk and looked at him, pouting.
Doué had no interest in apple juice. He shook his head excitedly. “The semi‑final of the school league is this Friday! I’m so nervous!”
Barcola laughed at him. “It’s not you playing. Why are you nervous?”
“Come on! Our school’s defending champions. We’re definitely going to win, right?”
“Of course we are. We’ve got Kylian.”
Even Cherki nodded in wholehearted agreement.
Michael said nothing. He suddenly thought of the little turtle inside his bag.
Michael left school a little late that day. His composition was poor, so the teacher had kept him behind. Writing was so hard for someone whose first language was not French.
He walked out of the school gate feeling irritable, only to get cornered in an alleyway.
His “old acquaintances” had tracked him down; they had fallen out over a casual street football match the month before.
Michael hadn’t expected them to find him here.
Without a word, the two sides started fighting.
Michael didn’t know many French swear‑words, and he couldn’t follow their fast‑paced vulgar insults.
In the scuffle, his bag was torn open, and its contents spilled all over the ground.
He cursed under his breath, clenched his fists, and got ready to strike back hard.
“Hey!”
A voice that belonged to neither side cut through the chaos.
Kylian stood a short distance away, staring at them with a blank expression.
He seemed to be carrying a bag of water bottles.
Michael could barely see clearly. His braids had come loose in the fight, partially blocking his vision.
Kylian stepped closer slowly. A faint smile suddenly tugged at his previously impassive face.
That smile made Michael’s attackers even more wary.
“Business slow lately? Want me to bring my mates round to give you some custom tonight?”
Most of the guys playing street football in the suburbs were in it for money. The school team turning up to cause trouble was something best avoided.
The leader let go of Michael’s shirt.
But Michael refused to back down, his right arm still pressed against the man’s throat.
Kylian coughed softly, reached out, grabbed Michael’s wrist, and pulled him away with a little force.
Michael wouldn’t look at him. Once the others had wandered off, he turned and kicked a water bottle flying.
“I could’ve won.”
He spoke abruptly.
Yet he had no intention of waiting for Kylian’s reply. He squatted down and began picking up his scattered belongings.
Kylian looked on, helpless, at this underclassman he barely knew.
He squatted down too.
“You don’t look after yourself at all. Footballers can’t act like this.”
Michael seemed surprised by those words. His hands froze mid‑movement.
Kylian picked up one of his textbooks, only to find a crumpled turtle plush toy underneath it.
He was about to reach for it when Michael, like a cat suddenly spooked, snatched the toy away and stuffed it back into his bag.
Kylian threw his hands up in surprise, signalling he hadn’t touched his precious turtle.
Michael grabbed his bag and hurried off without a backward glance.
“Olise, stay safe.” Kylian couldn’t help calling after his retreating figure.
Such busybody.
Both of them thought the exact same thing at the same time.
Before going home, Michael popped into a public restroom to tidy himself up. He wiped away all traces of the fight before sneaking into his house.
He sat at his desk, staring blankly for a while, then pulled out the crumpled turtle plush from his bag, which looked almost dejected.
Michael took a tissue and wiped it clean, then placed it right on top of his desk, facing him.
“Doesn't he think it looks like him?”
He muttered to himself.
After a long pause, he whispered softly, “He actually knows my name…”
Everyone turned up for the semi‑final on Friday evening.
Cherki skipped half a class to grab them good seats.
A group of girls in front held up tall signs covered with Kylian’s photos, his jersey number, and “Kylian Mbappé” written in colourful markers.
The signs blocked part of their view.
Doué grumbled under his breath. “Are they here for the match or a concert?”
Barcola comforted him. “As long as they’re cheering for our team to win, it’s fine.”
Michael paid no mind to these little distractions. He quickly spotted the boy warming up on the pitch.
He always seemed to be smiling, yet his teammates respected him deeply as their captain.
The match soon got underway in earnest.
The school team took the upper hand. Kylian struck like a sharp blade, scoring two goals in the first half. The whole stadium erupted in applause.
Doué and the others jumped up and hugged each other excitedly. Michael stayed seated, but the slight upward curve of his lips gave away his feelings.
In the second half, the opposition mounted a dangerous counter‑attack. The school team failed to score again, but held firm on defence.
The final whistle blew. Victory, 2‑0.
The players piled onto their captain.
Michael frowned slightly.
His friends didn’t notice his troubled mood. They herded him away from the stands, heading out to celebrate over a meal.
Barcola declared loudly, “I’m joining the school team next year!”
“Me too!” Doué echoed.
Michael kept silent.
On the other side, the mood among the school team was far less upbeat.
One of their key players had been injured, and there was no suitable substitute.
This was a huge problem for their final match next week.
The coach told everyone to go home and rest; he would figure out a solution.
Kylian was the last to leave.
The coach hurried over behind him. “Kylian.”
“Do you know Michael Olise from the lower years? I’ve mentioned him to you before.”
Kylian nodded. He had a pretty good idea what the coach was going to say.
“I’d planned to have him join the team next semester. He’s a little hot‑headed and still needs to work on his temperament. But we don’t have time now. He’s the only one good enough to play alongside us in the final… what do you think?”
“I’ve never played alongside him, but I trust your judgement. It’s your call.”
The coach sighed. “This won’t be easy for Michael either. He’ll be making his debut in the final. You’re around the same age. As team captain, would you go and ask him?”
Kylian didn’t think his captain status would make much difference, yet he agreed to the coach’s request. He would do anything that benefited the team.
Michael ran into the captain right outside his house the next day.
He almost thought he was seeing things.
Kylian flashed his signature smile. “Sorry, I got your home address from the teacher. I need to talk to you about something urgent.”
Michael felt dazed, though none of it showed on his face.
Kylian went on. “Shall we go for a walk in the park?”
He turned and started walking, as if it was only natural for others to follow him.
Michael followed anyway.
“So that’s the situation. We need your help. The team is desperate to win this match and take the title. Most of us will graduate next year.” Kylian explained everything in a steady voice, then asked patiently, “Will you join us?”
Kylian’s eyes were deep and clear. Michael did not meet his gaze. He made a decision inside his head.
Ever since he was little, his parents had thought he was different from other children. Sometimes he did things no one else could understand, yet he never regretted them, and never changed.
“I can play in the final with you, but I have one condition.”
Michael said.
Kylian lit up. “Name it. Whatever we can do, we’ll do it.”
“If we win the final, you have to date me for a week.”
Kylian had always been a bright boy. His first word had been “ball”. After that, there was little he could not understand, and he spoke foreign languages fluently.
But in that moment, he began to doubt his own ears. Was Olise speaking French? Or English?
In the end, he could only blurt out, “what?”
Kylian had experienced his own first stirrings of affection, but football was all he cared about right now.
No, that wasn’t the point.
There were also several same‑sex couples among the students. At first people had paid them too much attention, but they grew used to it and stopped caring.
But that wasn’t the point.
Michael added, “We can keep it secret. Nobody else has to know. That’s my only condition.”
He said it completely calmly, just like when he’d claimed he could win the fight.
Kylian looked at him, helpless. He realised Michael had left him feeling helpless quite a lot lately.
“I… I need to think about it.” He should have refused outright, but Kylian was in the habit of leaving room for possibility.
Michael nodded. “Okay.”
He walked quietly back inside. Only he knew how fast his heart was pounding. Faster, far faster than Kylian’s sprints on the pitch.
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