Yanis woke up five minutes before the alarm buzzed, as he usually did. Not out of discipline, but out of pressure. Sleep, lately, had felt like an intermission. The real thing; the dream and the plan started the second he opened his eyes.
The ceiling above his bed was cracked, paint peeling in the corner. Someone in the apartment above was already stomping around as pipes clicked in the wall. Bellevue was awake before the sun.
He rolled over slowly, careful not to wake Lina, his eight-year-old sister, who curled under the blanket beside him. She always snuck into his bed around 3 a.m., dragging her stuffed bear by one ear, whispering, "Can I stay?" He never said no.
Now, in the early morning grey, her face was peaceful. She didn't know anything about pressure, trials, scouts or schedules. Her world was cartoons and colored pencils.
He sat up, careful not to creak the old frame, and checked his phone. It was 5:51 a.m., and he had no new messages, just the one that still sat in his inbox from last night. INF France – Marseille Regional Trials: Confirmation
He had re-read it six times already. He pulled his hoodie from the chair, tiptoed to the door, and slipped into the kitchen.
The apartment smelled like cleaning spray and cold coffee. His mom had already started the laundry by hand—Nora, in a navy-blue headscarf and worn-out hospital scrubs, was on her knees scrubbing at Lina's school jumper in the sink.
"Morning," she said without turning.
"Morning," Yanis replied.
"You slept late last night?" His mother asked.
He hesitated. "I was training."
"I figured. I heard you bouncing that ball off the wall."
She stood up, wiped her hands on a towel, and looked at him. Her face was tired but alert, the face of someone who'd worked nights for fifteen years and learned how to survive on four hours of sleep.
"Toast?"
Yanis nodded. She dropped two slices of pain de mie into the toaster and leaned against the counter.
"What's this trial you signed up for?" She didn't waste time.
Yanis kept his voice steady. "INF France. Local trial in two weeks."
"You paid for it?"
"Yeah. Used the money from the training I did with Karim's cousin."
Her lips thinned slightly. "You could've asked."
"I wanted to handle it."
The toast popped as she handed him both slices. It had no butter, just bread and heat.
She sat at the small plastic kitchen table. "You really think they'll notice you?"
"They'll have no choice," Yanis replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "Confidence."
He chewed and swallowed. "I've been training every day. Watching tapes and studying moves. I'm not just out there playing anymore. I'm building something."
Nora stared at him for a moment. Then looked down at her coffee.
"I know you want this," she said. "But there are a lot of boys who want it too."
"I'm not a lot of boys," Yanis muttered.
"That's what they all think." His mother insisted.
His dad didn't speak much in the mornings. Hakim Benali was already dressed in his black jacket, zipped to the chin, with his taxi keys in hand. He walked into the kitchen with the quiet weight of someone who had learned not to waste words.
"You going?" Yanis asked.
Hakim nodded. "Long airport shift."
"See you tonight?" he asked.
"Late." His father replied.
That was the whole exchange. Before he left, Hakim pressed a folded five-euro note into Yanis's palm. Then he was gone. Yanis looked at the note, then tucked it into his bag. He knew what it was. "Buy yourself a decent lunch," Nora said.
He didn't argue but he wouldn't spend it on lunch. He needed a new pair of socks, match-day socks.
He brushed his teeth while bouncing a mini ball between his feet in the hallway. The trick was keeping it under control while looking in the mirror. Left-right-left. Tap-tap-roll. Reset.
He tried not to think about how much he wanted this trial. How badly he needed out. Out of this apartment, out of this building and out of being "that kid with potential" that no one ever sees.
He washed his face, pulled on his school uniform and checked his boots—still wet from yesterday's match behind the school. They'd have to dry on his feet.
Outside, the air was cold, damp, and sharp with the smell of metal and fried oil. The narrow stairwell reeked of cigarettes and something sour. Someone had tagged BELLEVUE VIT TOUJOURS in black marker on the stairwell wall. The words—"Bellevue Lives Always"—felt more like defiance than pride.
The neighborhood was awake. A moped buzzed past, a bakery delivery truck idled near the corner and two kids from a neighboring building kicked a deflated ball between parked cars.
Yanis zipped up his hoodie and walked toward Lycée Bellevue with his head down and heart buzzing. The street was cracked and the shutters on half the shops were still down. But he didn't notice anymore. Not really.
Because today was different. Today, everything counted.
The walk to Lycée Bellevue was short but heavy. Every turn on the sidewalk came with a memory: The corner where Samir once nutmegged a kid three years older, the alley where they'd dribbled in the rain until their shoes came apart and the park bench where Yanis first told himself, "I'm going pro."
Now, every memory felt like fuel. The INF France trial wasn't a story in his head anymore. It was a date on his calendar, a time and a location.
School looked the same as always, the cracked pavement, stained walls and rusted metal fences, but today it felt smaller. Like Yanis had outgrown it overnight.
The second bell rang as he stepped through the gates. He pushed past a cluster of kids crowding around someone's phone.
"Did you see that banger Mbappé scored against OM?"
"Bro, we got embarrassed."
"He took our keeper's soul."
Yanis kept walking with his hoodie up and earphones in. But he'd seen the clip a dozen times. Mbappé's third goal? It was a timed run, low-driven finish and cold. He didn't just score goals but he ended games.
That was what Yanis was chasing, not the flash but the impact.
In Madame Legrand's class, he dropped into the back seat next to Samir as usual. No greetings, just a glance.
"You look different," Samir said under his breath.
"Different how?"
"Focused. Like you're about to fight someone."
Yanis smirked. "I am. Just not here."
Legrand was already writing equations on the board; Quadratics. Something Yanis had no space in his head for.
She called on a girl in the front row. Then a boy near the window. Finally, her eyes landed on him.
"Yanis," she said. "How about a challenge? Solve this one."
He stood slowly and walked to the board. He stared at the problem. It might as well have been written in Greek. He picked up the marker, underlined a number, and then set it down.
"I'm not gonna pretend," he said. "I don't know the answer."
The class chuckled. Legrand raised an eyebrow.
"But I know I'll be working while the rest of you are sleeping tonight." He muttered.
"And doing what, exactly?" she asked, in a very cool voice.
"Training, preparing and making sure that one day, I will become a football pro."
There were gasps, laughter and a sharp whistle from the front. Legrand's mouth opened—but she didn't speak. Yanis walked back to his seat with that calmness as Samir's face was unreadable.
"You're wild," he said, in a very low voice.
"I'm serious," Yanis muttered.
"That's what makes it wild."
Lunch was tense, the weather had turned—light rain misted over the courtyard, and most students huddled inside.
Karim, Léo, and a few others from their neighborhood team sat outside, trading rumors about transfers, street match scores, and who might go pro first.
Yanis barely spoke. When Karim finally asked, "What's up with you lately?"—Samir was the one who answered.
"He's going to the INF France trial."
Everything stopped moving at that instant, even Imène looked up from her phone. "For real?" Léo asked. "That's big."
Karim whistled. "You serious?" Yanis nodded once with no brag or speech.
"You tell Coach Malik?" someone asked.
"Not yet," Yanis replied.
"You think you'll make it?" another asked.
Yanis looked around the table. "I'm not going to hope. I'm going to prove."
Samir stayed quiet, chewing slowly. Yanis caught it—his jaw was tight. His eyes locked onto the table like the words had burned him.
After school, it was training time. Yanis didn't even go home first. He just walked straight to the back of the school where the concrete court sat—puddled, chipped and empty.
He pulled his ball out of his bag, changed into dry socks and put on his boots. No one was there yet, so he started with some light—fast touches between cones made from empty water bottles. Five touches left, five touches right, with his head up and shoulders down.
His lungs burned after ten minutes. Then he added sprints, with one-touch rebounds off the brick wall, trapping with both feet and tight turns in a three-step radius.
He trained for an hour with no music, no camera and no company. Just repetition, sweat and breath. Yanis focus was absolute. Every drill had a reason and every movement had a goal.
By the time Samir showed up, the sun was already dipping behind the estate towers.
"You've been here all this time?" he asked. Yanis just nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Samir tossed his bag down. "You're training like it's the World Cup."
"It kind of is," Yanis replied
"You think this trial will change everything?" Samir asked.
"I don't think. I know."
Samir kicked the ball back to him. "Then let's make sure you don't miss." They played 1v1 until the court lights flickered off. Yanis was more sharper, hungrier and precise. But Samir wasn't backing down either. He matched Yanis move for move, even when he lost.
As they packed up, Samir finally said what he hadn't done all day.
"You've got something, man. You really do." Yanis nodded.
"But just… don't forget the rest of us when you make it."
Yanis looked up. "I'm not going alone," he said. And he meant it.
One thing about Yanis was that, he had never backed down. He had never believed in second chances, he believed in the one-shot moments only. He had no proper cleats but he was always training. He knew his only shot could be in the trials, so he wasn't going to give up just like that.
Back home, the stairs smelled of boiled cabbage and cigarette smoke. Yanis took them two at a time, skipping the broken third step out of habit. Bellevue's stairwells were like obstacle courses, if you didn't learn the route, you twisted your ankle.
Inside the apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped into the familiar box of warmth and noise. Inside, Lina was dancing in front of the TV, waving a sock like a ribbon. Cartoon music blared through the living room, their father was asleep on the couch in his taxi uniform with his arms folded and mouth slightly opened.
Yanis shut the door quietly and dropped his bag by the wall. His boots thudded onto the floor, leaving streaks of dried mud. He'd clean them later. His mom was in the kitchen, slicing potatoes with one hand while texting with the other.
"You're back," she said without looking. "You've eaten anything today?"
"A bit," he answered.
"'A bit' means no."
"I'll eat now," he requested.
She nodded, wiped her hands on her apron, and slid a plate across the counter: roasted potatoes, rice, and leftover chicken from two nights ago but it was still warm and still appreciated.
He sat at the counter and ate quickly and quietly. His mother leaned on her elbows across from him.
"You look drained," Nora chipped in.
"I trained hard," He muttered.
"Not too hard, I hope."
"I'm fine," he said confidently.
She studied him for a moment as she could see inside his head. "You still thinking about the trial?"
"Nonstop," he replied.
She hesitated. Then said, "I talked to one of the nurses. Her nephew tried out for INF last year but he didn't make it." Yanis didn't respond.
"She said the coaches barely looked at him. Said it felt like they already knew who they were going to pick."
Now he looked up. "I'm not him."
"I know," Nora said.
Then, the room was silent. The kind that sits between a mother who wants to protect and a son who refuses to be shielded.
Then, softly, she said: "Just don't come back broken, Yanis. If they don't pick you…"
"They will."
"And if they don't?" his mother asked.
He held her gaze. "Then I'll make them wish they did."
Later, in the shared bedroom, Lina was already under the covers, hugging her stuffed bear and asking impossible questions.
"Are you gonna be on TV this year?"
"Not yet," Yanis replied.
"What about YouTube?" she asked again.
"Maybe," he replied.
"Will you play with Mbappé?"
"Eventually."
She yawned, satisfied with his answers, and turned over. He sat on the edge of the bed with his old laptop on his knees. He opened a new tab.
Search: INF France past trial drills
Search: How to prepare for elite football trials
Search: What scouts look for in young players
Each click opened a new window. Each article gave him more focus, more fire.
Explosive first steps.
Game intelligence.
Decision-making under pressure.
Body language during mistakes.
Coachability.
Afterward, he opened a Word doc and started a new list of his own.
My Edge:
Vision.
First touch.
Calm under pressure.
Confident in tight spaces.
Movement off the ball.
My Weaknesses:
Weak foot.
Long passes under pressure.
Defensive tracking.
He stared at the list. No excuses and no pretending. This was his shot. No coach, no academy backing him and no sponsors or big name. Just him and a trial date.
Yanis pulled up the trial email again and read it for the fifth time.
"Players should bring both firm ground and turf boots. Academy staff and regional scouts will be observing."
"Sessions will focus on technical ability, football IQ, and team impact."
"Only a few will be invited to the next round in Paris."
He clicked on the attached video link and watched footage of past trials. First touches, one-on-ones, coaches shouting instructions and slow-motion finishes. He watched the video on a loop.
Then, he got up and trained in his room with the lights off and the floor cleared.
He dropped the ball to his feet, tapped and rolled it in the air. His body moved on instinct. Every drill carved into muscle memory after months of repetition.
His left foot tapped the ball forward and his right foot rolled it back. He spun it under his sole, flicked it behind his leg and caught it mid-bounce, fast, sharp and tight. He wasted no steps.
He turned sideways, balancing the ball on his instep, then popped it up with his knee, shoulder, foot and head. The ceiling above him was barely high enough to juggle. He had to bend his knees and adjust his rhythm. But that just made it harder and even better.
This wasn't for show, he had no crowd watching and no phone recording. It was just him and the ball. This was for mastery.
Then, he placed four objects on the floor—two books, a sneaker, and a toy truck. Made a square the size of a large pizza box.
He stepped inside and began—inside-inside, roll, roll, tap, tap, outside-outside. The goal was to never touch the edges and never lose control. He did it for three minutes. Then five, then ten.
Afterward, he grabbed a tennis ball from the desk drawer and stood facing the corner of the wall. He threw it hard and low, so it could bounced off both surfaces. Then, he tried to trap it with one touch, and then pass it back. He missed the first one but he adjusted.
He missed again in his second attempt.
"Come on," he muttered.
On the third attempt, he caught it clean, passed it back perfectly and reset. This was the kind of thing most kids didn't do. The kind that separated talent from obsession. And Yanis was obsessed.
Sweat trickled down his back as his shirt stuck to his chest. The room felt hot and suffocating but still, he kept going.
He practiced for nearly an hour, in silence, until his legs trembled and his calves screamed. Until his breathing was shallow and fast.
Then he stopped, just for a second. He stood still with the ball at his feet, staring at the reflection of himself in the closet mirror. His chest rising and falling, his eyes as sharp as ever.
This wasn't just a boy kicking a ball in his room. This was a player in training and preparing to step into the biggest opportunity of his life. He sat on the edge of the bed with his legs shaking and feet blistering.
Then, he opened his laptop, clicked on a bookmarked YouTube video:
"What Scouts Look For in 16-Year-Old Footballers"
"Don't try to impress with tricks," the speaker said. "Show intelligence, positioning and speed of thought."
"The difference between academy-level and street talent? Decision-making."
Yanis nodded along. Then grabbed his notebook and wrote:
"THINK FASTER. MOVE CLEANER. STAY CALM."
He wrote in three lines and underlined it twice. He closed the notebook and laid back with his wide open.
He'd done all he could for tonight. But the trial was getting closer. And the fire inside him? It wasn't going out anytime soon.