Amsterdam – Autumn
The morning sky was a crisp, endless blue as Thijs tied the laces of his worn football boots. His fingers were cold, but the nervous fire in his chest kept him warm enough. The smell of damp grass and the distant echo of bouncing balls filled the small stadium.
Fifteen years old, and this felt like the most important day of his life.
He pulled his jacket tighter around his thin frame and glanced over at his best friend Daan, who was juggling a ball by the touchline. Daan grinned and flicked the ball toward him with a gentle lob. Thijs caught it on his instep, let it bounce once, and volleyed it back perfectly into Daan's chest.
"Show-off," Daan laughed, steadying the ball.
"Says the guy who always tries rainbow flicks in matches."
"Hey, they almost work sometimes!"
They both laughed. For a moment, it was just another Saturday, another game.
But Thijs couldn't ignore the men gathered on the opposite side of the pitch. Four men in dark jackets, each holding clipboards, talking quietly amongst themselves. Scouts. Real scouts. From professional clubs.
A ripple of excitement coursed through him. He wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and took a deep breath.
The whistle blew. The game began.
Thijs dropped into space, calling for the ball. He felt light on his feet, every muscle primed. His first touch was crisp, a gentle cushion off the outside of his foot. He looked up, scanning the field like a chessboard.
A defender closed in. Thijs feinted left, then rolled the ball right, slipping past his man like water flowing around a rock. His heart was hammering, but in a good way. The sun glinted off his red hair as he pushed forward, the goal getting closer with each step.
Parents shouted from the sideline. Coaches bellowed instructions.
Then came the final defender. Bigger. Stronger. Thijs hesitated a split second. His lungs burned.
No fear. Just like always.
He dropped his shoulder, cut inside, and the defender lunged the wrong way. Now it was just Thijs and the keeper.
He nudged the ball a fraction to his left, saw the keeper rush out, arms spread wide. Time seemed to slow. The world narrowed to a single moment.
Thijs curled his foot around the ball and tapped it gently past the keeper's outstretched gloves.
Silence. A heartbeat.
Then the net rippled.
The sideline exploded in noise. Cheers, claps, whistles. Daan whooped and tackled him in a hug, nearly knocking him over.
"Holy shit, man! That was insane!"
Thijs laughed, breathless, his chest heaving. He scanned the crowd again and saw the scouts scribbling notes. One of them lifted his gaze and gave the faintest nod.
A surge of triumph filled him, so fierce it almost hurt.
At halftime, Thijs sat on the grass, gulping water. Daan flopped down beside him, sweat dripping off his hair.
"So… think the scouts saw that?"
"I hope so," Thijs said, staring at his boots. "I want this, Daan. I really want this."
Daan smirked.
"No kidding. The way you play… man, sometimes it's like you know where everyone is before they move."
Thijs grinned but didn't answer. He did feel like that sometimes — like the game was in slow motion for him, each piece moving exactly where he expected.
The second half kicked off, and Thijs kept buzzing with energy. He set up a goal, then almost scored another himself. Every touch felt crisp, precise. The scouts kept watching.
But near the end of the match, as he sprinted back to defend a counterattack, something strange happened.
A tightness clawed into his chest.
It wasn't sharp — more like a fist slowly closing around his heart. His breath came shorter. His legs felt heavy, as if he was wading through water.
Come on. Not now.
He forced himself forward, but the world blurred at the edges.
The referee blew the final whistle. Thijs stumbled off the field, sweat-soaked and lightheaded. He pasted a smile on his face as his coach clapped him on the back.
"Scouts loved you, Thijs. They'll be back, mark my words."
He nodded, though the words sounded distant, muffled like he was underwater.
He glanced again at the men in dark jackets. One of them was still watching him, pen poised above his clipboard.
A shiver crawled down Thijs' spine. He rubbed at his chest. It felt like there was a weight there, something pressing down.
He told himself it was nothing.
It had to be nothing.
Two days later — Training ground
The chill of early autumn bit through Thijs' jacket as he jogged onto the pitch. Clouds rolled low over the trees, grey and heavy, but nothing could keep him away from training.
His coach blew the whistle, calling them into sprints.
"Let's go! High tempo!"
Thijs dropped his bag and fell into line, shaking out his legs. His teammates moaned and joked, but Thijs barely heard them. His mind was fixed on the scouts' faces from the weekend.
They'll be back. They have to be. I have to show them I'm not just a one-game wonder.
First sprint — easy.Second sprint — a little burn in the legs.Third sprint — his chest felt tight, and a strange ache pulsed under his ribs.
Daan caught up beside him, panting.
"Dude… slow… down…"
Thijs forced a grin, though his lungs felt raw.
"Can't. They're watching."
"Who? The crows in the trees?"
But Thijs was already trying to push forward again, though his legs felt heavier than usual.
Half an hour in, dark spots floated across his vision. His breath rasped in his throat, as if there wasn't quite enough space in his chest.
He slowed, pressing one hand against his side. A sharp pain lanced through his ribcage.
Just tired. Keep going.
The coach barked new orders.
"Two groups! Small-sided games. Let's go!"
Thijs trotted into position, though his shirt clung damp and cold against his back.
The ball zipped to his feet. One touch to control. Quick turn. A burst of acceleration. But instead of the usual surge of power, his legs felt like wet sandbags.
He flicked the ball past a defender and stumbled forward into open space.
Daan shouted for the pass.
Thijs looked up, tried to swing his leg—
But his vision swam.
He staggered to a halt, hunched over, gasping. The world tilted gently, as though he were on a ship at sea.
"Thijs? Hey, Thijs!" Daan's voice sliced through the fog, sharp and anxious.
Thijs tried to wave him off, but his arm felt too heavy.
"I… I'm fine. Just… out of breath."
"You look like crap," Daan said, eyes wide. "Seriously, sit down."
Their coach jogged over, frowning.
"Thijs, take a knee. Now."
"I'm okay," Thijs insisted, though his voice was thin.
The coach's eyes narrowed.
"Your face is pale as chalk. And your shirt's soaked. How much weight have you lost, kid?"
Thijs didn't answer. He stared at the ground, willing the dizziness to stop.
Minutes later, Thijs sat on the bench near the sideline, a blanket draped over his shoulders. The wind cut through his damp hair, sending shivers down his spine.
His coach paced back and forth, phone clenched in his hand.
"I'm telling you, Thijs," he said, voice tight, "this isn't normal. You're going to see a doctor. Today."
"But… I'm fine," Thijs protested, though even he could hear how shaky he sounded. "I just pushed too hard."
The coach shook his head firmly.
"You're a brilliant player, kid. But football means nothing if your body's falling apart."
Thijs stared down at his boots, crusted with mud. A tremor worked through his fingers.
Healthy? Of course I'm healthy. I have to be. This can't be happening…
He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, trying to steady his breathing. But deep inside, he felt the first cold edge of fear curling through him — the creeping certainty that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Hospital – That Evening
The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead as Thijs lay on the narrow hospital bed, a thin blanket pulled up to his chest. His skin felt sticky with dried sweat, and his head ached.
Beside him, a heart monitor beeped steadily. The curtain was half-drawn around his bed, muffling the distant sounds of voices and rolling carts in the corridor.
He hated hospitals. He hated how small they made him feel.
His mother sat close in a plastic chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she kept wringing a tissue between her fingers until it was shredded.
"You're going to be okay, sweetheart. It's probably just exhaustion."
Thijs tried to force a smile.
"I'm fine, Mom. Really."
"You've been losing weight, Thijs. And that pain in your chest… That's not just being tired."
His father stood a little further back, arms folded, jaw set hard. His voice came out gruff, but there was worry in it.
"Football's important, son. But not more than your health."
Thijs stared at his hands resting on top of the blanket. His fingers curled into tight fists.
"But football is everything to me…"
The doctor entered then — a tall man with grey hair, his face lined with fatigue, but his eyes gentle behind his glasses. He carried a folder under his arm, which he flipped open as he stepped closer to the bed.
"Thijs. I'm Dr. Vermeer. We've run some tests today."
Thijs swallowed, his mouth dry.
"Am I… okay?"
Dr. Vermeer shifted slightly, glancing at Thijs' parents before returning his eyes to Thijs.
"Your blood tests showed some concerning results. And the scan we did of your chest explains why you've been feeling breathless and tired."
Thijs blinked rapidly.
"A scan? Why… why my chest?"
"There's a mass near your lymph nodes," the doctor said gently. "It's pressing on some of the blood vessels and airways. That's why your breathing's been affected."
His mother gasped, one hand flying to her mouth. His father took a sharp step closer.
"A… mass?" Thijs whispered.
Dr. Vermeer nodded.
"Thijs, you have something called Hodgkin's lymphoma. It's a type of cancer that affects the lymphatic system."
The words seemed to echo around the small room, bouncing off the walls.
Cancer.
Thijs felt like all the air had been sucked out of the space between them. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
His mother reached for his hand, squeezing it so tightly it hurt. Her voice shook as she whispered:
"But… people survive this, right?"
Dr. Vermeer nodded slowly.
"Many people do. It's one of the more treatable cancers, especially at your age. But it's still serious. You'll need chemotherapy. Possibly radiation therapy, depending on how it responds."
Thijs stared at the blanket covering his legs, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
"So… I can't play football?"
Another pause. The doctor's eyes softened.
"Not for now, Thijs. Treatment will make you tired. Your immune system will be weaker. It's simply not safe. Right now, our focus is on beating this."
His mother began crying, soft hiccupping sobs. His father placed a shaky hand on her shoulder, though his own eyes were suspiciously shiny.
"But I was fine," Thijs whispered. "I was playing football. I felt… I felt normal."
"I know," the doctor said. "This can hide for a while. But it's good we found it now. We have a chance to fight it."
A nurse entered then, speaking gently about needing more bloodwork. Thijs barely registered the soft click of plastic and the tightening of the tourniquet around his arm.
His mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment the ball had left his foot last weekend, the net rippling, the scouts watching him.
And now — all of it felt impossibly far away.
Hospital – The Next Day
Light spilled through the half-open blinds, dust motes dancing like tiny stars in the early sun. Thijs lay propped up against a pillow, staring at the pale blue wall opposite his bed. His body felt heavy, as though someone had poured cement into his veins overnight.
Every time he blinked, the doctor's words echoed in his skull.
"Hodgkin's lymphoma.""Chemotherapy.""No football for now."
The door creaked open. His mother slipped inside, carrying a plastic cup of orange juice. She set it on the table beside his bed, her movements careful and soft, like she was afraid he might shatter.
"You should drink something, sweetheart."
Thijs didn't look at her.
"I'm not thirsty."
"You'll feel stronger if you drink."
"I don't want to feel stronger."
She fell silent. After a few seconds, she sank into the chair beside him, folding her hands in her lap.
A few minutes later, his father came in. His footsteps were heavier, his presence filling the small room. He didn't speak right away, just stood at the foot of the bed, studying Thijs as though searching for an answer he couldn't find.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
"The doctor said your chances are good. We'll beat this, Thijs."
Thijs closed his eyes.
"And then what? I'll be behind. I'll be slower. The scouts will have moved on. No one's waiting for me."
His father stepped closer.
"There's more to life than football."
"Not for me," Thijs snapped. His voice cracked, leaving him feeling exposed and small.
Silence stretched between them. His father sighed, running a hand over his face.
"Son… we just want you alive. That's all that matters."
Thijs turned his head toward the window. Outside, a flock of birds wheeled against the pale sky. He remembered running drills in the autumn wind, the roar of the crowd — even if it was only fifty parents and friends. He remembered the feeling of the ball leaving his foot, knowing it would hit the net.
He wanted that feeling back so badly he could hardly breathe.
Later that day, the nurse returned to draw more blood. Thijs offered his arm silently, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling paint.
"We're going to take good care of you," she said gently.
He didn't answer.
As evening fell, Thijs sat up in bed, hugging his knees to his chest. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of machines in the hallway.
I'm not done. I can't be done.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
They're wrong. I'll get through this. I'll train harder than anyone. I'll come back. The scouts will still be there.
But deep down, a small, cold voice whispered the truth he didn't want to hear:
What if you don't? What if you never set foot on the pitch again?
Tears blurred his vision. He brushed them away angrily, refusing to let them fall.
No. I'm not finished. Not yet.
Outside, the last light faded from the sky. Thijs lay back against the pillow, eyes burning, and whispered into the darkness:
"Just one more chance. That's all I want."