By late afternoon, the sky over Bellevue had turned pale blue and washed out by the winter sun. A soft breeze pushed through the trees that lined the narrow avenue, and the scent of warm bread still lingered from the corner bakery.
Yanis still felt some pain in his body after the session with his father that morning, it had been short but sharp—ball control, quick turns, and light shooting, all under low intensity. It wasn't about pushing anymore, it was about staying sharp.
His legs were sore, especially the left hamstring. His shoulders were tight, but inside, he was calm. Everything that needed to be done was done.
The air in the house felt different. Not tense and not loud, but just… still.
It was a Saturday evening in Bellevue, and for once, no one rushed. The television was off and the hallway was quiet; even the ticking of the wall clock sounded slower.
Tomorrow was the last day before the trial. The seven days leading up to this moment had been brutal—mentally and physically. Yanis had trained with his father every afternoon after school, pushing through muscle fatigue, repetition, and doubt. The drills had been sharp and the corrections, constant.
Now there were no more drills. No more orders. No cones. No stopwatch clicks. Just Yanis, his breath and his thoughts. And one full day left before everything changed.
The smell of lemon and roasted garlic filled the apartment as dinner approached.
Yanis entered the kitchen quietly, still toweling his face from the cold shower. His mom was at the stove, humming something low and gently flipping fillets of dorade in the pan. The rice was already steaming in a pot beside it, and the couscous had been fluffed and left to rest under a towel.
No one spoke loudly. Even Lina was quieter than usual, sitting at the table scribbling something with a red marker. The whole house seemed to understand—this wasn't a normal dinner. This was the night before.
Yanis sat down with his shoulders relaxed but mind ticking. His mother placed a plate in front of him: grilled fish, couscous, steamed zucchini and carrots, and a wedge of lemon on the side.
"Eat slowly," she said. "Let your body take it in. You'll sleep better."
He nodded, "Merci, Maman."
His father joined them a minute later, pulling out his chair slowly. He wore his usual gray hoodie and joggers, but there was no notepad in hand tonight. No stopwatch and no reminders, just his presence.
They ate in near silence for a few minutes. The clink of cutlery, the distant sound of a neighbor's TV, and Lina humming to herself filled the space.
Then she broke it with her usual honesty. "You know you can miss one shot," she said without looking up, "but if you miss two, you better run fast." Yanis laughed, nearly choking on his water.
His dad raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you learn that?"
"I made it up," she said proudly. "It's good, right?"
"It's terrifying," her mom replied with a smirk.
Yanis smiled but quickly drifted back to quiet. He ate slowly, like he was absorbing more than nutrients—like he was storing up calm.
Halfway through the meal, his father finally spoke with a low and steady voice.
"You nervous?"
Yanis nodded, still chewing.
"Good," his father said, not missing a beat. "Means you're alive. Means you care."
His mother chimed in, "You've done everything you could, Yanis. You trained, you listened and you showed discipline."
"And you kept showing up," his father added. "That's what matters."
Yanis took it all in. The food, the words and the energy. It didn't feel like pressure, but it felt like support, woven quietly into every corner of the kitchen.
After dinner, he helped clear the plates. Yanis rinsed his plate in the sink, wiped his hands on a towel, and paused. The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead. The fridge hummed and every sound felt louder in the silence.
His mother stood beside him, drying a glass. She didn't speak, just gave him a quick, soft pat on the back.
"Sleep early," she said gently. "Your body needs it more than your nerves do."
He nodded. "Merci, Maman."
As he walked down the hall, he saw his father sitting in the living room, standing by the window with his arms crossed.
"You ready to check the car?" Yanis asked.
His dad turned. "Already done, the tank's full, the route's mapped and the bag packed?"
"Merci Papa," Yanis said.
"No need to thank me, go and pack your things," Hakim ordered.
In his room, the light was low and warm. He unzipped his gear bag, laid it open on the bed, and moved methodically.
This wasn't just packing—it was mental rehearsal.
Each item went in with intention:
He placed his cleats first; it was centered and cushioned by the towel. Then, his navy kit, he folded it smoothly and placed it on top. He added extra socks, shin guards and checked for grip. His water bottle was filled halfway and frozen—so it'd be cold by game time.
He zipped it shut. Then sat on the edge of his bed and stared at it. That was it. Everything physical was ready. Everything mental… that was a little harder to measure.
He got up and walked out into the living room. His father had just turned off the hallway light and was locking the front door.
"We'll leave at 6:30 sharp," he said without looking back. "You wake up early and take breakfast."
Yanis nodded. "Okay."
"Put your phone down early, no scrolling. I want your head clean."
"I know." Yanis muttered as his dad turned around, looked him in the eyes for a second.
"You ready?"
"Yeah," he replied.
"You focused?"
"Yeah," he replied again.
"Then sleep like someone who's earned it," Hakim said.
Yanis nodded again. They didn't hug, they didn't need to but respect passed quietly between them like teammates before kickoff.
He returned to his room, turned off the light, and lay down. The street outside was still as the bag sat by the door, waiting like a shadow.
Tomorrow was the moment. And all that was left to do…was show up and play.