The sharp sound of the final whistle echoed across Stade Parsemain like a curtain dropping. The trial was over and for a full moment, no one moved.
The pitch was frozen in place as players half-jogging, shoulders slumped, hands on hips and boots sunken slightly into the grass. The air was thick with the weight of what just ended.
Yanis stood near the center circle, his chest rising in quiet and rhythmic pulses. His bib stuck to his back, soaked in sweat. The sun pressed hard on the crown of his head, but he didn't feel the heat. He was locked in, not on the field anymore but on what came next.
There was no applause or celebration. There were no claps from coaches. No encouragement and no "well done."
The scouts stood like statues, some writing and others just watching the players walk off one by one. There was no eye contact and no expressions. Just data collection.
This was elite-level recruitment. You either showed up, or you didn't.
Yanis jogged toward the sideline, slowing with every step. His calves ached and his right boot had rubbed raw against the inside of his ankle. His throat was dry but there was no frustration in his body. He had done what he came here to do. He had scored two goals and made no mistakes. A full 20-minute performance with zero waste.
He unstrapped his bib and handed it to a staff member. "Merci," he said quietly. Then walked toward his bag near the fencing where his father was waiting.
His dad didn't speak at first. Just gave him a once-over from boots to eyes. He nodded once. "You okay?"
Yanis picked up his water bottle and drank. "Yeah."
"Foot?" his father asked again.
"A little sore," he muttered.
"You played smart?"
"I had to," Yanis said.
Then his father cracked the faintest smile. "That second goal, a near-post run. That was cold."
Yanis allowed himself the smallest grin. "I knew the winger was cutting back."
"Yeah. I saw it before you touched it," his father chipped in.
They didn't need to say much. Because they both knew what had just happened.
Later that afternoon, a whistle rang out again. This time, it was short and commanding. An official in FFF tracksuit stepped into the middle of the field holding a clipboard in hand. His presence was sharp and formal like an announcement at a military academy.
"Everyone in."
The players tired, quiet and unsure moved toward him in slow clusters. Some carried their boots. Some still had their bibs on and others stared at the grass.
Yanis walked calmly to join the circle while his father stayed near the fence with his arms crossed, watching.
The coach scanned the group. His words were measured and firm with no emotion.
"You've completed the full regional trial. Three phases.
Small-sided under pressure, tactical play and full-pitch match.
You were seen, not just for your skill but for your decisions, your intelligence and your recovery." He continued,
"This is not a camp. This is not about participation. This is the first filter and only five players from today will advance to the national evaluation at INF Clairefontaine, outside Paris." The number hit like a stone. Some players looked away while others blinked rapidly, trying not to show anything.
Yanis stood still as the coach continued: "You will not hear anything here today. If selected, you will receive an official email from the Fédération Française de Football within the next five days."
"No emails, no calls or news means you were not selected. That doesn't mean you're finished. But it means today… wasn't your moment." Then he closed the clipboard.
"Whether you are chosen or not, take this experience seriously. It is a reference point, not the end of your path. You were invited here for a reason. But the next step is not guaranteed." He paused once more, scanned the group one last time, and said simply: "Merci, good luck and stay working." And just like that, it ended.
The coach gave a final nod, then turned and walked away with no applause or personal goodbyes. Just business.
The players stood for a few seconds, frozen. Not because they didn't understand but because of the few people that would be selected.
Five names out of sixty. The math hit harder than the tackles. Some players turned quickly with their shoulders up and faces set like they hadn't been affected.
Others stood longer, staring at the grass and replaying their mistakes. One kid kicked a water bottle while another walked toward the fence and cried behind his hand.
Yanis? He just adjusted the strap on his bag and looked out over the pitch one last time as he walked off like he was still in the game with measured steps, calm face and breathing controlled. But inside, everything was vibrating.
His dad stood near the far end of the fence, the same spot as before with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, watching quietly.
As Yanis approached, they didn't say anything right away.
Just the two of them, walking side by side toward the edge of the stadium with boots still muddy and gear bag heavy on Yanis's shoulder.
"You looked sharp out there," his dad finally said.
Yanis gave a small nod. "I think I did enough."
"You didn't just survive. You imposed yourself."
Yanis looked ahead at the rows of cars, still scattered in the lot like forgotten luggage.
"Five names," he said softly.
His father nodded. "That's it. And whatever happens, no regrets."
They reached the car and out of the window, the pitch still stood under the afternoon sun. It was empty and silent now but to Yanis, it felt like it still held echoes of everything.
Of who he'd been that morning… And who he might be days from now. His father looked over before starting the drive.
"You already belong, Yanis. You just need them to realize it."