Just as Amani turned toward the tunnel with Malik, Tijmen, and Amrabat beside him, the world around him briefly dimmed. A soft, familiar ding echoed within his mind, quiet, unnoticed by anyone else. His vision gently shimmered, and then the System Interface bloomed into view before him, hovering in translucent gold letters.
It felt earned.
***
SYSTEM MISSION COMPLETE
Mission: Lead FC Utrecht U17 to the Final of the 2012 Aegon Future Cup.
*Primary Objective: ✅ Win the semifinal match vs Bayern Munich U17
*Sub-objective: ✅ Sustain leadership performance under pressure. Influence tempo and transitions.
*Bonus Objective: ✅ Motivate teammates through adversity.
Match Grade: A+
Performance Rating: 9.7
Stat Summary:
*Goals: 2
*Assists: 2
*Key Passes: 6
*Successful Duels: 14 (8 ground, 6 aerial)
*Passing Accuracy: 91%
*Defensive Recoveries: 5
Captain's Influence: Elevated
System Note: Leadership presence boosted squad cohesion by +8% during the second half.
REWARD UNLOCKED
Attribute Boost – Game Intelligence +1 (permanent)
→ Your awareness, tempo control, spatial recognition, and decision-making speed have improved.
→ Visionary Pass and Weighted Through Pass now adapt more efficiently to complex defensive shapes.
***
Amani dismissed with a blink of his eyes the system notification that hovered briefly in the corner of his vision. He looked around the changing room, where laughter and low voices filled the air. Boots were being kicked off, jerseys peeled over heads, sweat still clinging to flushed skin.
Tijmen was teasing Malik about his messy first touch that somehow still ended in an assist. Amrabat and Dani were mock-arguing over who made the most tackles. Amani smiled. This wasn't just a squad anymore.
The bond between them was unbreakable, forged not in training drills but in the chaos and clarity of real matches, in shared triumphs and near-misses, in sweat, bruises, and that indescribable electricity of stepping up together when it counted most. Maybe that was the real meaning of the "team cohesion boost" the System had once mentioned.
Outside, as the team boarded the bus back to the hotel, the weather had turned. The overcast sky finally gave way to a gentle drizzle, then heavier rain that streaked against the windows.
Amsterdam's streets gleamed with reflections of brake lights and puddles, shimmering gold and red as bicycles zipped past under ponchos and umbrellas. Inside the bus, the mood was anything but dreary. Every player was buzzing with the afterglow of the 4–0 demolition of Bayern Munich.
In the conference room after a late lunch, Coach Pronk stood by a whiteboard, the semi final game of United against Ajax had concluded. Conversations dropped to a hush as the team saw the scores appear one by one.
Ajax vs Manchester United: 2–2 (Ajax win on penalties).
A collective whistle spread through the Utrecht players.
"Penalties, huh," Tijmen muttered. "Gutsy win."
Amani's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had caught glimpses of that game between warm-ups and halftime. Ajax had looked sharp. He remembered watching Donny van de Beek convert the decisive penalty, arms outstretched to the home crowd as the Amsterdam faithful roared.
It meant one thing.
They'd be facing Ajax. Not just in any match. In the final.
"Ajax top Group A," Coach Pronk confirmed, tapping the board. "They got through Manchester on penalties. So that means..."
He paused for a beat, letting it hang in the air before writing in bold, confident strokes:
Final: FC Utrecht vs Ajax.
The room erupted in quiet gasps, some grins, and a few exchanged glances of disbelief and anticipation.
Amani's response was calm, but his heart had already begun to beat faster. "Fitting," he said. "Home soil. Home rivalry."
Assistant Coach De Vries stepped in to give his update. "You all know them. This isn't last year's B2 side we beat. This is Ajax B1 Donny van de Beek, Anwar El Ghazi, and a few others who've trained with the first team already. They're quick. Tactical. Dangerous in transition. But also…"
He tapped the whiteboard once, "...beatable. If we do what we did to Bayern and keep our heads, we win."
Tijmen leaned back with a smirk. "So, we spoil their party at their own house?"
Laughter rolled across the room. Even Coach Pronk cracked a smile. It wasn't arrogance. It was a fire, carefully tended, now crackling into something fierce.
The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. The players were released to rest and recover for the evening. Rain still poured outside the hotel, washing the streets clean as Amsterdam slowed beneath umbrellas and flickering streetlights. Inside, the boys moved like ghosts between rooms, relaxed, drained, and proud.
Some slipped into ice baths, their sharp yelps echoing through the hallway. Others sprawled on couches with phones and snacks, watching highlights from earlier games. Every so often, a teammate would replay Amani's dipping strike or Tijmen's through-ball and shout, "Look at that!" before laughter swallowed the moment.
In their room, Amani lay on his bed with an ice pack strapped carefully around his ankle a memento from a hard Bayern tackle late in the second half. It was already fading, more of a sting than a threat. Malik was stretched across the other bed, absently tossing a foam ball against the ceiling, his body sunk deep into the mattress.
"You good?" Malik asked, eyes on the ceiling but voice pointed.
"Yeah," Amani said, flexing his foot. "Just stiff. I'll be fine by morning."
Malik grunted, satisfied. "Still can't believe we cooked Bayern. Like actually cooked them."
Amani smirked. "You think Ajax saw that?"
"They heard it," Malik replied. "That crowd? We shook the whole complex."
Amani didn't respond. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the patter of rain outside.
A rivalry reborn.
One last match. One last test.
And this time, they wouldn't just be chasing glory.
They'd be writing it.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It was Tijmen and Amrabat. Tijmen's hair was damp from a shower, and he wore a loose t-shirt and shorts. Amrabat, ever practical, was already in recovery gear: compression pants and a thermal top.
"Come on, slackers," Tijmen announced. "We're taking a short walk to the convenience store down the block. Coach said it is fine as long as we stick together and don't go far. Need to stretch the legs and, more importantly," he rubbed his stomach, "get some more snacks. Hotel portions are tiny."
Malik was on his feet in an instant. "Now you're speaking my language! Let's go."
Amani hesitated only a second; the bed was comfortable and his limbs heavy, but the idea of fresh air and a short walk sounded nice. "Alright, count me in. Let me grab a jacket."
A few minutes later, the four of them slipped out the side entrance of the hotel, informing a staff chaperone in the lobby where they were headed. The sun had dipped lower, and the early spring evening was cool. The streets glistened from the earlier rain, and the smell of wet earth mixed with the aroma of warm food wafting from nearby cafés.
They walked in easy camaraderie, four brothers in all but blood, making their way to a supermarket at the corner. The city around them continued its Sunday Routines: cyclists pedaled past, ringing their bells, a tram clanged along in the distance, and families strolled with children in tow.
The boys passed a couple of locals who eyed their Utrecht tracksuits and offered friendly nods. One middle-aged man called out with a grin, "Goed gespeeld, jongens!" ("Well played, boys!"), having perhaps recognized them from tournament news. They thanked him with waves and continued on, hearts light.
Inside the supermarket, the fluorescent lights and well-stocked aisles welcomed them. It was a modest store, but to the boys it felt like a treasure trove. Malik immediately made a beeline for the snacks section. "We deserve some chips and chocolate after today," he declared.
Tijmen was already comparing stroopwafel packages, intending to bring some of the Dutch caramel cookies back home to share. Amrabat hovered near the sports drinks, sensibly picking up a bottle of electrolyte replenisher and, after some persuading from Tijmen, a pack of sour gummy candies ("for quick carbs," Tijmen reasoned with a wink).
Amani grabbed a small carton of chocolate milk, remembering Pronk's advice that it was good for recovery. But he also couldn't resist snagging a bag of paprika-flavored chips, a Dutch favorite Malik had gotten him hooked on.
As they gathered their items at the register, a couple of teenage girls in Ajax jerseys walked in, likely grabbing snacks after their own training. They shot curious glances at the four boys with arms full of junk food. One of the girls whispered and giggled, eyeing Malik (who was obliviously humming a Kenyan pop tune). Amani felt a flush of self-consciousness; here they were, supposed top performers, now piling candy bars on a counter.
He joked under his breath, "We look like we're preparing for a movie night, not a semifinal."
Amrabat, hearing him, chuckled softly. "Balance, captain. A little sugar won't kill us. And we'll burn it off tomorrow anyway."
They paid and headed out, each carrying a plastic bag. Twilight was settling in, the sky a deepening blue with the first star or two glinting above. Instead of heading straight back, they took a slight detour along a narrow side street that led to a canal. The water reflected the last light of day and the glowing windows of canal houses, creating a picturesque scene that even the energetic teenagers had to slow down to appreciate.
They stopped on a small bridge over the canal. Tijmen leaned on the railing, looking out at the boats moored along the sides. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, his voice quieter now.
Malik nodded. "Never thought I'd be walking in a place like this, doing what we're doing."
Amani stood beside them, the cool air on his face. He felt a peaceful contentment. "It's crazy," he murmured. "This whole journey. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake up."
Amrabat placed a hand on Amani's shoulder. "It's real. We're here because we earned it. And we'll keep earning it."
The four fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment. Amani realized this was one of those memories that sticks with you the calm before the next storm, shared with those who mean the most. They had come from different backgrounds: Tijmen, the local Dutch talent; Amrabat, the steadfast Moroccan anchor; and Malik and Amani, the Kenyan imports chasing a dream far from home, but here they were, unified.
As they turned away from the canal to head back, a pair of teenage boys in Ajax jackets cycled past. One cupped his hands and called out in good-natured provocation, "Geniet ervan, Utrecht – morgen pakken we jullie!" ("Enjoy it, Utrecht – tomorrow we'll get you!"). The four friends looked at each other and chuckled.
Rival heckling was expected on Ajax's turf. Malik responded by blowing an overly dramatic kiss in the hecklers' direction, making Tijmen snort with laughter. The Ajax boys laughed and pedaled on. The pressure was real, but so was Utrecht's belief. Let them come, Amani thought with a grin; he and his brothers would be ready.
They formed a loose huddle on the bridge, arms draped over shoulders. It wasn't planned or announced; it just felt right. Foreheads nearly touched as they looked at one another.
"For Utrecht, and us," Tijmen said.
"For us," they all repeated quietly.
In the fading light, four silhouettes stood together against the backdrop of an Amsterdam canal, united as one. Amani felt that no opponent, no pressure, no stage could break what they had built.
***
Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.