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[2021-04-28 | Hotel Le Royal Monceau, Paris | 06:45:05 CET]
(BEEP BEEP BEEEP)
The loud sound of the alarm resounded in one of the rooms off Le Royal Monceau, waking Rakim from his sleep. Reflexively, his left arm shot out, ending the noise as his breathing evened out and beca audible. He seed to be struggling between staying in dreamland longer, but his reason won out, and he sat up, eyes still closed.
Almost chanically, he rose from the bed, slipped into his sliders and made his way to the on-suit bathroom, eyes half shut. He walked by the snoring Diaby, not at all bothered as he closed the bathroom door behind him. Only when the cold splashes of water hit his skin did he jolt awake, gaining so clarity. Going through his routine, he was done in a bout ten minutes and changed into his team track suit.
He looked at himself in the mirror—clear green eyes gazing back at him with laser focus. There wasn't a hint of nervousness in his eyes, and his entire body felt prid for performance. Finishing his facial routine, he made his exit, finding himself sitting up, rubbing his eyes.
"What ti is it?" the French winger mumbled in his native tongue.
"Seven," Rakim replied, pulling on a Leverkusen training hoodie. "Breakfast is at seven-thirty. Bosz wants everyone down early."
Diaby groaned, flopping back onto the bed. "I hate morning people."
"You're playing in a Champions League semi-final tonight," Rakim said, tying his joggers. "Get up."
"Fine, fine," Diaby muttered, finally swinging his legs out of bed. "But if I'm grumpy all day, it's your fault."
"Bro, you're not my kid. I've got zero responsibility for your fuck ups." He responded, completely ignoring his shoddy look as he walked out to the balcony.
In the distance, the tal fra of the Eiffel Tower was visible in the backdrop of the rising sun. Taking a picture of the view, he quickly set it to May: 'You scared that I'm in the city of love without you?' She was clearly still asleep and didn't respond, but he could guess what would happen once she did.
~~~
[Hotel Restaurant | 07:35 CET]
The team restaurant had been reserved exclusively for Leverkusen's squad and staff. Long tables were set up with a buffet-style breakfast—scrambled eggs, grilled chicken, oatal, fresh fruit, yoghurt, and whole-grain toast. Everything high-protein, low-sugar, designed to fuel them for the day ahead.
Rakim sat at a table with Schick, Frimpong, and Amiri, working through a plate of eggs and avocado toast. Across the room, Tah and Tapsoba were having an animated conversation in German, occasionally gesturing with their forks.
Bosz entered the restaurant at 07:45, clipboard in hand, scanning the room. He looked calm—but everyone knew that was just his ga face. "Morning, lads," Bosz said, not raising his voice but still commanding attention imdiately. "Quick reminder: light training session at ten hundred. Just a walkthrough, nothing intense. Lunch at thirteen hundred. Rest period until sixteen hundred. Pre-match al at seventeen hundred. Departure for the stadium at eighteen-thirty. Clear?"
A collective murmur of agreent. "Good," Bosz said, pouring himself a coffee. "And stay off social dia today. I don't care what's being said about us, about PSG, about the match. Focus on what we can control."
~~~
[Training Ground Adjacent to Stadium | 10:15 CET]
The light training session took place on a small training pitch near the Parc des Princes. The squad went through their paces—passing drills, positional work, set-piece rehearsals. Nothing strenuous, just enough to keep their touch sharp as they raised their body heat.
Rakim paired up with Bailey and two others to work through a cone-and-close-control drill. "You think Marquinhos will play you tight tonight?" Bailey asked after Rakim joined him at the end of the line.
"Naw, he doesn't seem to be fast; he's more likely to give space," Rakim said. "But he'll definitely be hard to figure out and hard to get past if he gets a handle on early."
"True," Bailey admitted. "Just don't let him bully you into playing his ga; he's a barbarian, so he knows how to deal with tricky attackers."
"I know," Rakim said. "But neither am I."
After forty-five minutes, Bosz called everyone in. "That's enough. Back to the hotel. Rest, hydrate, stay off your feet."
~~~
[Hotel Room | 13:45 CET]
Lunch was a quiet affair—grilled fish, quinoa, stead vegetables. Rakim ate thodically, not really tasting the food, just fueling his body. Back in his room, he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Diaby had gone to visit Frimpong in his room, leaving Rakim alone with his thoughts. His phone buzzed, and he spotted a text he had received earlier from May.
May (10:00): Just woke up, and I see you have nominated yourself as a sacrificial lamb. That Eiffel Tower pic is beautiful though. Wish I was there with you ❤️
May (10:05): Kick their asses tonight. I'll be watching. Love you.
Rakim smiled, typing back quickly.
Rakim(13:46): Love you too. I'll score my second one for you, already promised my first to Leona.
May (13:46): Who? Is this so kid you t?
May (13:47): Knowing you, the only person you would dedicate a goal for is either your mother, sister, , or a fan, children to be exact.
Smiling at her rapid analysis as he failed to get her to panic, his smile widened. He also felt the trust in their relationship deepening further as he typed his reply.
Rakim (13:48): Yeah, she is a seven-year-old girl who drew a picture of . Celebration jpg.
Rakim (13:50): Cool, right? The least I can do is score one or three foals, right?
May (13:48): You're just addicted to scoring goals, right? She's just an excuse.
Rakim (13:51): Hey, I'm just trying to earn a wage.
May (13:52): Sure, sure, now put the phone away and rest, otherwise you'll get no goal.
Rakim (13:53): Sure, Goodnight, babe.
He set the phone on the nightstand, face down, and closed his eyes. Feeling the hum of anticipation running through him, a quiet electricity that made it hard to relax fully. Still, he forced himself to relax as he thought of what he wanted to achieve during the match, running ntal simulations.
~~~
[Team Bus | 18:30 CET]
The bus rolled through the streets of Paris, police escort leading the way. Fans lined the route—both PSG supporters and a small contingent of travelling Leverkusen fans—waving flags, holding signs, chanting. Inside the bus, the atmosphere was quiet; so players had headphones on, eyes closed, lost in their pre-match routines.
Others stared out the window, watching the city pass by, its historic architecture making it seem as if they were driving through ti. Rakim sat near the back, headphones in as he took in the scenery. The ride to the stadium took about 10 minutes under police escort, and upon turning the last corner, it ca into view.
The Parc des Princes was illuminated against the evening sky, its exterior glowing in PSG's blue and red. The sight sent a jolt through his chest, and the urge to lace up his boots and play gripped him. It had been on his bucket list of stadiums he wanted to play in just once, and he could finally do so.
.
.
.
.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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