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Chapter 22 - Chapter 22: A Trip To Brighton & Hove Albion

Peters POV

Peter's thumb hovered over the screen of his cheap Android, the one his mother had bought for him when she found out he'd be flying to England to join Brighton & Hove Albion's academy. Even now, the reality hadn't dawned upon him yet. It still didn't feel real.

Months ago, he was praying for a Nigerian club to notice him so he could sign a contract, regularly send money home, and help his mother breathe again.

School had already slipped out of reach because they couldn't afford it, and football had been his only way forward. But then Brighton's scout, Danny Rushford, shook his head after the trials, and everything had turned upside down.

He wished his mother could have been there to see it, but it was Coach Eze, along with Coach Idris, who helped him make the decision.

Other scouts from large European teams expressed their interest, such as Ajax and Monaco, but their terms were too unfavourable for him to join. 

They both requested that he travel to their respective countries for trials, which was common when the scouts weren't directly appointed by clubs. This was the case here and made the choice that much easier.

They tried to convince Peter and his hastily assembled entourage, but his coaches stood firm: Brighton was the better choice. England meant no language barrier, a favourable time zone so he could speak to his mother more easily, and Danny had promised that their youth players would get promoted to the first team early.

Danny sealed the deal by telling Peter he'd be offered a two-year scholarship if he signed, which was the standard arrangement for academy players. Meaning he could fulfil his pursuit of his footballing career, while getting a quality education abroad.

Now, here he was at Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, his small black duffel resting against his leg, his passport clutched as if it were worth more than gold.

He stared at it like it was a winning lottery ticket, afraid that if he blinked too long, someone would snatch it away. 

Jeffery Kelechi sat across from him, slouched in his chair, scrolling through his phone, while Gift Orban leaned back with his arms folded, making Peter look like the only other one who wasn't completely at ease.

They were the two others selected to join the academy as well, making them three. He didn't mind it, but it would have been nice if Osho had been chosen as well. 

Danny, the Brighton scout, sat beside them, checking his watch and sipping bottled water. He looked different from the day of the trials. He looked less intense, more like a babysitter keeping his charges from wandering off.

"How are you boys feeling? Need anything?" Danny asked with a polite grin.

Gift shook his head. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

Jeffery laughed. "Everything is good over here, boss. I still can't believe we're flying out today."

Danny looked to Peter, who smiled shyly before answering, "No sir."

His mind was too full. Full of his mother, how she would cope without him, how long it would take before he could start sending her money for upkeep, so she would stop that akara business, and last but not least, of the fact that in less than a day, he'd be stepping on English soil.

His thoughts were interrupted by Danny, who saw the focused look on his face and wanted to lighten the mood.

Danny leaned forward. "Come on, Peter. Smile a bit." His statement brought Peter out of his deep thoughts. "This is the start of your story. You'll want photos to remember it."

He pulled out his little phone, the screen shining bright in the harsh airport lights.

He cajoled the boys to huddle together, Peter in the middle, Gift throwing up a peace sign, Jeffery grinning widely. Danny took a few shots, then made them take a "serious" one, then another, where Gift insisted on putting his sunglasses on indoors

"Gonna post this later," Jeffery said, scrolling through the pictures. "Caption: Future Premier League stars — remember the names."

"Make sure you tag the Brighton youth academy page." Danny chuckled. "And spell it right."

Boarding announcements echoed over the PA in rapid English, mixed with other accents Peter couldn't place.

Outside the tall glass windows, planes taxied slowly across the tarmac, their lights winking in the early evening haze.

When their gate was called, Peter's stomach tightened. The group followed Danny through security like baby ducks following their mother. The beeps of the metal detectors, the rustle of bags being searched. Gift breezed through without issue.

Jeffery had to remove his belt twice, muttering under his breath. Peter's hands shook slightly as he handed over his passport, half-expecting someone to tell him it was all a mistake and turn him back. But the officer stamped it without a word, and suddenly they were walking down the jet bridge.

The cabin smelled faintly of fuel and recycled air. The seats were smaller than Peter expected, and with Peter being tall, it was quite uncomfortable.

Danny took the aisle seat, Gift got the window, and Peter found himself in the middle, knees brushing the seat in front.

As the plane began to taxi, Jeffery, who was seated across the aisle, pulled out his phone and filmed the moment. "For the memories," he said, angling the camera to catch Peter and Gift.

Peter forced a smile. The hum of the engines grew louder, and then the ground began to fall away beneath them.

Abuja became a patchwork of lights, fading into the dark.

Hours blurred into a mix of restless sleep, cabin meals in foil trays, and the quiet companionship of three boys all dreaming the same dream.

Danny pointed out their flight path on the seatback map, explaining where they were crossing over Europe. At one point, they all craned their necks to see the snow-capped peaks of the Alps far below.

When the captain finally announced their descent into London Heathrow, Peter's pulse quickened. The moment they stepped off the plane, cold air wrapped around him like a shock. The sky was pale, the light strange, much softer than the Abuja sun.

Outside the terminal, buses rumbled past, and cars drove on what Peter's brain stubbornly told him was the wrong side of the road.

Jeffery kept pointing at double-decker buses like they were exotic animals. Gift just grinned, hands in his jacket pockets, already looking like he belonged here.

Danny clapped Peter on the back. "Welcome to England, lads. Brighton's waiting."

The boys couldn't stop staring at the scenery before them. They had only seen Europeans on TV when watching matches and movies, and then they met Danny in person; now they're everywhere.

"There should be someone waiting for us-" Danny said as he scanned the area, looking for the Brighton staff members.

"Would that be them?" Peter asked, as he pointed towards a man in front of a minivan, about fifty feet away, holding a sign with the Brighton & Hove logo on it. 

"Yes, you're correct. Good eyes." Danny said as he patted peter on the shoulder. "Let's go." 

They all moved their boxes and bags past the terminal to the arrivals, where they met the liaison officer.

"Graham, great to see you again!" Danny said as both men exchanged a firm handshake.

"Boys, this will be your liaison officer. Graham Foster. Introduce yourselves." Danny said, which the boys did.

"I'll apologize in advance if I butcher the pronunciations of your last names, but I'll remember your English names in time." He said with a chuckle as he shook all the boys, while they made their way into the car.

The ride began in silence, the hum of the engine filling the air. Peter pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes wide at the sight of the motorway. The roads stretched endlessly, lanes wider and smoother than any he had seen back home.

Cars glided past, headlights cutting through the drizzle.

He snuck out his phone and took a few pictures of the streets, before Gift caught him. "Taking pictures would be a good idea." He said as he did the same.

Jeffery whispered, "See that? Everyone's driving so fast, but no one's using their horn to deafen anybody."

Gift chuckled. "It's not Abuja traffic, my guy."

Danny, seated near the driver, glanced back.

"You'll get used to it. Brighton's about an hour from here. It's a coastal town, quiet, good place to focus on football."

As the bus pushed further from London, the city's sprawl gave way to fields that rolled out in every direction, green even in the evening glow.

Peter had seen such landscapes in football documentaries, but being inside it felt unreal, like stepping into a picture.

Graham turned slightly in his seat. "We'll head straight to your accommodation first, let you rest and settle in. Tomorrow you'll have a proper tour of the academy and meet the rest of the staff."

Peter nodded, though he barely heard him. His chest buzzed with anticipation.

Everything outside the window felt like the start of a different life.

The drizzle had thickened by the time the minibus veered off the motorway and onto narrower streets. The houses stood neat and orderly; brick walls seemed to be the style in this part of the world. Everything looked clean, measured, almost rehearsed.

Jeffery pressed his face closer to the glass. "Omo, look how neat everywhere is. No dust, nothing."

Gift laughed under his breath. "You could eat food from this road."

"Nothing like the dusty roads in Abuja." Peter chipped in, which surprised him as much as the other two boys. He hadn't really spoken, unless spoken to by the others. So it was a nice surprise to see him join the conversation.

Graham glanced back with a small smile. "This is Brighton. Quiet, but don't be fooled—football's in the blood here. You'll feel it soon enough."

The minibus slowed, pulling into a gated compound tucked between rows of trees. A modest two-storey building stood at its centre, whitewashed walls and black railings shining with raindrops.

It wasn't the massive academy complex Peter had imagined from television, but it radiated calm and order.

"This will be your base." Graham said, stepping out first and gesturing toward the entrance.

Inside, the air carried a faint lemon scent. The lobby was simple—beige carpet, framed photos of Brighton players on the walls, a desk with a smiling matron seated behind it. She handed them keys with numbers etched onto brass tags.

"Rooms are upstairs. Two to a room," Graham explained. "Kitchen's on the ground floor. You'll take your meals here unless you're training at the academy. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I'll fetch you for your first look around the training ground."

Peter climbed the staircase slowly, his bag dragging against the carpet. When he unlocked the door marked 12, he paused for a heartbeat before pushing it open.

The room was modest—two single beds, a wardrobe, and a small desk by the window. Through the glass, he could see the faint shimmer of streetlights stretching into the distance. It was nothing fancy, but it was England.

Jeffery dropped his bag on the second bed and flopped down with a satisfied sigh. "This is much nicer than what I imagined," he muttered under his breath.

Peter sat on his bed, running his palm over the neatly folded duvet. His chest tightened. He thought of Abuja—the chaos, the noise, the familiar smell of roasted corn on street corners—and then looked again at the quiet order around him.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

But tonight, he allowed himself a smile. He had made it this far.

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