Chapter 11 - I want to be the best
The locker room buzzed like a live wire.
Boots clattered against the floor.
Towels snapped through the air.
Laughter, curses, and wild stories flew from every corner.
"Mate, did you see that second goal?" someone shouted over the noise, voice half hysterical. "I swear, the ball was heading straight for Mars!"
Roars of laughter answered him, boots stomping the ground in approval.
Another voice piped up from the shower stalls:
"Doesn't matter, as long as it went in! You don't ask an artist how the painting gets made!"
Nathan sat at his spot, hunched slightly forward, a towel draped around his shoulders, soaking it all in.
His legs still tingled from the adrenaline.
His mind raced in a thousand directions at once.
He wasn't sure whether he wanted to jump up and run laps around the stadium or just sit there grinning like a fool forever.
Maybe both.
Water droplets ran down his forehead, mixing with the sweat and the strange, electric feeling crackling under his skin.
This is real.
This is happening.
He glanced around, heart hammering.
Veteran players. Established names. Senior pros he'd watched from afar just a few months ago.
And now—
Footsteps approached.
Tyler Brown.
The team's top scorer, the locker room's unofficial king.
Sharp eyes, hair damp and tousled, sleeves rolled up over tattooed arms.
He was grinning wide, the kind of grin that made people feel either blessed or cursed.
Nathan instinctively straightened.
Tyler stopped in front of him, reached out —
THUMP! —
and gave Nathan a firm, almost brotherly slap on the shoulder.
"You don't score an 'accidental masterpiece' every day, lad," Jack said, voice rich with amusement. "Enjoy it, champ!"
Another explosion of laughter around the room.
Nathan couldn't help it — he laughed too, shaking his head.
"Thanks," he managed, voice still a little breathless.
Jack leaned in, lowering his voice just enough so only Nathan could hear:
"But listen... next time, don't scare the shit out of us, yeah? Thought my heart stopped when you slipped."
Nathan chuckled, cheeks burning.
"Noted, sir."
Tyler grinned, tousled his hair roughly, then walked away toward the showers.
The easy acceptance from the senior players felt like a warm tide rushing over Nathan.
Not shallow, not fake.
Earned.
And then—
A loud whistle cut through the room.
PHEEEEEP!
Coach Grayson.
Standing by the whiteboard, arms crossed, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering on his normally stern face.
It was rarer than a lunar eclipse — and somehow even more terrifying.
"Alright, enough celebrations," Grayson barked, voice cutting through the noise. "We got the three points — that's all that matters."
The room settled instantly, players dropping onto benches, the adrenaline draining slowly.
Grayson's gaze swept across them — lingering for a second longer on Nathan than anyone else.
"The league's no playground," the coach said, voice lowering into a growl. "Every team out there wants to tear you apart. Especially you rookies."
Nathan straightened further under the weight of those words.
The towel felt heavier around his neck.
Grayson's expression didn't soften.
If anything, it sharpened.
"One game doesn't make a season. One goal doesn't make a career."
The silence was thick now — heavy and tangible.
"But," Grayson added, pausing for a heartbeat, "it's a hell of a start."
A ripple of energy surged through the room — quiet, but undeniable.
Nathan clenched his fists slightly, feeling the fire inside him roar even higher.
The post-match routines kicked in after that.
Icy showers that made him gasp.
Stretching sore muscles until they screamed.
Pulling on clean clothes with hands that still trembled slightly from the excitement.
The stadium outside still hummed faintly with the energy of thousands of fans leaving into the night.
Nathan sat quietly, tying his laces.
Boots clean, but still smelling faintly of rain, sweat, and grass.
The real smells of football.
Of battle.
He couldn't stop the smile tugging at his lips.
Even now, part of him couldn't quite believe it.
Two goals.
A full debut.
Chants of his name ringing in his ears.
But deeper down — beneath the happiness — a different feeling stirred.
Sharper.
Stronger.
Ambition.
Not the childish dream he'd once had.
Not the desperate wish to prove he wasn't just "Tyler Perry's son."
Something purer.
Something harder.
I want to be the best.
No matter how crazy it sounds. No matter what it takes.
As Nathan shouldered his bag and moved toward the exit, someone matched pace with him.
Roberts — a fiery midfielder with a permanent mischievous glint in his eyes.
"So, 'Magic Nathan,'" Roberts drawled, slinging an arm over Nathan's shoulder casually. "What's the plan for the celebration, eh? Gonna tattoo that second goal on your chest?"
Nathan laughed, dodging out from under his arm.
"Only if you pay for it."
Roberts snorted.
"Oi, with your bonus coming, you'll be richer than me by next week."
They pushed through the hallway, boots clacking on the floor.
Outside the players' exit, a small crowd of fans still lingered — despite the rain starting to drizzle down again.
Cameras flashed.
Chants broke out anew.
Nathan hesitated for a half-second.
The old fear — the whisper that he didn't belong here — tried to rise up.
But then he remembered Jack's slap on the shoulder.
Coach Grayson's sharp nod.
The stadium roaring as the net rippled.
He stepped forward without flinching.
Head high.
And as he signed scarves and took selfies, laughing awkwardly under the barrage of love, the volcano inside him settled into a steady, fierce burn.
Not out of control.
Not reckless.
Focused.
Honed.
Ready.