The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Areola's tiny apartment, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. He lay on his back, eyes wide open, feeling the familiar churn of anxiety that had become his constant companion. As he sat up, a wave of nausea hit him, and he rushed to the bathroom, vomiting into the sink. He stared at his reflection, pale and trembling, and whispered to himself, "Not today, not today."
He forced himself to get up, his legs shaky, and made his way to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, his hands shaking so badly he spilled some on the counter. He took a sip, trying to calm his nerves, but it was no use. His mind was racing with thoughts of the medical tests he had undergone yesterday. What if they found something? What if he failed? All his dreams of playing for St. Pauli, of making it big in Europe, would be over. He'd be sent back to Lagos, back to square one.
He grabbed his phone, which was set to the loudest volume for notifications, and scrolled through the news. He didn't want to miss any message from the club. As he scrolled, a headline caught his eye: "St. Pauli's Top Scorer Lukas Kühne Joins Bayern Munich After Ugly Transfer Saga." Areola's heart sank. This was not good news. The team was losing its best player, and he was about to join a squad that was already struggling.
Just then, his phone buzzed with a text message: "Come to the stadium now." Areola's heart raced. This was it. He grabbed his jacket and shoes, and rushed out of the apartment, not even bothering to eat breakfast.
As he arrived at the Millerntor-Stadion, home of FC St. Pauli, he was escorted to the club's conference room for a meeting with the sporting director. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, and entered the room.
The man sitting across from him was stern-looking, with a no-nonsense expression. He introduced himself as José, the sporting director of FC St. Pauli. Areola shook his hand, trying to read his expression, but José gave nothing away.
"Areola, we've been watching you," José said, his voice low and serious. "You're a talented player, but we've also been told you're a high-risk player. Your stamina is a concern. We can't afford to have players who can't keep up with the pace of the game."
Areola felt a pang of anxiety, but he tried to hide it. He nodded, listening intently as José continued.
"However, we're in a bit of a situation here. We've lost Lukas Kühne to Bayern Munich, and it's left a hole in our squad. We're short on depth, and the coach is insistent on signing you. So, we're going to take a chance on you, Areola. But you need to know, we're not doing this lightly. You need to prove yourself, and fast."
The room stayed quiet for a beat after José's warning. Areola swallowed, his throat dry, and forced a small smile.
"Thank you for the chance," he said, voice steady enough to hide the tremor in his chest. "I won't waste it."
José nodded, a thin line of approval breaking his stern mask. He slid a thin, glossy folder across the table. Inside lay the contract: €3,000 per week, with a €200 bonus for every goal he scored.
Areola's eyes flicked over the numbers. He didn't care about the low wage; the only thing that mattered was the badge on his chest and the stadium lights. He grabbed a pen, signed with a quick, decisive stroke, and pushed the paper back.
"Welcome to St. Pauli," José said, standing. "Now let's make it official."
A staff member led Areola down a hallway lined with framed photos of past legends. They stopped at a glass-walled media room where a small crowd of journalists, club staff, and a few die‑hard fans waited. A banner read *"Neuer Anfang – New Beginning"* in bold white letters against the brown‑and‑white stripes of the club.
A photographer snapped pictures as a club representative handed Areola a sleek, black jersey with his name—*AREOLA*—stitched across the back in white thread. The number *27* glowed on the front. A short video played on a large screen, cutting between his training clips from Lagos, his medical test, and now, his first steps on the Millerntor pitch.
"Fans, meet your new forward," the announcer called, voice echoing through the room. "He's young, he's hungry, and he's ready to fight for every ball."
Areola raised the jersey, feeling the weight of expectations settle on his shoulders.
The presentation wrapped up, and the staff ushered Areola to a small lounge where a custom locker awaited him. Inside, a nameplate read *"AREOLA 27"* in bold, and a tiny, handwritten note from the kit manager said, "Make it count."
He slipped the jersey on, feeling the fabric hug his frame, and for a moment, the anxiety that had haunted his morning seemed to melt away. He was no longer just a hopeful from Lagos; he was a St. Pauli player, with a contract, a number, and a crowd waiting to see what he could do.