Yeah… this chapter is fashionably late. My bad.
But real talk—how are we feeling about Ryan? I didn't expect him to grow on me this much.
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The evening sun poured through the window, cutting a sharp, golden path across Ryan's room. Dust motes danced in the light. He stood in the middle of it, the sun warming his back as he pulled a fresh t-shirt over his head. The day was officially over. He gathered his discarded school clothes from the floor.
Yeah, toss these in the laundry, he thought, making a mental note.
His eyes drifted to the bed, to the lump beneath the pillow. Right. That.
He lifted the pillow. The kitchen knife lay there, inert and useless. He scooped it up, adding it to the pile of clothes in his arms. Yeah, let's take this out too. The 'Blessed Prop' quest is a bust.
He carried the whole bundle out to the kitchen—a pile of clothes topped with a failed piece of spiritual DLC.
His mother was at the counter, chopping herbs. The smell of mint and cilantro filled the air.
"Laundry," he stated, dropping the clothes into the basket. He then held up the knife. "And a full refund. Your exorcist needs to re-spec. Didn't even scratch the boss's health bar."
His mother stared, the gaming analogy flying completely over her head. "...What boss? What are you talking about?"
"Exactly," Ryan said, heading for the door. "Tell Auntie if she keeps this up, she's gonna lose her side gig."
"What side gig?"
A shout from the street cut off her confusion. "Ryan! Ryan, you coming or what?!"
Another yell followed, even louder. Ryan sat down to put on his shoes, his face a blank slate.
Didn't I read somewhere that yelling is good for the throat? he thought, yanking a lace tight. Good for them. Getting their daily cardio in.
He pushed the front door open to find Bilal and Samir looking exasperated.
"Finally!" Bilal said. "We've been screaming our lungs out! Why didn't you answer?"
"Yeah, yeah, my bad," Ryan said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But you know, I heard that the more you use your voice, the more beautiful it becomes. I didn't want to interrupt you."
"Really?" Samir asked, his annoyance instantly replaced by curiosity. "You heard that on TV?"
"Yeah," Ryan said, his tone flat. "Something like that."
Samir's face grew serious. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes for focus, and sang a line from a well-known pop ballad with intense, heartfelt seriousness—and terrible pitch.
He held the last note, then looked at Ryan, his eyes wide with genuine expectation.
"The emotion is there," Ryan said. "The sound is... a little better."
"Huh? What is better?" Samir pressed, walking alongside him.
"I don't know, man. Maybe it's a small detail. I'm not a professional, I can't spot all of—"
"Ah, damn it!" Bilal cut in, pointing ahead. "The pitch is full! They got here before us."
Ryan looked at the group of men already running around the dusty field.
Right. Because 'we were here first' works so well against 'I know your father, show some respect'.
"Whatever," Bilal grumbled. "Now what?"
"Since we're here, let's watch," Ryan said, finding a spot on a low wall to sit. "Maybe they're about to finish."
"Or maybe one of them will have a heart attack," Samir added cheerfully, plopping down next to him.
Ryan's eyes scanned the pitch and landed on a familiar, stern-faced man among the players. He turned to Samir with mock seriousness.
"You realize you just wished a heart attack on the imam, right?" Ryan said. "Congratulations. You're going to hell."
(Note: For those who don't know, an imam is kinda like the "father" or priest in church.)
"What? No I didn't! I meant the other—"
"Too late. He was on the field. You cursed the whole team. He was included. Divine loophole. Enjoy the fire, my friend."
"Nah, don't worry," Samir waved a dismissive hand. "My prayers have never been answered. I doubt my curses will be either."
Ryan let out a snort of laughter. He leaned back, and as his friends kept bickering, he let his eyes focus on the game, his mind already beginning to drift.
His eyes glazed over, the analyst in him taking over despite the chaos.
Okay, let's review the data. Nothing is the same. The location... random. Spain, then France. The role... random. Midfielder, then goal—
"Look at that!" Samir cut in, pointing at the imam who had just made a surprisingly clean tackle. "I think it's the AC Milan shirt he's wearing. He's turning into Maldini at right-back!"
—keeper, Ryan's thought finished automatically. And right-back...
His mind, now going overdrive, pulled the other files from yesterday. The screaming, passionate crowd under Turkish floodlights, him in a claret and blue shirt, lungs burning as a right-back... then the slick, technical game in the Portuguese rain, back in midfield...
...Right-back in Turkey... then back to midfield in Portugal... he catalogued. So. The location is random. The role is random. The only constant is... I have two matches, and no matter what I do, I have to finish them. He watched one of the old-timers get subbed off, rubbing a sore muscle. Lucky bastard. He gets to leave.
"They're taking so long," Samir complained, breaking Ryan's concentration. "Aren't they middle-aged? Don't they have jobs? Kids to pick up?"
"Mid-thirties is not middle-aged, you know," Ryan said, a defensive edge in his voice he couldn't quite hide.
"Yeah, whatever, they're old. It's the same thing," Samir shrugged.
A vein throbbed in Ryan's forehead. You little shit...
"If they married young, they could easily have kids our age," Bilal added, logically.
The comment hit Ryan like a physical blow. A memory flashed, clear as day: sitting at a café with a 34-year-old Bilal, his receding hairline catching the sun.
"I think it might still be a bit early for marriage, man," the older Bilal had said, swirling his coffee. "I mean, we're what, thirty-four? I still feel like I've got another three, four years in me, easy."
He looked at the kid version of Bilal, with his full head of hair, and the thought just fell out of his mouth.
"You know, bald will look good on you."
Bilal's hand flew to his head. "What? Why would you say that?"
Ryan just shrugged, looking back at the pitch.
Better than the battle you're gonna lose
against that hairline, buddy.
"You know, guys," Samir said, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "I think it's not the shirt. I think my curse backfired. They're all playing like pros now!"
Ryan almost laughed. He looked at the imam, who had just surged forward, leaving a gaping hole behind him on the right flank.
"Look at that space he left behind," Ryan said, almost to himself.
The sight triggered a memory, not from Spain, but from Turkey. Him, as the right-back, seeing a chance to attack and pushing up... only for a devastating through-ball to be played into the exact space he'd abandoned. The striker was through on goal before he could even turn around. The roar of the Turkish crowd was a sound of pure condemnation.
"Of course there's a space," Bilal said, stating the obvious. "He's attacking."
Not in the pros, Ryan's mind fired back, the lesson crisp. You always need a cover.
His eyes followed another player, who saw an opponent dribbling straight at him and just... charged. No patience, no positioning, just a full-speed, head-on collision.
"Look at that energy," Ryan said, his voice flat. "Really committing to the tackle. Inspiring."
Yeah, inspiringly stupid. A pro would have just rolled the ball to the side and watched him fly by like a runaway train.
He watched them play their simple, straightforward game. No legendary opponents. Just a bunch of guys having fun. A wave of self-pity, so profound, washed over him.
"I'm in a toxic work environment," Ryan said, standing up and brushing the dust from his pants.
"What?" Bilal asked, confused.
"Never mind. I'm hungry. Let's go back."
He didn't wait for their agreement, already turning for home. As he walked away from the dusty, cracked pitch, he cast one last look over his shoulder.
At least the pitches are better, he thought.
Well. A win is a win.