The referee raised the whistle to his lips and blew.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, long and sharp. Full time.
The sound cut through the chaos like a blade, and for a split second, everything froze. Then the noise exploded.
Before the goal celebration had even finished, Jidenna's voice had already carried across the pitch.
"Drop. Everyone drop now. Keep the lines tight!"
"Don't chase, just stay compact!"
"Nothing stupid now!"
The players obeyed instantly. What little shape Iron Crest had left vanished as they threw bodies forward in desperation, but Khaki no longer pressed.
They retreated in unison, two narrow lines forming almost instinctively, defenders stepping in front of shots, midfielders tracking runners with grim focus. Every clearance was sent high and wide. Every loose ball was treated like a threat.
Iron Crest tried one last time.
A hopeful cross swung in from the right, hanging in the air just long enough to raise pulses. Khaki's centre-back rose above everyone and headed it clear.
Another shot followed, but it was blocked. A rebound, but it skied over the bar.
Then the whistle came again. Game over.
Ayodeji stood where he was for a moment, chest rising and falling, his eyes still on the goal Iron Crest had been attacking seconds ago. It took a second for the reality to settle—they had won the game.
The bench spilled onto the pitch as shouts collided, arms wrapped around shoulders. Someone grabbed Ayodeji from behind and pulled him into a tight embrace; another slapped the back of his head, laughing breathlessly.
"Madness," someone kept saying. "Absolute madness."
Jidenna didn't rush forward. He stayed near the touchline, hands on his hips, watching his players celebrate with a quiet intensity. Only when he finally exhaled did he allow himself a small nod, eyes drifting toward Ayodeji.
Iron Crest reacted very differently as some players stood with hands on their knees, staring at the ground. Others argued with the referee, voices sharp with frustration.
Their captain kicked the sand in anger, pacing back and forth before dragging his shirt over his face.
They had pushed. They had dominated spells and still, it wasn't enough.
Ayodeji eventually broke free from the crowd and looked toward the sideline. His eyes met Jidenna's. The coach didn't smile, he simply pointed at him once and then tapped his own temple.
Ayodeji nodded even though he didn't understand the message.
As the crowd buzzed around them and players slowly began to drift off the pitch, one thing was clear to everyone watching, even if they didn't yet know how to put it into words.
Khaki FC hadn't just won a match, they had something—someone magical.
****
The training ground loaded in around him with a soft hum.
The pitch was empty as usual—no teammates, no chatter and more importantly no dust-filled air. Just the wide stretch of turf beneath his boots and the quiet presence of the goal ahead.
FEI's world always felt sharper than reality, as everything existed for a single purpose: Ayodeji's growth and development.
Ayodeji rolled the ball into place and took a few steps back. A wall formed automatically, mannequins sliding into position with mechanical precision. The keeper stood centered, knees bent, eyes locked on the ball.
Ayodeji exhaled once and ran up, his foot striking cleanly but not perfectly.
The ball rose fast, bending slightly as it cleared the wall, only to keep climbing. It skimmed just over the crossbar and thudded against the netting behind the goal.
"Too much." He clicked his tongue, his hand on his hips.
The ball reset itself, giving him another attempt. He adjusted his angle this time, opened his body a little more. The strike was firmer, flatter. The ball dipped late, curling toward the top corner.
The keeper reacted well, springing across goal and getting both fists to it, punching it away with a sharp thud. Ayodeji groaned but at least, it was better than the previous shot.
The ball rolled back into place for nth time.
He took longer now—one step to the side, a glance at the wall, a quick look at the keeper's positioning who was slightly leaning, anticipating the curl.
Ayodeji struck through the ball with conviction. It cleared the wall by inches, dipped viciously, and bent away from the keeper's reach. The keeper leapt, fingers stretching but the ball was already past him, slamming into the side netting with a crisp snap.
Goal.
Ayodeji stood there for a moment, watching the net ripple before the system reset again.
FEI's voice followed, calm and neutral.
[Free kick accuracy improving.]
[Free kicks completed: 59/100]
Ayodeji stepped back, rolling his shoulders. "Again," he said.
The net settled, then faded but Ayodeji barely noticed. His mind had already drifted back to the match—the noise, the rush, the disbelief that still hadn't fully worn off.
Man of the Match.
The words had felt strange when the organiser announced it. Not unreal, just heavy, like something that carried weight he wasn't used to yet.
Teammates had dragged him forward, clapping his shoulders, laughing, and arguing over who had seen the goal best. Another player whistled and shook his head, saying, "You came off the bench and did all that?"
He remembered Jidenna watching from the sideline, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Only later did he understand why.
The memory shifted.
Jidenna's car hummed softly as it moved through the evening streets. The windows were down just enough to let in cool air. For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, just full.
Then Jidenna finally broke it.
"I didn't start you today," he said, eyes still on the road, "because I wasn't sure you could handle the pressure."
Ayodeji stayed quiet, listening.
"I thought…first tournament match, crowd, money on the line. I didn't want to throw you into something you weren't ready for." He paused, then exhaled. "You proved me wrong."
He glanced briefly at Ayodeji. "You didn't just play. You took responsibility. You wanted the ball when others didn't know what to do with it."
Ayodeji's grip tightened slightly on his hands.
"There's something there," Jidenna continued. "Something you can't teach. Talent is one thing but presence? Courage? That light?" He shook his head. "Not everyone has it."
The car slowed near Ayodeji's street.
"When you step on the pitch," Jidenna said, parking, "don't ever dim it. No matter who you're playing against. No matter where. Let it shine in every match."
He opened the door. "You're starting the next game."
The memory dissolved.
The training ground snapped back into focus. The ball sat patiently on the grass again, waiting.
Ayodeji adjusted it with his boot and took a few steps back. His breathing was steady now, his body loose, familiar with the rhythm. The wall formed as the keeper set himself.
He ran up and struck.
The ball curved cleanly, fast and low this time, brushing past the outside of the wall and tucking neatly inside the post.
Another goal.
Ayodeji didn't celebrate. He just turned, already walking back.
"Again," he repeated.
———
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