The alarm rang.
And Miracle Johnson was already wide awake.
He didn't even need it. His body had gotten used to this particular rhythm—a mix of nerves, muscle memory, and raw anticipation. Today was important, but not because of anything that had happened yet. No, it was the possibility of something happening. That quiet feeling in his chest that maybe, just maybe, today would change everything.
Unfortunately, it had also rained last night, and Miracle forgot that the shortcut through the market alley would be soaked.
His shoes squelched in the mud as he sprinted through it anyway, his schoolbag slamming rhythmically into his back. Vendors were still setting up their wares as he zoomed past them, barely dodging a cart filled with roasted plantains.
"Late again," he muttered under his breath.
At the Gate
By the time Miracle stumbled through the front gate of Daniest High, panting, hands on his knees, two familiar figures stood waiting near the school walls: Eric Ekeng, arms crossed, and Emmanuel Jones, already flipping through a book.
"Tch," Eric shook his head. "At this rate, you'll miss your own wedding."
"I'd still show up before you," Miracle gasped, grinning.
Emmanuel raised a brow. "You know, you wouldn't have to run like this every morning if you just woke up ten minutes earlier."
"Says the guy who doesn't even like football," Miracle shot back.
Emmanuel shrugged. "And yet I'm still more organized than the rest of you pitch-heads."
Eric chuckled. "He's got you there."
They started walking toward their class, weaving through the crowded courtyard. A group of SS1 students kicked around a battered football nearby, their school shoes leaving trails of dust behind them.
"You still thinking Coach will start you tomorrow?" Eric asked under his breath.
Miracle's smile faded just slightly. "Maybe. I've trained hard. I can play anywhere. I just... hope he sees that."
Eric didn't reply, but his hand clapped Miracle on the back. It was a silent show of support—something he was good at.
Double Periods
The day's classes began with a loud groan from nearly every science student in SS2A.
"Double chemistry again?!" Frank Anyiam nearly shouted as he looked at the new timetable. "We just had practicals last week!"
"Relax," said Hanson Udito from the art department, leaning back in his seat like a king enjoying the sufferings of peasants. "While you're busy inhaling toxic fumes, I'll be decoding the great tragic myth of Oedipus."
Miracle groaned and slumped in his chair. "We had chemistry and literature before the final bell? This school wants us dead."
"Well," Emmanuel said with a smirk, "you could always transfer to arts and write haikus about your football dreams."
"No thanks. I'll stick to the suffering I know," Miracle muttered.
The chemistry lab felt like a furnace. The fans whirred overhead but only managed to stir the smell of alcohol, ammonia, and disappointment. Miracle could barely focus. His head wasn't in moles or titrations. It was on tomorrow.
The finals.
Lord's Academy.
Win, and they go to nationals. Lose, and it's another "almost" story.
The Literature Period
After the science period, the class returned to their normal room for the last subject of the day: Literature.
Mr. Kelvin Okafor wasn't there yet. The students lounged around, some tossing crumpled paper into a wastebasket, others scrolling through their phones under the desks.
"Where's Mr. Kelvin?" someone asked.
"He's probably summoning Zeus to grade our essays," Chika quipped from the front row, earning a few laughs.
Miracle looked out the window. He'd only met the man a few times during class. Quiet, intense. The type of teacher who could hold the whole class silent without raising his voice. There was something strange about him. Not in a bad way—just... mysterious. His teaching style was weirdly poetic, filled with stories of gods, warriors, and monsters.
But more than once, Miracle had caught him staring out the window during class, like he was somewhere else.
Suddenly, the literature door creaked open.
Mr. Okafor walked in, dressed in his usual worn grey shirt and black trousers. His beard was neatly trimmed, and he carried a leather-bound book with no visible title.
He didn't speak for a few seconds. Just stood in front of the class, staring at the board.
Then he began.
"They called him Achilles. Stronger than most. Braver than all. But his strength was not what made him feared—it was his flaw..."
And just like that, the class was quiet.
Post-School: The Training
As the bell rang to signal the end of the day, the football team changed into their practice kits and headed for the field.
Excitement buzzed through the players.
Finals.
A chance at nationals.
One more win.
"Where's Coach?" Miracle asked, scanning the field.
"He said he'd be late," Joseph answered, tightening his laces. "He's stuck at a PTA meeting or something."
Miracle nodded, but part of him felt unsettled.
Why wasn't Coach here? The last practice before the most important match of the season, and he wasn't even present?
Still, the assistant coach, Mr. Alabi, blew the whistle and began the drills.
"Warm-ups! Passing lanes! Keep it sharp!"
The boys moved through the routines—jogging, sprinting, short passes, long balls, shooting drills.
Miracle gave it his all.
Whether it was as a defender, a midfielder, or even a goalkeeper, he didn't care. He just wanted to be on that field.
But deep inside, a knot tightened in his chest.
Tactics & Team List
An hour later, Mr. Alabi clapped his hands and gestured for the players to gather around.
"I know Coach Osahon isn't here, but he left instructions. Here's the starting lineup for tomorrow's final match."
The team grew silent. Miracle's heart began to pound.
Alabi read from a piece of paper:
Goalkeeper: Prince
Defenders: Eric, Mfoniso, Ibrahim, Victor
Midfielders: Godson, David, Hanson
Attackers: Frank, Gideon, Samuel Estate
Substitutes: Scott (GK), Chinedu, Joseph, Lucky, Miracle
There was a pause.
Miracle blinked.
Substitute? Again?
Eric glanced at him.
"You okay?" he whispered.
Miracle forced a nod.
"Yeah."
But his chest felt heavy.
He had trained. He had improved. He could play anywhere. And yet, again, he wasn't starting.
After Practice
While the rest of the boys showered and bantered in the locker room, Miracle sat on the bench outside the field, still in his boots, staring at the now-empty pitch.
Emmanuel walked by, sipping from a bottle of malt. He stopped when he saw Miracle.
"You're not starting?" he asked bluntly.
Miracle shook his head.
"That sucks."
"I'm used to it."
Emmanuel sat beside him. "You know... I still don't get why you love this game so much."
Miracle gave a half-smile. "I don't expect you to. Your heart beats for business. Mine... beats for football."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Emmanuel stood up. "Well, don't let them bury you on the bench forever. Be so good they have no choice."
Miracle looked up. "That's the plan."
Far in the distance, through a second-floor window of the literature department, Kelvin Okafor stood with a book in his hand, watching the field.
He said nothing.