The referee's whistle blew, sharp and clear.
The match began in an instant burst of chaos—shouts, footsteps, and the thud of the ball striking dry ground. Dust rose from every quick turn, hanging in the afternoon air like smoke.
Raphael's team, dressed in green bibs, started on the back foot. The red team pressed high, quick on their passes, trying to exploit every gap in defense.
Their midfielder controlled the ball neatly before switching play to the right wing. The pass bobbled unevenly over the ground, but the winger adjusted, cushioning it with his chest before pushing forward.
Ayodeji watched as two defenders closed in. The winger hesitated, then slipped the ball through the gap—drawing gasps and laughter from the audience.
He tried to sprint past, but Raphael was already there, sliding in from the side.
A clean, sharp tackle. Sand flew. The ball spun out toward the touchline.
Raphael sprang back to his feet, brushing his hands. "You see that?" he shouted, flashing a grin in Ayodeji's direction.
Ayodeji raised a thumb in reply, unable to stop a small smile.
Play resumed quickly.
The red team regained possession through a throw-in, moving the ball through short, quick passes in midfield. But the green team pressed with hunger—two players cutting off angles, forcing a mistake.
"Pressure him!" someone yelled.
The ball was stolen. The green midfielder darted forward, tapping it between two opponents before laying it off to their striker.
With one swift motion, the striker swung his foot—a low, curling effort that skipped once on the sand and forced the keeper to dive full stretch.
The ball clipped the goalkeeper's glove and rolled out for a corner.
"OOOOUUUU" was the collective groan from the crowd, followed by applause and some 'Had that gone in'. Even Ayodeji found himself groaning at the shot on target.
'Isn't it bad to do that since they're Raphael's opponents?' He thought for a second before shrugging. "Eh, I'm just a neutral."
The corner was taken short. One-two pass. The winger whipped in a high cross toward the far post.
Two players jumped, a clash in midair and the ball dropped awkwardly inside the box. Feet scrambled for it but Raphael reacted first, clearing with a strong kick that sent the ball spinning halfway up the pitch.
His teammates cheered briefly, patting his back before regrouping to defend again.
Ayodeji leaned forward slightly. His eyes followed the players' movements—the rhythm of their steps, the instinctive reactions.
The game wasn't clean, far from perfect, but it had something raw about it. Something real.
[Enjoying the game, are we?]
FEI's voice echoed in his head. He let out a smile as he nodded.
'Yeah, it really is cool and different seeing it being played right in front of me. It's not like they're professional players but they're really cool'
[Sounds like you want to join them.]
'In the game? Yeah but I don't think they'll just allow anyone in'
[It is not a professional match; you could find a way to join the game.]
Ayodeji scratched his head. "I don't know about it; besides, I'm just comfortable watching them play'
[Uh, I see. Is that why your foot has been restless, just tapping the ground?]
He glanced down to see his leg shake slightly; returning his attention back to the game, he couldn't help but sigh.
'I just got here because of my brother and I don't know any of these people; I doubt they'll let me play.'
[They could if something happens like an injury to a player or fatigue. So, you'll just have to pray for something to miraculously happen.]
'Pray to whom?' he smiled a bit. 'You?'
[Not to me; I'm the one who assists you on your journey, not grant your every wish.]
[You should try to get into the game and see how good of a player you are compared to others.]
Ayodeji nodded slowly, as he knew that he was itching to get in the game but knew it was messed up to hope someone got injured.
Back on the pitch, the energy was shifting.
Raphael's team began to settle in, finding rhythm. Their central midfielder—a slim boy with curly hair—started to control the tempo, spreading passes left and right.
They worked it into the final third, where their striker attempted a quick one-two before firing. The shot clipped a defender and went out for a corner.
"Unlucky," A man beside Ayodeji groaned. "He should have placed the ball well."
The corner came in sharply. Players leapt. A head met the ball, but it glanced wide of the post.
Still, they kept on pushing.
Another chance came by when Raphael intercepted a through ball and immediately launched a counterattack.
The green team's winger sprinted down the right, cutting past a defender before threading a diagonal pass into the box.
Their striker met it first time—a volley that smacked against the crossbar and bounced straight down.
For a heartbeat, everyone froze. Then the green keeper pounced, clutching it just before it crossed the line.
A collective groan rippled across the field.
Raphael slapped his thigh, laughing. "Ahhh, so close!"
The red team tried to fight back as they regrouped, fighting for control. Their midfielder began dictating play, zipping passes between teammates.
One clever flick found their striker breaking into space.
He was through.
The defender chasing him slipped slightly on the loose sand. The striker steadied himself, drew his leg back, and fired, but the shot sliced wide, skimming just past the post and disappearing into the fence.
A groan rippled across the field. The striker bent over, hands on knees, muttering in frustration.
The miss seemed to push the green team harder. They began to press higher, recovering possession more confidently. Their passes grew crisper, their movement more coordinated.
Then came the moment.
It started in midfield—the red team trying to dribble past the halfway line, confidence growing again. One of their players cut inside, attempting a fancy feint, but Raphael's teammate—that same midfielder—read him like a book.
A sharp tackle. The ball bounced free.
He didn't hesitate. With one touch, he recovered it, looked up, and slipped a precise pass through the gap between two defenders.
The striker sprinted onto it.
Two defenders chased, the goalkeeper rushed forward, but the striker reached it first—a single, clean strike with his right foot.
The ball zipped low across the dry ground, kissed the far post, and slid into the net.
For a split second, the field went still.
Then came the explosion—cheers, laughter, and dust rising in a golden haze.
Raphael pumped his fist in the air, shouting, "Let's gooo!" before high-fiving the midfielder who'd won the tackle.
From under the tree, Ayodeji found himself clapping without realising it.
The players regrouped, sweat dripping, sand clinging to their legs. The red team tried to push back immediately, but the whistle came before they could restart properly—halftime.
The sound echoed across the small field, fading into the hum of the afternoon.
Players dropped to the ground, breathing hard. Bottles were passed around, laughter mixing with complaints about missed chances.
Raphael sat with his teammates under the shade of the fence, eyes bright, chest rising and falling with deep breaths.
Ayodeji's eyes lingered on the scene. The match had no huge crowd, no cameras and no prize money. Yet it felt alive, like a league match.
"Ah, I really want to play." He couldn't help but mutter to himself.
****
⌞Red Bib side of the pitch⌝
The red team gathered around their left winger, who sat on the dusty ground, one hand pressed against his ankle. Sweat trickled down his temple, mixing with the sand clinging to his skin.
"Are you sure you're fine, Demola?" one of his teammates asked, crouching beside him.
Demola winced, testing the joint carefully before shaking his head. "I can walk, but it's not worth the risk. I've got that head of department match on Thursday. If anything happens, I'm done."
The players glanced at one another helplessly. They didn't have any substitutes, it wasn't that kind of setup.
Most who played here came and went; people hardly sat waiting on the sidelines.
And losing a winger just after conceding made the defeat seem inevitable.
"So… we're short now?" another boy muttered.
"Pretty much," Demola sighed, forcing himself up on one leg. He tested a few steps before shaking his head. "Sorry, but I'm out."
He limped off toward the fence, his boots scraping against the dry earth. The others watched in silence, frustration visible on their faces.
Their captain rubbed his forehead, exhaling sharply. "We need a replacement, or we'll get run over. We can't play one man down."
"From where?" the keeper asked. "No one's really just hanging around waiting to join in, and all the guys who can help us aren't around at the moment."
The captain's eyes scanned the area — across the dusty field, past the small crowd gathered under the tree. Then he spotted someone sitting alone, staring at the green team intently.
He pointed with his chin. "What about that guy? I think he has been watching since kickoff."
The others followed his gaze toward Ayodeji.
He was sitting quietly under the shade, one hand resting on his knee, eyes fixed on the players as though he was studying every movement.
"You mean that guy?" one of them said, raising a brow. "He doesn't even look like he plays."
The captain shrugged. "It's not written on the forehead bro. Let's just ask; at least he should know how to kick a ball."
——
{Thank you for the power stone, Shadow_1157}
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