Raphael still hadn't wrapped his head around what happened.
He slumped on the couch, arms folded, staring at the muted TV while Ayodeji sat a few feet away, legs crossed, calmly watching a movie like nothing unusual had occurred.
But nothing about today felt normal.
Raphael's eyes drifted to his brother again. Ayodeji.
The same Ayodeji who, as far as he knew, had never kicked a ball in his life—not seriously, not even playfully. Someone who wasn't allowed to try because of his heart. Someone Raphael had practically guarded his whole life from anything too physical.
And yet…
His stomach tightened as the scenes replayed in his mind.
Ayodeji dribbling past him. Past him — Raphael, his department's starting right-back.
That first time on the wing… Raphael could still feel the sting of dust hitting his face when he slid past empty space, fooled by a stop-and-go movement he'd never seen his brother perform before.
And it wasn't luck, It wasn't a one-off trick. Ayodeji did it again. And again. And again.
After the red team equalised, Ayodeji had turned the match into something else entirely.
He kept taking the ball, drifting inside, slipping past tackles, slipping through gaps that shouldn't have been possible.
Green jerseys closed in on him from every angle; he still found a way out. Raphael and the others barely held on.
And then the second assist...
A perfect through pass that sliced the defense apart like a needle threading canvas. Their striker didn't even need to break stride.
Raphael rubbed his forehead.
How?
How does a boy who couldn't run without risking his heartbeat suddenly breeze past people who'd been playing for years?
His teammates had been furious at first… until one of them asked, panting after another failed attempt to stop him:
"Guy, who is that left-winger? Where did red team find him?"
Raphael had no answer.
Even after the match ended, the questions followed him to the bench.
He remembered their captain — a sharp-voiced guy, walking up to him with a half-annoyed, half-impressed stare.
"Raphael… that's your brother?"
He had nodded weakly.
"Then why didn't you bring him to our team first?"
Raphael had just looked at the ground.
What was he supposed to say?
'He has a heart condition.'
'He shouldn't even be running.'
'He's never touched a ball before today.'
'I don't know what's happening either.'
Now, an hour later, the house was quiet except for the soft sounds from the TV.
Ayodeji laughed at something in the movie.
Raphael's brows knit.
He couldn't decide what bothered him more, the fact that his brother played like someone gifted… or the fact that Ayodeji acted like today was perfectly normal.
Finally, Raphael exhaled.
He was staring at a genius and he still needed some hours before the shock wore off.
****
⌞Later that night⌝
The ceiling looked different to Ayodeji this night.
Ayodeji lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, the bulb in his room buzzing faintly. The house had finally settled—distant traffic humming outside, the fridge humming somewhere in the corridor, the night sounds blending into a soft background.
But his mind was anything but calm.
He replayed the game again and again, each moment sharper than the last: the wind brushing his face as he sprinted down the flank, the defenders stumbling at his feints, the clean weight of his passes, the cheer that rose after his second assist.
At some point during the match, he still didn't know when—the sidelines had begun to fill up. It started with two or three passersby stopping to watch. Then more people drifted over.
By the second assist, there were clusters of teenagers, adults, and even little kids lined up behind the fence, whistling, cheering, calling out to players like it was a real match.
That he
Raphael told him it was just a casual game.
Something they did for fun.
So why… why did it feel like the whole community suddenly turned their heads toward the pitch?
Why did it feel like one of those moments where the world stands still and stares at you?
It felt unreal.
And after the final whistle, the red team swarmed him instantly.
Their captain threw an arm over his shoulder.
The striker ruffled his hair.
It was friendly, warm. People touching him, joking with him, celebrating him.
That alone felt strange, he wasn't used to being in the middle of anything like that.
Then came the moment that truly caught him off guard.
A man in his late thirties, wearing a faded cap and holding a notebook, approached him with the confidence of someone used to scouting rough diamonds. He introduced himself as Coach Jidenna—the coach of Khaki FC, a local community club that often competed in regional youth tournaments.
"I watched your performance," the man had said, extending his hand firmly. "You've got something special, son. Quick feet, good instincts. You see passes others don't. If you're interested, I'd like you to play with us in an upcoming tournament."
Ayodeji had blinked, unsure he heard right.
A club?
Him?
Getting an offer just wo days after being discharged from the hospital?
The coach continued, smiling like he already knew Ayodeji's answer.
"We need a left winger. And if you keep playing like that, I guarantee you'll go far."
Even now, thinking about it, Ayodeji felt his chest tighten—not with illness, but with something bright and exhilarating
He smiled without realizing it but then the fear seeped in.
How do I even my parents?
Will they even agree?
Won't they think it's dangerous?
What if they tell me to forget it?
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.
He didn't realize how tense he was until he heard the soft click of his door opening.
Ayodeji froze and looked up.
His father stood in the doorway, the hall light behind him casting a faint outline around his figure. He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him.
"Deji," he said, voice calm but serious, "are you awake?"
Ayodeji sat up quickly. "Yes, sir."
His father dragged the small chair beside the wardrobe and placed it next to the bed before sitting down.
For a moment, they just looked at each other; the silence awkwardly loud. Then his father sighed—a long, thoughtful sound.
"Raphael told me everything."
Ayodeji's heartbeat stumbled.
He opened his mouth but his father raised a hand gently.
"Wait. Let me talk first."
Ayodeji nodded silently.
His father leaned back slightly, studying him. Not angrily. Not worried. Just… trying to understand.
"He told me how you played today," he began, "and how good you were. He said even he couldn't stop you." A faint smile touched his lips. "And that boy talks too much, but he doesn't lie when it comes to football."
Ayodeji chuckled under his breath.
His father continued, voice steady.
"He also told me a coach approached you."
Ayodeji's shoulders tensed.
"Yes, sir."
Silence again — but this one felt gentler.
His father folded his hands together.
"Deji… for sixteen years, your mother and I have been scared for you. Every little thing felt dangerous. We watched you struggle just to breathe sometimes. We watched you get tired walking short distances. We tried to protect you."
His voice softened.
"Maybe too much."
Ayodeji looked down.
"But now," his father continued, "the doctors say you're fine. Better than ever. And Raphael believes you should try. He says you're gifted."
His father breathed in deeply, as if weighing the final decision in the air.
Then he looked at Ayodeji directly.
"Tell me the truth," he said quietly. "Do you want to play?"
Ayodeji hesitated, only for a second. His chest felt tight, but not in fear.
"...Yes, sir."
His father didn't react immediately. He simply nodded slowly, absorbing the answer.
"And this tournament… is it something you want to join?"
Ayodeji met his father's eyes.
"More than anything," he admitted softly.
His dad's expression cracked, just slightly—showing a mix of pride, worry, and acceptance blending together.
"Well…" he said, clearing his throat, "then I suppose we should give you that chance."
Ayodeji blinked.
For a moment he thought he imagined it.
"Yes," his father said again, firmer. "You can try. But you'll be careful. You'll listen to your body. And you won't hide anything from us. Understand?"
Ayodeji nodded quickly, his chest warming.
"Yes, sir. I promise."
His father stood up, placed a hand gently on his son's hair for the first time in a long while.
"Good," he said softly. "Get some sleep. You have a lot ahead of you."
He walked toward the door, paused, and added:
"And Deji… I'm proud of you."
The door closed quietly behind him.
Ayodeji sat there, stunned—then slowly, a smile spread across his face.
Another change was happening in his life again.
****
The room was quiet enough to hear the faint ticking of a wall clock.
Most of the light came from a single lamp pushed to the side, its glow soft and warm, barely reaching the far corners. The rest of the space sat in shadow, still and undisturbed.
A man sat in front of a wide television screen, posture straight, one leg crossed over the other. A small notebook lay closed on the table beside him. He hadn't touched it once.
On the screen, a grainy video played—a recording from the afternoon, taken with an unsteady hand from the sideline of a dusty local field.
A group of boys swarmed the ball, a cheer rose in the background. Someone laughed near the camera.
Then a boy came into frame, wearing a red bib.
He was by far the youngest player on the field; sharp black eyes that flicked everywhere at once, alive with alertness even through the grainy footage.
The man lifted the remote and slowed the speed.
The boy cushioned a pass with his chest, let the ball drop, glided past a challenge, and threaded a pass between two defenders. The movement wasn't perfect: the camera shook, dust blurred some frames, but the man watched each second with an unwavering stare.
He rewound.
Played it again.
His face didn't move.
Another moment in the clip caught his attention: The boy received the ball under pressure, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then pushed forward, slicing between two players before slipping a square pass across the box.
He leaned in, elbows resting lightly on his knees, studying the tableau frozen on the screen.
Still no expression.
He clicked play.
The tape ran again, the camera shaking as boys on the sideline shouted. The boy accelerated, cut inside, rolled the ball past the right back, and played a cross.
The clip continued—more dribbles, more quick decisions, more movements too smooth for someone who looked barely old enough to be there.
The man rewound, watched frame by frame. He didn't let out a sigh, a nod or show a single visible judgment.
Just methodical, focused observation.
The room remained silent except for the soft whirr of the TV and the muted click of the remote each time he replayed a sequence. He watched the boy run, cut, slip past older players, and weave into spaces that shouldn't have existed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But still he didn't give any approval, any disapproval or conclusions.
Only interest.
And only the quiet decision to keep watching.
——
A/N: Sorry if it feels rushed especially with his parents, I just wanted to round up the opening arc and transition into the journey of his football career without dragging it out.
Hopefully, you all understand. Thank you for your kindness, suggestions are open.
• if you like the story, please leave a review.
• kindly push the story forward with your power stones.