Saturday. 2:15 PM. Gresty Road Tunnel.
The circus had arrived.
Not just fans — a production.
Satellite vans clogged the car park. Camera operators jogged around with cables like they were backstage at a concert. Two men in suits argued about where to place a sponsor backdrop. A woman with a headset kept saying, "If Reynolds shows up we need that angle ready."
It didn't feel like League Two.
It felt like Crewe had accidentally wandered onto someone else's movie set.
Kwame leaned against the cold concrete wall outside the home dressing room and tested his weight on his left ankle. The tape was tight enough to bite. Stable… but stiff. Every shift reminded him it wasn't fully healed.
"Aboagye."
The voice cut cleanly through the noise.
He looked up.
Paul Mullin and Elliot Lee stood at the mouth of the tunnel like final bosses waiting outside the arena.
Neither of them smiled.
Lee looked him up and down slowly. "So this is the kid."
"I'm right here," Kwame said.
"Smaller than I expected," Lee muttered.
"Tall enough."
Mullin stepped closer. Calm. Heavy presence. The kind of striker who didn't need to shout because everyone already listened.
"You've got guts coming back this quick," he said. "Or no sense at all."
"Probably both."
Mullin smirked. "You had your moment. Contract. Headlines. Cute little assist streak. That's good. That's enough. Smart players quit while they're ahead."
Lee leaned in.
"You didn't just annoy Jodi. You rattled all of us. The whole leaderboard. You think we're just going to let some seventeen-year-old walk past?"
His voice dropped.
"We're going to make it impossible for you."
Mullin clapped Kwame's shoulder. Too hard.
"Enjoy the bench, son."
They walked off laughing.
For a second Kwame just stood there, heat burning behind his ribs.
Then he bent down, tugged his sock slightly, and touched the tiny smiley face Maya had drawn on the tape.
"Impossible," he muttered.
He smiled.
"I like that word."
Saturday. 4:15 PM. Gresty Road.Matchday 38: Crewe Alexandra vs Wrexham.
Kwame sat on the bench with his ankle taped so tight it throbbed.
Cold air. Sweat. Nerves.
Every time he flexed his foot, the joint answered with a warning ache.
Afia's voice echoed in his head.
Bench only. No heroics.
He nodded to himself.
Bench only.
Minute 22.
Paul Mullin ghosted off Mickey Demetriou's shoulder like he wasn't even there. The cross floated in. He didn't jump, didn't fight for it — just a casual glance of the head.
Far corner.
Net.
The away end detonated.
Mullin jogged past the Crewe bench, cool as ever, throwing Kwame a lazy wink like it was training ground stuff.
0–1.
Minute 55.
Paul Mullin danced through the Crewe midfield. Conor Thomas tried to tackle him, but he skipped past, fed Lee, who backheeled it for Mullin to finish. 0-2.
The celebration was deliberate.
Instead of running to their own fans, Elliot Lee and Paul Mullin jogged toward the touchline, right past the Crewe technical area.
Lee looked directly at Kwame, sitting helpless in his sub's bib. He put a finger to his lips in a sharp 'shush' gesture.
Mullin pointed at the bench, then made a patting motion with his hand. Stay down. Stay seated. Know your place.
Kwame gripped the edge of his seat frustration. The disrespect was palpable. They weren't just beating Crewe; they were humiliating him.
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
@FearlessInDevotion (Wrexham Podcast):Mullin and Lee telling the kid to pipe down. You love to see it. Welcome to the big leagues, Aboagye. 🤫 #WxmAFC
@EFLZone:Did you see that celebration?! Elliot Lee shushing the Crewe bench directly in Aboagye's face. That is personal. They are trying to end his career before it starts.
The Scholar's Lodge: "Look at them!" Cal Sterling shouted, kicking the air. "They're mocking him! They're actually mocking him! Bell has to put him on! He has to!"
The Wrexham fans were partying. "Hollywood! Hollywood!" they chanted.
The Crewe fans were silent. Defeated. They watched their team getting picked apart by superior players.
Then, a single voice rose from the Gresty Road End.
"We want Kwame!"
It was a kid's voice. High and desperate.
Then a few more joined in. "We want Kwame!"
Then a row. Then a section. Then the entire stand.
"WE WANT KWAME! WE WANT KWAME!"
The Main Stand:
Afia sat between Maya and Chloe. She gripped the railing in front of her. "They are calling him," she whispered. "Do you hear that? They are calling my brother."
Maya's eyes were fierce. "Because they know. They know he can change everything."
Chloe was filming the crowd. "This is insane. The whole stadium is chanting for your brother."
Lee Bell stood on the touchline, arms folded. He looked at the scoreboard. 0-2. 60 minutes gone. He looked at the fans, who were practically begging him to make the change.
He turned to the bench.
"Aboagye," Bell said. "Can you give me thirty minutes?"
Kwame stood up. He didn't feel the stiffness in his ankle anymore. He felt the vibration of the crowd in his bones.
"I thought you'd never ask coach," Kwame said smiling.
60th Minute.
The Fourth Official raised the board.
OFF: 8 (Thomas)ON: 42 (Aboagye)
The roar that greeted him wasn't normal. It wasn't the polite applause for a substitute. It was a roar of salvation. 5,000 people pouring their belief into one 17-year-old boy.
On the pitch, Paul Mullin nudged Elliot Lee.
"Here he comes," Mullin grinned, watching Kwame jog to the touchline. "Fresh meat."
Lee adjusted his socks, eyes fixed on the rookie. "He looks stiff. I can see it in his run. One heavy tackle and he's done. Let's send him back to the physio room."
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
@WrexhamRed:They're actually bringing him on? 2-0 down? Desperate management. He's going to get destroyed.
@EFLZone:The roof just came off Gresty Road. Aboagye is on. Can a half-fit 17-year-old turn this around against one of the best team in the league? Doubt it.
Kwame stepped onto the grass.
"Don't push it too much" Afia mumbled as she looked at him.
BZZT.
The System interface exploded into light. It wasn't blue anymore. It was gold.
[HIDDEN CONDITION MET: 'THE PEOPLE'S CHAMPION']
When the crowd demands your presence and believes in your ability to turn the tide, the System responds.
[ACTIVATING: THE ZONE]
[WARNING: MENTAL BURNOUT IMMINENT...]
[NOTICE OVERRIDDEN BY BOOST IN COMPOSURE.]
[STATUS: UNSTOPPABLE.]
The world... stopped.
Kwame blinked. The noise of the crowd didn't disappear; it transformed into a rhythmic, driving pulse in his veins.
The Wrexham players moving to close him down looked like they were running underwater.
He looked at his stats. The numbers were glitching, scrolling up rapidly.
[OVR: 66 -> ??? (TEMPORARY)][VISION: ??][PASSING: ??][COMPOSURE: ??]
"Okay, this has never happened before" Kwame whispered.
His voice sounded like it was coming from a god, with a wide grin on his face.
"I like it!".
"Game on!".
Minute 61.
The change was immediate. Visceral.
Kwame received a throw-in from Rio Adebisi. It was a simple ball, but the way he trapped it silenced the Wrexham bench.
The ball stuck to his foot like it was magnetic. He turned. He didn't look left or right. He looked through the pitch.
Elliot Lee charged him, looking for a crunching tackle to welcome him to the game. Kwame shifted his hips—just an inch—and Lee flew past him like he was tackling a ghost.
On the touchline, Lee Bell let out a short, nervous laugh. He grabbed Kenny Lunt's arm.
"You see that?" Bell whispered, his eyes wide.
"See what?" Kenny frowned. "He turned him."
"No, Kenny… look at his eyes," Bell muttered, not taking them off the pitch. "See how calm he is? He's not rushing anything."
Kenny frowned. "He looks composed."
"Exactly," Bell said, pointing as Kwame slipped past another player like he wasn't there. "The game's slower for him. Processing's faster. Every touch pre-decided."
Kenny blinked. "So what—confidence?"
Bell shook his head. "No. It's the Zone. Proper lock-in. Happens to top athletes when everything syncs—brain, body, instinct. No hesitation. No fear. Just execution."
Kwame threaded another impossible pass.
Bell exhaled. "You don't usually get to see such plays in league 2, and yet ..."
"So, you think he can actually change the game?"
Bell almost laughed. "Kenny... I no longer know anything when it comes to that kid."
Bell shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "But I do know we are about to witness something ridiculous."
On the pitch, Paul Mullin stopped jogging. He looked at Kwame, then at Elliot Lee. The smugness on Mullin's face vanished.
The kid looks... bigger?, Mullin thought, unsettled. He's not limping.
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
The Scholar's Lodge: "Something is coming off him," Cal Sterling breathed, staring at the screen. "I'm not crazy, right? He looks like he's glowing?!"
Maya, Afia and Chloe were all silent, looking at the boy, they were all worried about some time ago dominate the play the second he got on.
@CreweAlexFan12:The energy just changed. You can feel it through the screen. Aboagye feels different today.
Minute 65
Kwame received the ball from kickoff. Elliot Lee rushed to press him, eager to reclaim his dignity.
"Sit down, boy!" Lee sneered, diving in for the tackle.
In normal time, Kwame would pass back. In The Zone, Kwame saw Lee's momentum before Lee even moved.
Kwame didn't pass. He didn't flinch. He rolled the ball under his sole, spinning 360 degrees—a roulette executed with such casual arrogance it looked like a training drill.
Lee tackled thin air, stumbling past him like a drunkard leaving a pub.
Lee spun around, eyes wide, balance lost. "What the— Again!?"
Kwame didn't even look at him. He drove forward. The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the stadium.
Kwame looked up. He didn't need the Tactical Radar. He was the radar. He felt the position of every player on the pitch.
He saw Courtney Baker-Richardson making a run. Not a good run—a hopeful one.
I can make it good, Kwame thought.
He struck the ball. A swerving, dipping 40-yard pass that bent around the Wrexham center-back and landed dead on Courtney's chest.
Courtney didn't have to break stride. He volleyed it home.
GOAL! Crewe 1 - 2 Wrexham.
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
@EFLZone:OH MY WORD. Aboagye just rouletted Elliot Lee into next week and delivered a 40-yard assist. This kid is not real. 1-2.
The Crewe Bench: Kenny Lunt's eye widened in shock. "Wow, he's never done that before!"
Paul Mullin: Mullin walked past Lee, who was staring at the grass. "I thought you said he was stiff?" Lee looked up, his face pale. "He moved before I did. I have never seen anyone move like that."
Courtney pointed at Kwame, eyes wide in shock. Kwame didn't celebrate. He just walked back to the center circle. He had 28 minutes left of god-mode.
Minute 70.
The Wrexham bench was screaming for calm, but there was no calm to be found. Kwame Aboagye was everywhere.
Paul Mullin, one of the league's best players, dropped deep to get the ball. He was frustrated. He wanted to impose his physicality on the game. He received a pass with his back to goal, sensing Kwame behind him.
"You got lucky, kid!" Mullin spat, leaning his weight back, trying to pin Kwame. "That's once. Now you're in the real world."
In The Zone, Mullin moved in slow motion. Kwame felt the striker's weight shift to the left.
Too slow.
Kwame didn't fight the weight. He stepped around it. He poked the ball away from Mullin's feet with a surgeon's precision, then shoulder-charged the off-balance striker.
Mullin crumbled. He hit the deck hard, looking up in disbelief as Kwame accelerated away with the ball.
"Impossible huh?" Kwame whispered as he flew past.
He drove at the Wrexham defense. Three midfielders collapsed on him, panic in their eyes. They had forgotten about the rest of the Crewe team.
Kwame didn't panic. He saw the geometry of the pitch in glowing gold lines.
He played a no-look reverse pass—a blind through-ball that split the defense wide open. It rolled perfectly into the path of Chris Long.
Long didn't even have to break stride. He hit it first time. Low. Hard.
GOAL! Crewe 2 - 2 Wrexham.
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
The Main Stand: Afia was no longer sitting. She was standing on her seat, screaming. "THAT IS MY BROTHER! THAT IS MY LITTLE BROTHER!" she yelled, grabbing Chloe's arm and shaking her violently.
Chloe's jaw was on the floor. "He... he just made that player look like a schoolboy. Afia, is your brother a wizard or something?!"
Maya was clutching the railing, her knuckles white, her eyes wide and shining. "He's doing it," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He's actually doing it."
The Scholar's Lodge: "The reverse pass," Cal whispered, horrified and amazed. "He didn't even look. He knew Long was there. He knew. How is that even possible!?"
Social Media:
@WrexhamRed:We are choking. Mullin just got bullied by a child. This is embarrassing. #WxmAFC@EFLZone:Aboagye has taken over. He is running the midfield on his own. 2 assists in 10 minutes. That is Godtier. Wrexham are terrified of him.
Minute 82.
The comeback was on. Wrexham were camping in their box, terrified. The "Hollywood" confidence was gone. They were just extras in Kwame's movie now.
Kwame controlled the ball 30 yards out. Wrexham's midfield dropped deep, trying to deny him space for another killer pass.
They are watching the center, Kwame pointed out.
Kwame scanned. He saw Shilow Tracey sprinting down the right flank, lungs burning, making one last overlapping run.
Kwame wound up as if to shoot. The Wrexham defenders flinched, turning their backs.
Instead, Kwame whipped a laser-guided cross-field ball. It bypassed four defenders and landed perfectly in Shilow's path.
Shilow took one touch.
This is perfect.
He grinned nervously, astonished by Kwame's current skills himself.
He cut inside and drilled it past the keeper.
GOAL! Crewe 3 - 2 Wrexham.
The turnaround was complete. Shilow sprinted to the corner flag, sliding on his knees, but he didn't point at himself. He pointed two fingers at the center circle. At Kwame.
"THE GENERAL!" Shilow screamed, his voice cracking with intensity.
And the crowd answered.
It started in the Gresty Road End—a low rumble that exploded into a roar, shaking the very foundations of the old stadium. 5,000 people, who had been sitting in sullen silence forty minutes ago, were now jumping, hugging strangers, and screaming one name.
"Ohhh, General Kwame! He runs the show!""He passes left! He passes right! He makes the Wrexham look like shite!"
The chant swept around the stadium, deafening and rhythmic. It was the sound of belief returning. They had witnessed a resurrection, orchestrated by a 17-year-old boy. The noise was so loud it distorted the television feed, a wall of sound that crashed down onto the Wrexham players, drowning them in the reality of what had just happened.
Kwame stood in the center, the eye of the storm, breathing rhythmically. He let the chant wash over him, fueling the fire in his chest.
Not done yet. One more.
Minute 90+5.
Stoppage time. Wrexham threw everyone forward, desperate for an equalizer. Even their goalkeeper came up for a corner.
The ball was whipped in. Mickey Demetriou headed it clear.
The ball dropped out of the sky and bounced once at the edge of Crewe's box.
Kwame brought it down with his instep.
Soft.
Dead.
Like the ball wanted to stay with him.
For half a second, everything was chaos — red shirts clearing, white shirts scrambling, the Wrexham keeper yelling to get back.
Then Kwame looked up.
And the pitch opened.
Green.
Empty.
Sixty yards of nothing but grass.
The kind of space you only see in training drills.
Or dreams.
A roar surged from the stands.
"GO!"
But he was already moving.
First step.
Then another.
Then he exploded.
Boots tearing into the turf, arms pumping, the ball nudged perfectly ahead of each stride. Not chasing it — guiding it.
Behind him, bodies gave up.
No one catching that.
No one even trying.
Only one obstacle remained.
Tozer.
The captain.
Last man.
Standing just inside the halfway line like a lone soldier guarding a collapsing wall.
"Hold! HOLD!" he screamed at teammates who weren't coming back.
The goalkeeper was sprinting past him, gloves flapping, desperation written all over his face.
Kwame crossed the halfway line at full speed.
The crowd noise blurred into one long, rising note.
In The Zone, time stretched.
Tozer wasn't a defender anymore.
He was a problem.
Angles.
Distance.
Stride length.
All calculated instantly.
Tozer stepped forward, planting his feet, squaring his shoulders.
Come through me.
But as Kwame bore down on him, something felt wrong.
Tozer would never admit it later, but in that moment—
—the kid didn't look like a kid.
He looked… bigger.
Closer than he should be.
Faster than made sense.
Each step eating five yards.
Six.
Seven.
Like the pitch had shortened just for him.
The floodlights cast a long shadow in front of Kwame that stretched toward Tozer's boots.
For a split second, it felt like the shadow hit him first.
Tozer hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
And against someone normal, that wouldn't matter.
Against this?
It was fatal.
Kwame didn't slow.
Didn't feint.
Didn't dance.
One cold touch with the outside of his boot.
The ball slipped past Tozer's reach like it had been threaded through a needle.
Tozer stabbed at air.
His studs scraped turf.
Gone.
Kwame was already past him.
Through.
Free.
Now just the keeper.
Arthur Okonkwo charging out, arms wide, screaming.
"STAY BIG! STAY BIG!"
He spread himself, trying to swallow the angle.
Every striker's instinct said:
Round him.
Chip him.
Cut inside.
Kwame did none of it.
The world went quiet.
No crowd.
No commentary.
Just breath.
Heartbeat.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The ball rolled perfectly into his path.
Set.
Waiting.
He planted his left foot.
The turf compressed beneath his studs.
[SHOOTING: ??(ZONE BOOST)]
[POWER: 100%]
His body moved before thought.
Clean.
Violent.
Perfect.
"Game over," he whispered.
BOOM.
The strike cracked like a gunshot.
No spin.
No wobble.
Just raw, angry velocity.
The ball didn't arc.
Didn't dip.
It teleported.
Past the keeper's ear before his hands even moved.
For a split second, the net didn't react—
Then—
WHAM.
The mesh snapped back so hard it sounded like fabric tearing.
The ball buried itself in the back stanchion and dropped dead.
Silence.
One heartbeat.
Two.
The net snapped back and stayed there, shaking.
For a moment, Gresty Road went strangely quiet.
Not silent — just confused.
Like five thousand people all needed half a second to check they'd actually seen that properly.
The goalkeeper was still on the turf, twisted sideways, staring behind him.
Tozer hadn't even turned around yet.
He just stood there, hands on hips, breathing hard, like a man who'd been mugged in broad daylight.
Then the noise hit.
Not a cheer.
A proper, ugly, football roar.
The kind that rattled the old metal roof and made the advertising boards vibrate. People weren't celebrating — they were losing their heads. Beer everywhere. Blokes grabbing strangers. Someone three rows back had already fallen over two seats trying to jump the barrier.
It sounded less like joy and more like something had just exploded.
Kwame barely heard it at first. The sound was so loud it flattened into a low, shaking hum in his chest.
Up in the gantry, the commentators had completely abandoned professionalism.
"I… I've got nothing," one of them said, laughing breathlessly. "I've actually got nothing for that."
"He's run the length of the pitch," the other replied. "Seventy yards. In stoppage time. And he's hit it like that. That's ridiculous. That's absolutely ridiculous."
"That's not League Two, that's playground stuff. That's 'give it here, I'll do it myself' stuff."
"He's seventeen!"
"Seventeen going on prime Yaya Touré, apparently."
The replay came up on the screen.
The crowd reacted to it like it was live, groaning and screaming all over again when the shot left his boot.
Every time it hit the net, the whole stand went: "OOHHHHH!"
On the Wrexham bench, nobody spoke.
Their manager just stared at the pitch with both hands on his head, like he'd left the oven on at home.
A physio slowly kicked a water bottle down the touchline.
One of the subs muttered, "You're joking," under his breath.
Paul Mullin didn't even bother shouting at anyone. He just stood near the halfway line, hands on hips, watching Kwame jog back like he'd scored a tap-in.
Elliot Lee walked past him, still trying to process it.
"I thought he was limping," Lee said quietly.
Mullin snorted.
"Yeah," he replied. "So did I."
In the stands, Afia was half crying, half laughing, phone shaking so badly the video was probably useless. Maya had both hands over her mouth like she'd just watched a car crash. Chloe kept grabbing random people and yelling, "That's my friend's brother! That's him!" like it personally mattered.
Further back, two old blokes in coats just stared at each other.
"Did he just run the whole pitch?" one asked.
"I think he did, yeah."
"…Christ."
Online, it spread immediately.
Clips were up before the players had even kicked off again.
@SkySports: I'm sorry but what on earth is this goal from Aboagye. Seventeen years old. Runs the length of the pitch. Nearly breaks the net. Madness.
@EFLZone: I've covered this league for 12 years. I have NEVER seen anything like that. Kid just ended Wrexham by himself.
@CreweAlexFan12: Build the lad a statue tonight. I'll bring bricks.
@NeutralFan: Nah that's not normal. Someone drug test him 😭
@WrexhamRed: Fair play. Can't even be angry. That's disgusting.
Even the official account just posted the clip with:
"You might want to see this again."
Back on the pitch, the keeper finally got up and turned to look into his goal like the ball might've disappeared.
It hadn't.
Still sat there.
Innocent.
Like it hadn't just ruined their day.
And in the middle of it all, Kwame stood in the center circle, breathing slowly, listening to the noise roll down from every stand.
"General! General! General!"
Not teasing.
Not ironic.
Proper chanting.
The sort of name that sticks.
The sort of name you hear for years.
The sort defenders remember when they check the team sheet next week and quietly think,
Ah. Him.
The Zone flickered and died.
The gold haze at the edge of his vision cracked like old glass, then went dark.
[THE ZONE: DEACTIVATED][MENTAL BURNOUT NEGATION STILL IN EFFECT]
And then it hit.
Not pain at first.
Weight.
Like someone had quietly swapped his legs for concrete.
Kwame dropped to his knees.
His studs scraped the turf. His palms caught him before his face did. Air wouldn't come properly. Each breath felt shallow, useless, like trying to drink through a blocked straw.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Everything that The Zone had muted came rushing back at once — noise, cold, fatigue, the angry throb in his ankle.
For a second, the world tilted.
Not now, he thought. Don't you dare pass out now.
Not in front of them.
He planted both hands into the grass and forced himself up, shaking.
One step.
Then another.
Still standing.
Good enough.
The whistle blew.
Full time.
And Gresty Road absolutely lost its mind.
The substitutes were already sprinting.
Kenny Lunt got there first and nearly rugby-tackled him.
"You little maniac!" Kenny shouted, half laughing, half swearing. "Where's that been hiding?!"
Lee Bell followed, grabbing Kwame by the shoulders like he needed to check he was real.
"I told you thirty minutes," Bell said, breathless. "Not a bloody superhero cameo."
Kwame tried to answer but couldn't get the air for it.
So he just grinned.
That was enough.
Arms grabbed him from every direction. Shirts. Hands. Someone ruffled his hair. Someone else slapped his back so hard it stung.
Then suddenly—
Up.
The ground disappeared.
They'd lifted him onto their shoulders.
The stadium tilted as they carried him toward the centre circle like he weighed nothing.
Kwame blinked down at the pitch below, dazed.
The noise didn't stop.
It rolled.
Layer after layer.
"GENERAL! GENERAL! GENERAL!"
Not banter.
Not ironic.
Proper chanting.
The kind that sticks to you.
The kind you hear in your sleep.
He looked out at the sea of red.
Scarves spinning overhead. Kids climbing onto seats. Old blokes punching the air like they'd just won the lottery. A woman crying into her coat sleeve. Two lads hugging like they'd known each other for years.
All of them looking at him.
Just him.
Up in the stand, Afia had stopped jumping.
She'd switched.
Phone out. Recording everything. Slow pan across the chaos like she was already thinking highlight reels, sponsors, leverage.
Her cheeks were wet with tears, but her eyes were sharp.
Calculating.
Counting.
She saw the shirts with his name on the back.
Saw kids copying his run-up.
Saw three different people already arguing over who got his match-worn shirt.
This is it, she thought.
This is the moment.
Not a prospect anymore.
Not "one for the future."
This is brand. This is headlines. This is bargaining power.
He isn't just a player now.
He's an icon.
Down on the pitch, Wrexham drifted past like ghosts.
No shouting.
No complaining.
Just quiet.
Paul Mullin walked with his hands on his hips, staring at the grass.
Elliot Lee didn't look up once.
They passed underneath Kwame without saying a word.
Didn't meet his eyes.
Couldn't.
The tunnel swallowed them whole.
BZZT.
The System blinked back to life.
[MATCH COMPLETE][PERFORMANCE RATING: 10.0][ASSISTS: 3][GOALS: 1]
He let out a tired laugh.
Perfect ten.
Mad.
[SYSTEM ALERT: ANOMALY DETECTED][CALCULATING HIDDEN REWARDS…]
The text glitched slightly, like it was struggling to keep up.
Kwame stared at it for a second.
Anomaly?
But he was too tired to care.
Too full.
Too… happy.
The lads were still chanting around him. The fans were still screaming his name. Someone had started that stupid "Ohhh General Kwame" song again and it was spreading round the ground like wildfire.
He leaned his head back.
Closed his eyes.
Let the sound wash over him.
All week he'd felt small.
Injured.
Doubted.
Benched.
Mocked.
Like the world was moving on without him.
Now?
Five thousand people were singing his name like a war chant.
Like he belonged here.
Like this was his place.
His stadium.
His people.
His home.
Kwame smiled to himself, chest still heaving.
After the longest, bleakest week of his life…
He was finally home.