Monday. 4:55 PM. Gresty Road.
FWEET!
The final whistle didn't sound like a conclusion. It sounded like an act of mercy.
The noise that followed wasn't a cheer. It was a strange, collective exhale from five thousand people who had forgotten to breathe.
On the pitch, gravity seemed to pull harder on the green shirts. The Forest Green Rovers players didn't walk to shake hands. They crumbled. The striker dropped to his knees, staring at the grass with a hollow, shell-shocked expression. The midfielder next to him lay flat on his back, arm over his eyes, hiding from the floodlights as if the light itself hurt. They didn't look like athletes who had lost a match; they looked like survivors of a natural disaster who were just realizing the storm had passed.
The eye drifted slowly across the wreckage. Sweat-drenched shirts. Mud-stained faces. Eyes wide with a specific kind of trauma—the look of men who had spent ninety minutes chasing shadows they could never catch.
At the other end of the pitch—
Tom Booth, the Crewe goalkeeper, was doing jumping jacks. He was trying to stay warm. He hadn't touched the ball since the warm-up.
The contrast was jarring. The Crewe outfield players stood tall, chests heaving rhythmically but controlled.
They looked around at the damage they'd done, exchanging quiet, disbelieving smiles. Even they hadn't expected it to be this ruthless.
Then everyone's eyes found him.
It started at the mud-flecked boots. It panned up the red socks, past the shorts, to the back of the jersey.
ABOAGYE42
Then it whipped around to his face.
Kwame wasn't smiling. He wasn't celebrating. He stood with his hands on his hips, his chest steady, surveying the pitch with the cold, impassive gaze of a General inspecting a conquered battlefield. He looked like he could play another ninety minutes. He looked untouched.
The stadium was eerily quiet. A pin-drop silence hung over Gresty Road, the heavy silence of disbelief. Eyes darted from the players to the giant screen, waiting for confirmation that what they had just witnessed was real.
The digital numbers on the scoreboard flickered, burning bright against the grey afternoon sky.
CREWE ALEXANDRA [ 8 ] - [ 0 ] FOREST GREEN ROVERS
A gasp rippled through the stands. A collective intake of oxygen.
Then, the Stadium Announcer's voice crackled over the PA system. He sounded shaken. He sounded like he was reading an error report.
"Match Statistics," the announcer stammered, the microphone feedback whining slightly. "Possession... 89% for Crewe Alexandra."
A murmur of disbelief.
"Shots on target... 12."
The murmur grew.
"Goals... 8."
A cheer began to build, a low rumble like an approaching train.
"And Man of the Match..." The announcer paused, as if he couldn't believe the paper in his hand. "With a League Two record… eight assists… Kwame Aboagye!"
The silence shattered.
The roar that followed wasn't human. It was seismic.
THE OUTSIDE WORLD (SHOCKWAVE)
BBC Radio Stoke:"I... I honestly don't know what else to say. We are running out of superlatives. This wasn't a football match; it was a mismatch of biblical proportions. It felt like bringing a tank to a knife fight. Aboagye didn't just beat Forest Green; he bullied them. It's borderline unfair having a player of that quality in League Two."
The Main Stand: Afia wasn't screaming anymore. She was just staring at her brother, shaking her head with a smile that threatened to split her face. "He is too big for this," she whispered to Chloe. "Look at him. He looks like a man playing against children." Chloe nodded, her eyes wide. "He's terrifying, Afia. Actually terrifying."
A few rows back, the man in the sharp black coat stood up. He clicked his pen and slid it into his pocket. He wasn't grinning nervously anymore; he looked serious. "Boss," he said into the receiver. "Yes, yes, I understand"
The Library: Maya sat with her earbuds in, scrolling through the live feed. "He's a demon," she whispered, a shiver running down her spine. "He doesn't belong here, in league 2"
Cal Sterling sat on the floor, his back against the sofa. The other boys were buzzing, replaying the goals. Cal just stared at the screen. He didn't look shocked. He looked resigned. "He's gone," Cal muttered. "He's not one of us anymore."
Social Media:
@EFLZone:Can we just fast-track Aboagye out of League Two already? 🙋♂️ It's not safe for the other teams. The kid just registered 8 assists in one game.
@FGR_Fan:Thank god that's over. I have never seen a single player destroy my club like that. Can Crewe just get promoted already? Get him out of this division.
As Kwame walked toward the tunnel, he felt the phantom buzz of the System.
[MATCH COMPLETE][RATING: 10.0]
[XP REWARD: +150 XP](Note: XP gain reduced. Opponent difficulty rating was 'Negligible'.)
[SYSTEM ADVICE:]Growth requires resistance. Bullying the weak yields diminishing returns.
[BONUS REWARD:]5 Skill Mastery Points.
Kwame read the notification and allowed himself the faintest smile. 'Fair enough,' he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. 'You don't become a King by stomping on ants. I need a real fight. I need resistance.'
He sent the notification away.
[NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED: TYRANT'S AURA] Effect: Opponents with <60 Composure suffer -20% to all stats when within 5 meters of the user. Fear is a weapon.
Kwame smirked. Tyrant's Aura. Cool.
His teammates followed him, giving him a wide berth, looking at him with a mixture of joy and awe.
"Kwame!"
The Sky Sports reporter was waiting in the tunnel. She looked flustered.
"Kwame, a moment? You've just broken the League Two record for assists in a single game. You've just registered eight assists. People called you arrogant when you said you were coming for the number one spot. What do you say to them now?"
Kwame wiped his face with the back of his hand. He looked calm. Too calm.
"I understand why they thought it was arrogant," Kwame said softly. "It sounded impossible. And honestly, I have faced some obstacles along the way that made me think about giving up on the run. I thought maybe it was too much."
"But I said it. And once you say you will do something, you have to at least give it your all.
My team deserves most of the credit. They've backed me every step of the way."
"Jodi Jones got an assist today," the reporter checked her earpiece. "He's on 22. You're on 20. The gap is two. With six games left... is it done?"
Kwame smiled.
"Let's see where this goes. We have six finals left after all."
The days after the Forest Green massacre were a blur.
Twitter was unbearable. Every time Kwame opened his phone, he saw his face. Tactical breakdowns, highlight reels set to drill music, debates on TalkSport about whether he was "too good for the division."
Afia took his phone away on Wednesday. "You are getting a big head," she warned, though she was smiling as she checked her own notifications.
Training was intense. Lee Bell wasn't letting them relax. The Stockport game was looming—the league leaders, the final boss.
But finally, Saturday arrived. The Manager had given the squad a full day off to clear their heads before the travel day on Sunday.
Saturday, April 6th. 09:00 AM. Alexandra Gardens.
Kwame woke up, his internal clock screaming that he should be at the training ground. He reached for his compression shorts.
"Ah, ah!"
Afia stood in the doorway, holding a laundry basket like a riot shield. "Put it back."
"I need to go to the gym," Kwame said, swinging his legs out of bed. "I need to work on my core stability before—"
"You need to put on jeans," Afia ordered. She walked over and physically picked up his football boots from the floor, clutching them to her chest. "And I am taking your tablet. No tactical replays today."
"Afia..."
"No," she pointed a finger. "It is Chloe's birthday and she asked for you to be there too, we are going out.
You are not the Midfield General today. You are just Kwame, a 17-year-old boy.
Try to remember what that feels like."
She tossed a pair of denim jeans and a white t-shirt at him.
"Get dressed. We are going to Hanley."
12:30 PM. The Hive Café, Hanley.
It felt strange being somewhere that wasn't painted Crewe red. The café was buzzing with weekend chatter, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling the air.
Kwame sat in a booth, picking at a croissant. He felt naked without his training kit. Afia was next to him, looking radiant. Across the table sat Chloe, wearing a 'Birthday Girl' sash, and a younger girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
"Kwame, this is Mia," Chloe said, nudging her sister. "My little sister. She's 17 too."
Mia looked up from her phone, her dark hair falling over her face. She adjusted her glasses, shrinking into her oversized sweater. "Hi," she mumbled, barely making eye contact.
"Hi," Kwame said, trying to be polite. He waited for the usual questions about him being a player and so on.
But Mia just went back to her phone.
"So," Kwame tried again, feeling unusually awkward. "Do you... watch football?"
Mia looked up, confused. "No? Why? Is there a game on?"
Kwame blinked. He looked at Chloe, then at Afia.
"She lives under a rock," Chloe laughed, stealing a grape from Mia's plate. "She's an art student. Unless you're a Renaissance painter or a K-Pop star, she doesn't know who you are."
"Oh," Kwame said. He felt a tension he didn't know he was carrying suddenly release. His shoulders dropped. "That's... actually really nice."
"Why?" Mia asked quietly. "Are you famous or something?"
"He thinks he is," Afia teased, nudging Kwame.
"I play for Crewe," Kwame said, downplaying it. "Just down the road."
"Cool," Mia shrugged. "I like your shoes."
"Thanks," Kwame smiled. "They're new."
For the next hour, nobody mentioned Jodi Jones and his run at him.
They talked about A-Level art projects, the best place to get bubble tea, and how Mia's art teacher had a vendetta against acrylics.
2:00 PM. The Car Park.
They were waiting by Afia's Tiguan when a sleek black Range Rover pulled up.
Kenny Lunt's car rolled in from the far end of the lot. He'd just dropped Maya off after revision class.
He wasn't wearing his club tracksuit; he was in 'Dad Mode'—polo shirt and sunglasses.
"Afternoon, ladies," Kenny nodded to Afia and Chloe. "Happy birthday, Chloe."
"Thanks, Mr. Lunt!"
The passenger door opened, and Maya hopped out. She was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, looking far too cool for a Saturday afternoon.
"Hey," Maya beamed at the group.
Kenny looked past her, fixing his eyes on Kwame. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Kwame," Kenny said, his voice dropping into that tone he used when someone missed a tracking run. "I hope you're behaving yourself. No fast food. No stupid risks."
"Yes, Boss," Kwame straightened up instinctively. "Just coffee and water."
"Good lad," Kenny's gaze flicked to Maya, then back to Kwame. "You look after them. Especially the short one."
"Dad!" Maya groaned.
"I'll see you later," Kenny said, rolling up the window. "Don't be late."
He drove off.
Maya turned to the group, rolling her eyes. "Sorry about him. He thinks he's guarding the crown jewels."
"He is," Afia said, linking her arm through Maya's. "Come on. We are going bowling. And Kwame thinks he can win."
Kwame looked at Mia, then at Maya, then at his sister. He laughed.
"I'm going to destroy you all," he declared.
"We'll see about that, General," Maya smirked.
2:30 PM. Tenpin Bowling & Arcade.
The arcade was loud. Neon lights flashed in the gloom, and the air smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and cheap perfume. It was a different environment from what Kwame was used to.
"You're going down," Afia declared, holding a neon pink bowling ball.
She wasn't lying. Afia bowled a strike. Chloe bowled a spare.
Kwame stepped up. He picked up a blue ball, feeling the weight.
[FIELD SENSE: ACTIVE]
Immediately, a bright green trajectory line appeared on the polished lane. It showed him exactly where to stand, exactly how much spin to apply, and exactly where to hit the pins for a perfect strike. Strike Probability: 100%.
He looked at the line. Then he looked at the girls, who were giggling and drinking slushies. If he used the System, he would win. He would dominate. Just like on the pitch.
But I'm not on the pitch, Kwame thought. I'm just at a birthday party.
He mentally dismissed the green line. 'System off.'
He stepped up, relying on his own terrible coordination. He threw the ball. He used too much strength and zero technique. It smashed into the gutter with a deafening thud.
"Zero!" Mia cackled, covering her mouth but failing to hide her delight. "The famous athlete got a zero!"
"The floor is uneven," Kwame muttered, pouting, though a small smile played on his lips.
"Excuses!" Afia laughed, high-fiving Chloe.
Kwame sat back down next to Maya. "I hate this game," he mumbled.
"You're just mad you can't tackle the pins," Maya teased, nudging him.
The afternoon turned into chaos. They moved to the arcade. Kwame tried the Basketball Hoops game. He missed nine out of ten shots. His technique was awful.
"Elbow in, Sturdy," Maya teased, sinking a perfect shot over his shoulder. "It's all in the wrist."
Then they played Air Hockey. Maya vs Kwame.
Kwame tried to use his Tactical Radar. He tried to predict the angles. But the puck moved too fast, ricocheting wildly off the plastic walls. Maya slammed it into his goal.
Clack-Clack-Clack.
"7-0!" Maya cheered, doing a little victory dance.
Kwame leaned against the table, laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. He looked around at the girls—Afia, Chloe, Mia, Maya—all laughing at him.
Mia was watching him. Earlier, she had been dismissive. Now, she was studying him with a quiet curiosity. He wasn't the arrogant superstar she had assumed he would be after hearing he was a footballer. He was just a guy who was terrible at air hockey.
"So, the sketching thing," Kwame asked, catching his breath as he pointed at the sketchbook sticking out of Mia's bag. "Is it hard? Getting the proportions right?"
"Harder than kicking a ball," Mia smirked, but she relaxed. "It takes patience. You have to really look at things." She paused, toying with her straw. "Is football... heavy? Like, does it hurt? Running for ninety minutes?"
"It hurts," Kwame admitted honestly. "But it's a good hurt. Like... when you finish a big drawing and your hand cramps, but you know it's good?"
"Yeah," Mia nodded slowly. "I get that."
Maya walked up beside them, linking her arm through Mia's. "Don't let him bore you, Mia. He can talk about lactate thresholds for hours."
"We were talking about art, actually," Kwame corrected, smiling.
"Sure you were," Maya rolled her eyes, but she smiled. "By the way, my exams start next week. I might need a study break or two."
"Same," Mia groaned. "Art history. Kill me now."
"We should do this again," Maya said, looking between Mia and Kwame. "You guys keep me sane. Dad is stressing me out, and Kwame needs some moments with people his own age."
"I'm in," Kwame said. "As long as we don't play air hockey."
Behind them, Afia and Chloe watched the three teenagers walking toward the exit.
"Look at him," Afia whispered, a softness in her eyes. "He has no clue what's happening around him, does he?"
Chloe laughed. "He's oblivious. But look at him around them. They look like normal kids."
"I know, right? He really needs to be around people his own age more." Afia agreed.
"He's playing Stockport soon, and actually them being leaders in the league, I am a bit worried for him."
"Oh, come on, you saw what he did in his last game, I don't know what it is about your brother, but he's special. He'll figure it out." Chloe added.
"He is, isn't he!" Afia burst out laughing.
Kwame turned around, walking backwards. "Hey! Are you guys coming? I'm starving."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[PLAYER IS HAVING A GOOD TIME AROUND FRIENDS AND FAMILY]
[STATUS: REFRESHED]
[PASSIVE BUFF: 'CLEAR HEAD' - Decision Making +5%]
6:00 PM. The Car Park.
The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the concrete.
Kwame walked ahead with Mia and Maya, debating the merits of pineapple on pizza.
"It's a fruit," Kwame argued playfully. "It doesn't belong on cheese."
"You have no taste," Mia countered, though she was smiling.
As they reached the cars, a group of teenagers walking past stopped dead.
"Wait, is that him?" one whispered loudly. "That's Aboagye!"
"Oi, General!"
Kwame turned. Three lads in Crewe shirts ran over, fumbling for their phones.
"Can we get a picture, mate? Your assist against Forest Green was sick!"
Kwame smiled, leaning in. "Sure."
He took the phone, extended his long arm, and snapped a selfie with the group. He shook their hands, asked them if they were coming to the next game, and thanked them for the support.
Mia watched him. She saw how gentle he was, how he didn't act like the "famous athlete" she expected. The golden light hit his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the kindness in his eyes.
She felt a sudden, hot flush rise in her cheeks. She looked down at her shoes.
"So," Mia said as the fans walked away, scuffing her sneaker on the tarmac. "When do you play again?"
Kwame looked at her, surprised. "Monday. Against Stockport."
"Oh," Mia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Right. I probably can't make it to the stadium. Too loud. But... maybe I'll remember to check the TV. If there's nothing else on."
Kwame grinned. "I'll try to do something worth watching then."
"You better," she mumbled, fighting a smile.
"See?" Maya nudged Kwame's ribs. "You're a celebrity now. Next time, wear some shades, Sturdy. You're causing a scene."
The group laughed.
"Okay, superstar," Chloe jingled her car keys. "Mia, let's go. Mum's waiting."
"I can drop you off, Maya," Afia offered, unlocking the Tiguan. "It is on the way."
"Thanks, Afia," Maya said, hopping into the back seat.
The groups split up.
Inside Chloe's small hatchback, Mia buckled her seatbelt. She pulled out her phone.
Contact: Kwame.
She stared at the name for a second before locking the screen.
"So," Chloe said, reversing out of the spot with a knowing grin. "For someone who hates football and thinks athletes are boring... you didn't look bored."
Mia looked out the window, watching Kwame get into his car.
"Shut up," Mia murmured, but she was smiling. "It was... okay. I guess."
"I told you so," Chloe sang.
9:00 PM. Unit 4B.
The apartment was quiet again.
Kwame sat on the edge of his bed. Afia had given him back his tablet. The day off was over.
He opened Twitter.
The feed was full of his highlights against Forest Green. But one video was trending at the top.
Interview: Isaac Olaofe (Stockport County).
Kwame clicked play.
Olaofe, the league's top scorer with 25 goals, was standing pitchside after Stockport's 3-0 win. He looked relaxed, chewing gum, draped in a scarf.
"Big game next week, Isaac," the reporter said. "Crewe Alexandra. They've just won 8-0. They're flying."
Olaofe laughed. A dismissive, easy sound.
"Yeah, I heard about the kid," Olaofe grinned, scratching his beard. "Aboagye, is it? Shame we didn't play them when he was in the team for the first leg. We went to Gresty Road and won 2-0. It was... honestly? It was boring. Too easy."
Olaofe looked at the camera, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Hopefully, with this new 'General' everyone is hyping up, they can put up a bit more of a fight this time. But we're the best team in the league for a reason. Tell him to bring his A-game. He's gonna need it."
The video ended.
Kwame stared at the black screen.
Matchday 41: Stockport County (1st) vs Crewe Alexandra (4th).
The League Leaders. The Top Scorer. Away from home.
Kwame set the tablet down on the nightstand. The laughter of the arcade felt like a distant memory. The focus settled back in.
"Game on," he said quietly.