The whistle blew — sharp and final.
Second half.
Wisdom stepped onto the pitch again — same jersey, same boots — but something had shifted.
He wasn't chasing the spotlight anymore.
He was chasing space.
This time, the chaos was gone. His team finally moved like a unit.
They passed. Communicated. Tracked back. Pressed together.
The air was different now — cleaner. Focused.
Wisdom played his role with quiet discipline. He hugged the flanks, made sharp runs, kept the ball moving. No tricks. No ego. Just pure intent.
But every time he got close to the final third… one name showed up:
Jacob.
Their defender was a phantom.
Silent. Quick. Always there at the worst possible second.
Wisdom barely had time to breathe before Jacob was cutting him off.
And behind Jacob?
Raymond. Their de facto captain. A midfielder who played like he had a map of the game in his head.
Not flashy. Not loud.
Just exact — always in the right place, always reading two steps ahead.
It was frustrating. Unshakably frustrating.
Still, Wisdom kept pushing.
Midway through the half, Emeka played a beautiful through ball.
Wisdom burst onto it — chest open, breath steady.
This time, he saw Jacob early.
A feint. A cut. He slipped past the first defender.
But now there were two more closing in — and Jacob had already recovered.
Boxed in. No shot. No window.
So Wisdom made the smart play — glanced up and sent a fast cross toward Michael at the far post.
But it never got there.
Raymond. Again.
He rose for the interception — clean, precise — then turned and launched a counter in one fluid motion.
A perfect diagonal pass.
Left flank.
Divine. Their left midfielder. Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
He didn't hesitate.
Flicked past one defender. Then another.
He cut through the midfield like he owned it.
Emeka slid in — a desperate challenge — and clipped the ball loose.
It bounced forward—
And landed at the feet of:
Jace.
Number 9.
He stopped.
Smiled.
Like he'd been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
Then — explosion.
He shot forward like a bullet.
The ball didn't bounce. It didn't bobble. It followed him.
No teammates. No hesitation.
A flick. A gather.
A 1-2 with himself — tight control, immediate recovery.
He slipped past the first two defenders like water through cracks.
Then came the last line.
All four defenders collapsed on him.
But Jace danced.
He twisted.
He cut.
He bent space.
Each move smoother than the last.
Like the ball was a part of him — not something he controlled, but something he was.
And then — the finale.
A backspin flick — the ball lifted just enough —
and BOOM.
A volley.
Clean. Brutal.
Top-right corner.
GOAL.
The stadium froze.
Then gasps. Claps. A cheer from somewhere in the stands.
The whistle blew.
2–0.
Wisdom stood near midfield, frozen. Chest rising. Breath stuck in his lungs.
He wasn't angry.
He was… stunned.
> "So that's what a monster looks like…"
---
In the Stands
Two men stood near the top row — both in suits, both scouts, but cut from different cloth.
One wore navy blue — sleek, stiff, unreadable.
The other? Shirt sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand, fire in his eyes.
The clipboard man whistled low.
> "Damn. That was insane. League-level footwork. You see that flick?"
The man in blue didn't blink.
> "Yes… but don't get carried away. He's playing against amateurs."
Clipboard raised a brow. "So?"
> "So," the analyst said, coolly, "you don't judge a lion for hunting mice. Drop him in a real league — he'll struggle to breathe."
Clipboard smirked, scribbled something anyway.
> "Maybe. But instinct like that? Can't be taught. That final move — that's talent."
The man in blue gave the faintest nod.
> "True. He's a wild card. With the right coaching… who knows."
They turned back to the pitch.
> "Honestly," Clipboard said, "his team was a mess in the first half. But now? They're waking up. That number 8 — Emeka — he's got presence. And the keeper's sharp."
He flipped to a new page.
> "The rest? Replaceable. Especially number 19. What's his name again? Wisdom?"
The man in blue didn't look down.
> "Too soft. No field command. Doesn't read tempo. Doesn't dictate space. If Emeka had been in his place, that first goal wouldn't have happened."
Then — a pause. Just long enough to feel like something was coming.
> "But… leave him in? Could be dangerous. Not because he's skilled — but because he's trying to learn. That makes him unpredictable."
Clipboard tilted his head. "So… he's not trash?"
> "No," the analyst replied, eyes still on the field.
"Just… unformed. Like steel before it's forged. Useless now. But under pressure…"
He didn't finish.
The whistle blew again.
---
Back on the Pitch
Wisdom jogged back into position.
His mind was still stuck on Jace's goal.
That speed. That control. That ease.
He'd played street ball for years, but he'd never seen anything like that — not in Imo. Not anywhere. Not in real life.
And that… hurt.
He tightened his jaw.
Pressed a hand over his chest — where the pendant lay.
His father's pendant.
Then shook his head.
Enough.
The match wasn't over.
---
Ten minutes in.
Still 2–0.
But now? They were fighting back.
A cross flew in from the right.
Emeka rose — slam! — header straight off the post.
The rebound bounced hard—
Wisdom was already moving.
He didn't think. He just acted.
Chest trap. Left-foot touch. Drag it left. Shift right. Shoot—
CLANG. Another rebound.
And then—
BOOM.
Michael. Like a tiger off a leash.
He charged in, didn't hesitate — full-force shot, straight into the back of the net.
2–1.
He turned and roared:
> "I'm done being a team player that doesn't score!"