Two weeks passed. Still no reply. To be honest, I forgot about it myself. School was doing what school does best — draining me emotionally, physically, financially, and spiritually. Presentations every day. Lecturers asking us to "submit something small" that somehow turns into a 10-slide PowerPoint.
And money? Don't get me started.
₦2,000 for this.
₦2,500 for that.
₦500 every other second.
I was hemorrhaging cash. My course rep, Onyinye, wasn't even trying. At this point, I should sue her. I thought course reps were meant to represent us — help reduce our workload and stress, not stand by while we drown. I'm just a soft girl in a hard school.
Anyway. Out of the blue, I got the go-ahead:
"You can borrow players."
Great. Headache number two unlocked. Where was I supposed to find players from?
I started reaching out to other departments. Begged. Explained. Bargained. Fortunately, English and French came through for me. Shout out to them. I got a total of nine borrowed players. Nine real ones. Hope was restored… sort of.
*******
Two weeks to the HOD Cup.
Nothing was intact. I hadn't organized anything with the players. No contact. No schedule. No team spirit.
I was panicking.
Anxiety on 100.
This life isn't for me.
I was meant to be chilling in a Bentley, glass of champagne in hand, not dragging boys around in muddy cleats.
So, I went to watch them train.
That's when trouble found me.
He was on the pitch like his life depended on it — fire in his legs, sweat like glory, ego taller than Unilag's Senate building. The thing is… his name wasn't even on the list of borrowed players from English. He was a wild card. But something about the way he played made me know — I needed him on the team.
Practice came and went. We didn't notice each other. We didn't speak. He didn't even look at me.
Until he did.
Practice after practice, he started showing up. Close. Closer. Then one day before the match, he walked up to me with that same "I-own-the-world" energy Nigerian guys are famous for.
"I'm going to marry you," he said.
I blinked.
"Sir?"
Like any typical Nigerian babe, I gave him what he deserved:
"Dey play."
I brushed it off. Thought it was banter. But he didn't stop.
Every time we met after that, he flirted.
He smiled differently.
He got touchy.
He even pecked my cheek — yes, my actual cheek.
And maybe... just maybe... I started catching small feelings. Nothing serious. Just... butterflies that were jogging, not flying yet.
But tomorrow is match day.
And this might not just be about football anymore.