Halftime
The Daniest locker room reeked of sweat, mud, and shattered dreams. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets, casting harsh shadows on the faces of the players slumped on the benches. Down 0-1, down to ten men after Frank's reckless red card—it was a nightmare unfolding in real time. Coach Osahon burst through the door like a storm, his face twisted in fury, veins bulging on his neck. He didn't waste a second. This was no calm tactical readjustment, close-range, full-volume berating that could strip paint off walls and egos off players.
"What the hell was that?!" Osahon roared, slamming his clipboard against the locker with a crack that echoed like gunfire. Papers scattered across the floor, but no one dared pick them up. "You're out there playing like a bunch of schoolboys at recess! Frank—Frank, you idiot! That tackle? That was brain-dead! You got the ball? Who cares? You left us a man down because you couldn't control your temper! Sit out there and think about how you've just buried us!"
Frank, already exiled to the hallway per red-card protocol, could hear every word through the thin door. He buried his face deeper in his hands, shoulders shaking. Inside, the team froze. Prince, the goalkeeper, stared at his gloves, picking at the stitching. Eric Ekeng, solid as ever in defense, clenched his jaw but said nothing. Godson Edet, the defensive midfielder, shifted uncomfortably, knowing the midfield had cracked under pressure.
Osahon wasn't done. He wheeled on the rest, pointing fingers like daggers. "And you lot! Where's the fight? Where's the bloody spine? Godson, you're supposed to be the anchor—Athena or whatever nonsense you kids call it in your heads—and you're letting Njoku waltz through like he's on a Sunday stroll! David, your headers? Useless if you can't win the ball first! Hanson, stop with the fancy footwork; this isn't a circus! Samuel, you're our finisher—Hephaestus, right? Well, forge something useful instead of missing sitters!"
He paced, his voice rising to a deafening pitch, close enough to the players that spittle flew. "We've waited ten years for this! Ten years of scraping by, begging for kits, practicing on this pothole-ridden field—and you throw it away in 45 minutes? Lord's Academy? They're not gods; they're just better organized because their coach doesn't have to deal with prima donnas like you! Prince, that goal? You were rooted to the spot like a statue. Dive next time, or don't bother showing up!"
The room was silent except for Osahon's heavy breathing. Even the assistant coach, Mr. Alabi, averted his eyes. But as the words hung in the air, doubt crept in. Was it motivating? Or just breaking them further?
Miracle Johnson sat on the far end of the bench, his substitute bib still snug over his kit, heart pounding like a war drum. He hadn't been called on. Not even now, with the team a man down and crumbling. His fists clenched in his lap, nails digging into palms. He'd visualized this moment a hundred times—subbing in, turning the tide, proving his versatility. But Osahon didn't glance his way. "We're switching to 4-4-1," the coach barked finally, sketching hastily on the whiteboard. "Godson, drop deeper. Eric, cover the gaps. No subs yet—we ride with what we have. Fight like hell, or don't come back next season."
The words stung Miracle deepest. No subs yet. He was ready—defender, midfielder, wherever. But here he was, a spectator in his own story. Emmanuel Jones, lingering outside the locker room as a "supporter" caught Miracle's eye through the cracked door. Emmanuel shook his head subtly, his bookish demeanor hiding sympathy.
The halftime whistle blew outside, signaling the end of the break. The players filed out, heads down, the hairdryer still ringing in their ears. Rain threatened from the overcast sky, mirroring the mood.
Second Half — 45:00–50:00: Desperate Resistance
The referee's whistle pierced the air, and the second half kicked off under a light drizzle that turned the pitch slick. Daniest, now in a compact 4-4-1, tried to embody Osahon's rage. They pressed high from the restart, Godson Edet snapping at heels like a terrier. In the 46th minute, Hanson Udito—left-footed trickster—picked up a loose ball in midfield. He nutmegged a Lord's defender, drawing oohs from the dwindling Daniest crowd, and threaded a pass to Samuel Estate. Samuel controlled it with his chest, spun, and fired a low shot. The Lord's keeper parried it wide. Corner.
David Akpama rose for the header off Hanson's delivery—his specialty, those thunderous nods—but a Lord's center-back outjumped him, clearing to safety. The away fans jeered: "Second place! Second place!"
Lord's Academy, sensing vulnerability, countered swiftly. Felix Njoku, their elusive #10, darted down the left flank. Mfoniso, Daniest's defender, slid in but mistimed it, earning a yellow. Free kick. Njoku curled it in; Prince punched clear, but the rebound fell to Lord's winger. Shot—blocked by Eric Ekeng's desperate lunge. The crowd held its breath.
Minute 49: Daniest broke again. Gideon, the striker filling in for the absent Frank, chased a long ball from Godson. He outpaced one defender, cut inside—but his shot sailed high into the stands. Groans echoed. "Keep going!" Eric shouted from the back, his voice steady amid the chaos.
On the bench, Miracle leaned forward, analyzing every move. He saw the gaps—Lord's overloading the right, Daniest's left exposed. "Shift left!" he muttered under his breath, but his words dissolved in the rain.
50:00–60:00: The Cracks Widen
The drizzle turned to a steady pour, making the ball zip unpredictably. Lord's exploited their extra man, stretching Daniest thin. Minute 52: Njoku received in the half-space, faked a shot, and slipped a through-ball to their striker. One-on-one with Prince. The keeper rushed out, narrowing the angle—save! Prince's strong hands deflected it over the bar. The Daniest bench erupted briefly, but relief was short-lived.
Corner for Lord's. Delivered with a whip, it found their towering center-back unmarked. Header—off the post! Daniest cleared, but the pressure mounted. Hanson tried to relieve it with a mazy dribble, but slipped on the wet turf, turning over possession.
Minute 55: Disaster. Lord's quick throw-in caught Daniest napping. A one-two between Njoku and their midfielder carved open the defense. Cross low—tap-in. Goal. 0-2.
The Lord's drums thundered. Daniest players exchanged glances, Osahon's halftime fury now a distant echo swallowed by defeat. The coach screamed from the sideline: "Wake up! Fight!"
Miracle's frustration boiled. He paced the technical area, itching to enter. But Osahon held firm—no changes. Emmanuel, now soaked in the stands, watched with growing concern. This loss might spark something in him later, but for now, he was just a friend witnessing heartbreak.
Minute 58: Daniest mustered a response. David Akpama won a header in midfield—his strength shining—and flicked to Samuel. Samuel laid it off to Joseph, the midfielder, who unleashed a long-range effort. It skimmed the bar, drawing applause. Close, but no cigar.
60:00–70:00: The Rout Begins
Fatigue set in for the ten-man side. Legs heavy, passes errant. Lord's dominated possession, probing patiently. Minute 62: Free kick from 25 yards. Njoku stepped up, curled it beautifully—top corner. Prince dove full stretch, fingertips brushing it... but in. 0-3.
The stadium deflated. Some Daniest fans headed for the exits, umbrellas popping open like surrender flags. "It's over," one muttered. The commentator on the livestream sighed: "A valiant effort post-red card, but Lord's class is showing. Daniest down to ten and out of ideas."
Osahon finally signaled subs—Joseph off for a fresh midfielder, but not Miracle. "Stay ready," he growled at the bench. Miracle nodded, but inside, doubt gnawed. Why not him? He could plug the holes, adapt.
Minute 65: Lord's counter. Eric Ekeng tackled cleanly, but the ref whistled—foul. Yellow for Eric. Free kick leads to a scramble; ball pings around the box. Prince saves one, but the rebound is poked home. 0-4.
Boos from the home crowd now—aimed at their own? The pain was palpable. Gideon chased lost causes upfront, isolated. Hanson, Godson's young uncle, tried tricks but was swarmed each time.
70:00–80:00: Grasping at Straws
Daniest's shape frayed. Minute 72: Rare chance—Samuel Estate breaks free on a counter, dual-footed Frank's absence felt keenly. He shoots—saved. Rebound to David, header wide.
Lord's respond immediately. Njoku dances through midfield, unchallenged. Pass to striker—offside? No. Goal. 0-5.
The final blow. Drums from Lord's side drowned everything. Osahon sat down, defeated. Miracle stood, staring at the pitch, rain mixing with sweat on his face. Unplayed. Unproven.
80:00–90:00: The Bitter Whistle
The last ten minutes were mercy. Daniest parked the bus, but Lord's toyed with them—possession football, olés from their fans. Prince made two more saves, his Odin-like command shining in defeat. Eric, Miracle's close friend, limped after a clash but played on.
Minute 87: Daniest corner. David rises—header! Cleared off the line. Last gasp.
Full time: 0-5.
The whistle blew. Lord's celebrated mildly—expected win. Daniest players sank to their knees. Tears mixed with rain.
Post-Match — Echoes of Defeat
Locker room silence was deafening. Osahon entered quietly now, rage spent. "Learn from this," he muttered. "Next year."
Miracle sat unchanged, boots still laced. Eric clapped his shoulder. "Tough one."
Outside, Raphi—Esther Raphael—waited, her influencer phone idle. "You didn't even play," she said to Miracle. "That's rough."
He shrugged. "Story of my life."
Emmanuel joined them. "This team's got potential. Just needs... something." His mind whirred—ideas forming, though support was future tense.
From afar, Kelvin Okafor watched Miracle's defiant stare at the empty pitch. The ghost stirred. Deep within him, he could Miracle as a perfect reflection of himself.
The rain poured on, washing away the day—but not the fire.