Hey everyone, so I've been completely obsessed with football/sports novels lately, and I thought, 'Why not try writing one myself?' This is just a bit of light fun—my first attempt at something like this—so please go easy on me! Hope you get a kick out of it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ryan stared at his computer screen. 4:20 PM. The clock crawled like it had nothing better to do.
Tomorrow was the weekend, and he wasn't about to get stuck here late today.
He scrolled through emails, praying for nothing urgent. Please, not today. I just want to get home and enjoy a few hours of nothing.
"Hey, Ryan. Heading out soon?"
He looked up. Samir from accounting leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Yeah," Ryan said, stretching. "Trying to make it before some miracle keeps me here."
Samir chuckled. "Miracles don't happen in payroll, man. You're on your own."
"Figures," Ryan replied with a shrug, grabbing his bag. "See you Monday."
"Enjoy your weekend, man. Don't spend it all staring at your phone," Samir called after him.
Ryan rolled his eyes, smiling. "I'll try. No promises."
He stepped out into the late afternoon sun, feeling the familiar hum of Algiers streets. Cars honked, kids shouted in the distance, the smell of fresh bread drifting from a nearby bakery—just the usual chaos.
Ryan walked toward the bus station, weaving through the crowd. The bus pulled up, packed wall-to-wall with people. Yeah… not waiting for the next one, he thought, stepping inside.
The interior was hot and noisy. People pressed in from all sides, shifting with each stop.
Ryan squeezed into a small gap and pulled out his phone. A message from Sam lit up the screen:
Sam: Yo, Ryan! You in for tomorrow? The usual game?
Ryan: Yeah, I'll be there. You got all the guys coming?
Sam: Hopefully. Ahmed said his crew is ready. You ready for them?
Ryan: Of course. Should be fun. Don't think I'll be running too much anyway.
Sam: Haha, alright. See you there.
Ryan slipped his phone back into his pocket and continued scrolling through social media. Memes, news feeds, random videos—nothing important, just enough to pass the time.
The bus jolted around a corner. Ryan shifted, trying to find a little breathing room. Leaning back, he pressed against what he thought was a solid part of the bus door. Just enough space to relax.
Then his foot slipped on the metal step. He felt the edge of the door beneath him—and suddenly realized too late that it wasn't fully closed.
Time stretched. Ryan tumbled backward, wind rushing past his face, and hit the street hard. Pain and shock hit immediately. The bus rolled on, oblivious, as people screamed and scattered.
Everything went black.
When Ryan opened his eyes, he wasn't on the street. He was lying on the floor of a small, sunlit room. The faint smell of books and old wood filled the air.
He sat up slowly. His body… was smaller. Younger. Hands… smaller, smoother. Heart racing.
What the hell…?
A glance around confirmed it: everything was familiar yet different. Posters crooked on the walls, his old desk stacked with notebooks, a dusty football in the corner. It all belonged to his childhood.
He stumbled to the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't the man he had been. It was him—13 years old again.
Ryan sank to his knees, a strange mix of panic and disbelief washing over him. Then, slowly, a thought crept in.
"Of course. Just my f***ing luck. Back to university, job hunting, stressing over life… and now I get to do it all over again. Bloody fantastic."
He groaned, flopping back on the bed. "And my grand exit? Not me dying doing anything meaningful or fun. Nope. Just on my way home from work. Knew that job was gonna be the death of me one way or another."
Ryan's eyes wandered the room. Posters crooked on the walls, his old desk stacked with notebooks, a dusty football in the corner. Everything exactly as he remembered—but his brain was thirty-four.
He walked over to the window, leaning on the sill as sunlight spilled across the floor. Outside, kids ran along the streets, shouting, chasing a ball across the dusty neighborhood. The smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery drifted up. It was ordinary, chaotic, alive—and somehow comforting.
Ryan let out a small chuckle. "Yeah… on second thought, I can live with this. A few years of freedom. All I need to worry about is keeping my grades up and not having my parents breathing down my neck."
He stepped out of his room, feet sinking into the familiar worn carpet. The house smelled faintly of spices and fresh bread—Mom was probably baking. He froze in the hallway, taking it all in.
There she was, younger, vibrant, laughing at something on her phone. His mother. Hair darker, skin smoother, full of life. And his father, carrying a tray of tea, moving with ease and strength he hadn't seen in decades.
Ryan felt a lump in his throat. A smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Okay… yeah," he muttered, "if I get to see this again, I can survive all of it. Totally worth it."
He moved closer, careful not to make a sound, just watching them. The weight of years past, worry, and exhaustion seemed to evaporate. Somewhere deep, he felt that this second chance wasn't punishment—it was a gift.
"Alright," he whispered to himself,
straightening his back. "Let's see what's out there."
He opened the front door and stepped into the bright afternoon sun, the familiar smells and sounds of his neighborhood filling him. Children ran past, kicking a ball, shouting, living in the moment.
Ryan's steps were easy as he wandered down the street, soaking in every sound and color. Houses, alleys, corner shops—everything felt alive and inviting. For the first time in a long while, he felt a strange mix of nostalgia and excitement.