The alarm rang at 10 am sharp. It was not blaring—just a steady pulse, enough to wake him without irritation.
James reached over, silenced it, and sat still for a moment, his eyes blinking away the fog of sleep.
He wasn't old, but the light pressure in his shoulders and lower back was the kind that came from years of work―travel, stress, meetings, scouting, evaluating and rarely relaxing.
Late mornings were the only luxury he allowed himself, and even then, not for rest but because most of his work was done at night.
He swung his legs out of bed, feet meeting the cool floorboards. The curtains were already cracked open, letting in late-morning sunlight that was brighter than dawn light ever was.
He crossed to the window and pulled them wide, and outside, the city was very much awake now.
Cars streamed through intersections. Hawkers moved between roadside stalls. The air carried distant sounds—horns, voices, engines—the low hum of a place deep into its daily rhythm.
The sky above was a washed-out blue, not yet scorched by heat.
He stood a few seconds, breathing in the shift between indoor stillness and outdoor movement. Then he turned away and began the day in his usual order:
Hot shower — a long, steady stream undoing the knots in his shoulders.
A precise shave — no rushing, each stroke a clean line.
Grey shirt, sleeves rolled once, trousers already ironed last night. He always dressed not expensively, not sloppily—just efficiently.
In the kitchen, sunlight bounced off chrome surfaces as he prepared his coffee. He ground the beans himself, more out of habit than necessity, and brewed it black and unsoftened. He didn't like to spoil strong things with sweetness.
At the dining table, he sat alone. Just him, the coffee, and silence. No phone, no TV, no music. Only a leather notebook.
It was worn, its corners frayed, and its spine softened by time. The pages carried bits of observation—names, skills, weaknesses, potential, failures, insights.
But not all of it was about football. Some pages were just questions.
Questions he asked himself.
James had always been drawn to finding things—hidden things—from childhood till now. Things that others overlooked, or dismissed, or walked past without realising what they were.
It wasn't greed; it wasn't obsession. It was instinct; that was how he was.
People chased glory when the world had already crowned it. He was always looking for value before others knew it existed.
And for a while, there had been something new...something he had discovered. It was not confirmed yet or proven. But it was not imaginary either.
His phone vibrated. He checked the caller ID before answering. "Morning."
"Morning," the voice replied. "Didn't expect you to still be out there today."
James took a slow sip of coffee, savouring the bitter taste before replying. "Yeah, about that, my plan has changed."
"Yeah? What happened?"
He didn't answer immediately; some truths needed weight. Words made them feel cheap if rushed. "I'll be coming back sooner than expected."
The line went still for a moment. "That's unusual. Did you find something?"
James closed the notebook gently, fingers pressing the worn leather cover. "I might have," he said.
"Might have what, James?"
He glanced out the window again—at the sunlight, the moving traffic, and the city that didn't even know what he had just found.
"Potential," he replied. "The kind you have to take before anyone else lays their hands on it."
There was a long pause on the other side. "…You really think it's serious?"
"Yes. Serious enough that we can't waste time."
Another pause. "...Alright. I trust your judgement. We'll be waiting for you to brief us."
"Don't worry about that," James nodded once, though the gesture wasn't visible. "You'll understand when you see it." He glanced at his clock. "I'll get back to you this night; I'm running late for an appointment."
Before the caller could respond, he ended the call. He sat silently for a moment afterward, gaze settled on the notebook.
He wasn't smiling, but he had this little spark of excitement within him, really sure that he had found something rare.
***
It was a little past 12:15 pm when Ayodeji arrived at the pitch.
The place already looked different—not like the dusty neighbourhood field he had been coming to for the past few days. The sandy surface still remained, but someone had actually worked on it.
The white marker lines were freshly drawn, crisp and visible even from a distance, neatly marking out the sidelines, centre circle, penalty boxes, and goal area.
New nets hung on the goalposts. Not fancy ones, just sturdy and clean, but they already gave the field a sharper, professional feel.
The faint smell of dust rose whenever a gust of wind swept by, mixing with the scent of fried snacks from vendors setting up nearby.
Two men by the sidelines were testing a microphone. "Check! One, two—check, one, two!" At the far end, someone unpacked speakers large enough to pump sound across the whole field.
The tournament wasn't officially underway yet, but the crowd had already started forming—young kids in slippers, older men in jerseys of European clubs, women selling snacks, and teenagers dragging benches into position.
And with each passing minute, the numbers grew.
Ayodeji spotted a cluster of navy blue jerseys by the shade of a makeshift canopy. It was his team, Khaki FC. Their navy-blue kit contrasted well with the sandy pitch.
Chike was the first to notice him. He waved with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Deji! Over here!"
Ayodeji jogged toward them. Players greeted him with arm-slaps, nods, and small smiles—everyone tried to look calm, but excitement buzzed under their breaths.
"Sharp guy, you're early," one player joked.
"Had to warm up before I embarrass you today," Ayodeji shot back lightly.
Chike laughed and pulled him aside just a bit, like he wanted him to see something. The opposition team was now entering the field.
They descended the slight slope from the road, stepping across the sand in coordinated lines. Their kit was cream jerseys with sky-blue stripes, cream shorts, and sky-blue socks. Printed at the back of their shirts in bold letters was the name:
Iron Crest
They started stretching immediately, one of their coaches clapping sharply to keep the tempo.
'An extremely disciplined side.' Ayodeji noted. Chike leaned closer, as if knowing what he was thinking. "These guys…" he said, nodding toward Iron Crest. "They're not a joke."
Ayodeji watched them warming up. Their passes were quick. Their touches looked sharp. The confidence in their body language wasn't arrogance—just experience.
"They knocked us out last tournament," Chike said quietly. "Quarterfinals. 2–1." He did not have a sulking expression, no grumbling bitterness. Just a statement of fact.
Ayodeji kept watching as Iron Crest formed a rondo circle and started firing quick passes at each other, with barely any pauses.
"Back then," Chike continued, "they were simply better. Stronger midfield, tighter defence, fast wingers."
"But this time, we are better and stronger." He paused. "And we have you."
Ayodeji turned to him. Chike's expression wasn't playful; it was honest. "You know, we don't really have a league structure. Tournaments like this are the best ways to gain attention from the right eyes."
Ayodeji raised an eyebrow "You mean a scout is going to be here?"
"No, I don't. I'm not God," Chike chuckled. "I'm just saying you should play well because there could be a scout here." He added, "Better to play with all you have right now than wait till, who knows, before someone willing to spend their cash hosts a tournament."
Chike wasn't wrong, Ayodeji knew that. The organiser of the tournament just decided to use his money to help these people rather than spend it in a nightclub. According to what he heard, the organiser decided to do the tournament because he had his birthday this week.
But the main thing was a scout, Ayodeji thought of as he scanned through the crowd. In here could be a scout or there could be no one at all. It was a gamble.
"Come on," Chike finally said. "Let's finish warmups. The match starts soon."
Ayodeji nodded, then followed his teammates toward the open side of the pitch where they'd begin stretching.
「A few minutes later」
The changing tent smelt faintly of sweat and dust, mixed with the sharp scent of menthol rubs that some of the boys had applied. Outside, the hum of the crowd and faint music drifted through the canvas, building with each passing minute.
Ayodeji tugged at the hem of his kit and adjusted his socks, feeling the rush of nerves that came before a match. Around him, his teammates tightened laces, swapped shin guards, and whispered last-minute reminders to each other.
Coach Jidenna clapped his hands, drawing immediate attention. "Alright, listen up," he said, clipboard in hand. "We're playing a 4-2-1-3 formation. Front three stretch the defence, the midfield controls the tempo, back four stays solid. Discipline wins games. Do not chase the ball blindly, and no heroics. Trust the plan, trust each other."
No one interrupted. He scanned their faces, making sure each word sank in as they muttered affirmatives.
"This is a single-match knockout tournament. One mistake and it's over." He continued. "Iron Crest knocked us out last year, but not today. Today we play smart, together. Use every opportunity, and don't give them a second chance."
The players nodded again, some bouncing on their toes, others shaking out arms and legs. The air felt alive with anticipation as Ayodeji glanced around, noting the tension and the excitement in some of his teammates.
He could hear the coach's final instructions echo in his mind, the faint scrape of boots against the hard ground, the whisper of teammates psyching themselves up. He suddenly became aware of everything as the sunlight slanted through the tent flap, casting a warm glow over him.
Coach Jidenna's voice cut through the murmur one last time. "Heads in the game, play smart, and remember why we're here. Let's go."
The team began moving toward the field, the sound of their boots on the hard earth blending with the distant chatter and excitement outside.
Ayodeji drew in a slow breath. The nerves were still there, but something else rose beneath them—anticipation.
Today mattered. More than any of them knew.
——
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