Saturday. 2:50 PM. The Tunnel.Matchday 36: Crewe Alexandra vs Crawley Town.
The tunnel at Gresty Road buzzed with a different kind of energy today. It wasn't the nervous tension of a relegation scrap; it was the hum of anticipation. The sun was shining. The fans were singing his name before the players even walked out.
Kwame stood in line, adjusting his shin pads. He felt light. The Tactical Radar was humming in the back of his mind, mapping the corridor.
"You like that, don't you?"
The voice was gravel, low and nasty.
Kwame turned. Standing next to him was the Crawley Town number 8. Daz Mercer.
Mercer was a journeyman. 32 years old, bald head scarred from a thousand aerial duels, knees that looked like they were held together by tape and hatred. He had played for nine clubs in ten years, leaving a trail of yellow cards at every stop.
"Like what?" Kwame asked, keeping his face neutral.
" The noise," Mercer sneered, leaning in close. The smell of stale coffee and aggression wafted off him. "They think you're the messiah. I saw you on the telly, running your mouth. 'I'm coming for number one.' Cocky little brat."
Mercer spat on the concrete floor, right next to Kwame's boot.
"You think this is FIFA, boy. You think you can just dance around. Today you learn your place."
Kwame didn't flinch.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HOSTILE INTENT DETECTED][OPPONENT: DAZ MERCER][TRAIT: 'THE ENFORCER' - High Aggression, High Foul Count.][SUGGESTED ACTION: AVOID CONTACT.]
"We'll see," Kwame said simply. Feeling a bit nervous.
The referee blew his whistle. "Let's go, gents."
3:30 PM. 30th Minute.
The game was a masterclass.
Despite Mercer's threats, he couldn't get near Kwame. The pitch was dry, the grass was perfect, and Kwame was moving the ball like it was on a string.
Every time Mercer lunged in for a tackle, Kwame was already gone, spinning away or playing a one-touch pass around the corner.
"Ole!" the crowd cheered as Kwame dropped a shoulder, sending Mercer sliding halfway to the touchline.
Up in the stands, Afia was on her feet, clapping. Next to her, Maya was beaming, and on Afia's other side sat Chloe, her new uni friend.
"He's actually amazing!" Chloe shouted over the noise. "I thought you were exaggerating! He moves like water!"
"That is my brother!" Afia laughed, squeezing Maya's arm. "Look at him! He is controlling everything!"
On the pitch, Crewe won a corner.
Kwame jogged over. The crowd rose. "He sees the pass, he scores the goal..."
Kwame whipped it in. A perfect, curling arc.
Rio Adebisi rose at the near post. He connected sweetly.
THWACK.
The ball smashed against the crossbar. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The rebound was cleared frantically by Crawley.
"Unlucky!" Rio yelled, giving a thumbs up.
Kwame jogged back to the halfway line. He hadn't got the assist yet, but it was coming. He could feel it. The flow was perfect.
Just a matter of time, Kwame thought.
38th Minute.
Crewe were dominating. Possession was 65-35.
Kwame dropped deep to collect the ball from Mickey Demetriou. He was in the center circle.
He scanned.
[TACTICAL RADAR: ACTIVE][SCANNING...]
He saw Shilow Tracey making a run. He saw the passing lane. It was open.
Kwame planted his left foot. He pulled his right leg back to strike the long ball. His eyes were focused downfield.
He didn't see the shadow coming from his blind spot.
[SYSTEM WARNING: PROXIMITY ALERT!][DANGER! DANGER!]
The red warning flashed too late.
Daz Mercer came flying in from the 4 o'clock position. He wasn't looking at the ball. He was looking at Kwame's planted left ankle.
It wasn't a tackle. It was a scissor motion. High, two-footed, reckless, and malicious.
Mercer's 85kg frame bulldozed through Kwame's standing leg just as he swung his kicking foot.
SNAP.
His leg buckled.
Pain exploded up his ankle.
He hit the turf screaming.
"ARGHHHHH!"
Kwame's scream tore through the stadium. It was a primal, high-pitched sound of pure agony. He collapsed, rolling on the turf, clutching his ankle.
The stadium went dead silent.
On the pitch, chaos erupted.
Mickey Demetriou sprinted twenty yards and shoved Mercer in the chest, sending the veteran stumbling. "You dirty coward! I'll kill you!"
Courtney Baker-Richardson had to be held back by three teammates as he tried to get to Mercer. The referee was blowing his whistle frantically, red card already in his hand.
In the stands, Afia froze. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Kwame?"
Maya stood up, her face draining of color. "Oh god. No. No, no, no."
Cal Sterling, watching the stream on his phone in the academy gym, threw his water bottle at the wall. "That's a red! That's a straight red! What is he? A demon?!"
Social Media:
@CreweAlexFan12:I feel sick. That sounded bad. Please get up, Kwame.
On the pitch, the referee brandished the RED CARD.
Daz Mercer didn't argue. He didn't look sorry. He walked off the pitch, spitting on the grass. As he neared the tunnel, the Crewe fans rained down a torrent of boos and insults.
Mercer just smirked. He looked back at Kwame writhing on the ground. Told you, his eyes seemed to say.
Dr. Patel was kneeling beside Kwame.
"Don't move it," Patel said sharply. "Kwame, look at me. Look at me."
Kwame's eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking out. The pain was a white-hot spike driving through his ankle up to his knee.
"My leg," Kwame gasped. "Is it broke? Tell me it's not broke."
"We need to get you off," Patel said, signaling for the stretcher.
As they lifted him, Kwame didn't look at the crowd. He looked at the empty space where the System interface usually hovered.
[SYSTEM ALERT: CRITICAL PHYSICAL TRAUMA][STATUS: INJURED][QUEST FAILED: MATCH INCOMPLETE]
I didn't get an assist, was the only thought his brain could formulate through the haze of pain. I missed the chance. Jodi is going to get away.
He covered his face with his hands as they carried him down the tunnel. The applause from the fans felt distant, like it was for someone else.
5:30 PM. The Medical Room.
The game had ended 1-0 to Crewe. A scrappy goal from a corner in the chaos. But nobody was celebrating.
Kwame sat on the treatment table, his leg elevated and encased in ice.
Afia burst through the door, followed closely by Maya and Kenny.
"Kwame!" Afia rushed to him, grabbing his hand. Her eyes were red. "Are you okay? Do we need the hospital?"
"I'm okay, Sis," Kwame whispered. The painkillers were starting to kick in, dulling the sharp edge of the agony to a throbbing ache.
Dr. Patel walked in, holding an X-ray film. The room held its breath.
"Good news," Patel said, though he didn't smile. "It's not broken. No fractures."
A collective sigh of relief filled the room. Maya slumped against the doorframe, closing her eyes.
"However," Patel continued. "It's a Grade 2 high ankle sprain with significant bone bruising. The impact was... severe."
"How long?" Lee Bell asked from the doorway.
"He's young. He heals fast. But he can't put weight on this for a few days." Patel looked at Kwame. "You're out for at least 10 days. Maybe two weeks."
Kwame did the math instantly.
10 days.
He would miss the Accrington Stanley game next Saturday.
That was two games with zero assists.
Jodi Jones would play two games in that time. If he got even one assist... the gap would be 13 or 14.
"I can play next week," Kwame said, trying to sit up. "Tape it up. I can play."
"No," Afia said, her voice shaking but firm. "You are not playing. You heard the doctor."
"But the record..." Kwame looked at Kenny. "Boss, I need the games."
"That can wait, son," Kenny said gently. "Your career can't. You take the week. We'll handle Accrington."
Kwame slumped back against the pillow. The System interface flickered in his vision, grey and dull.
[STATUS: INJURED (10 DAYS)][XP GAIN: DISABLED][DAILY QUESTS: LOCKED]
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since the Awakening, he was powerless.
The General was off the board.