Chapter 24
twenty-four
the world is mine.
Jabari.
Any field I step on is mine.
Any woman I lay with is mine.
Any team I’m on is mine.
The world is mine.
I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to.
The certainty sits in my chest as my boots press into the grass, as I roll my shoulders loose and glance around the stadium like I own the place.
Italy knows football.
The crowd is loud, aggressive, confident in a way that only comes from believing history will save you. They chant in waves, banners held high, flares already burning somewhere in the stands even though kickoff hasn’t happened yet.
The pitch is perfect. Trimmed short and watered heavily.
They say this is for charity but they really want a good game. They want a show.
So do we.
Amin stands a few yards ahead of me, captain armband snug around his bicep, calm like he always is. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t posture. He doesn’t need to.
When Amin speaks, people listen.
“Stay sharp,” he says, glancing back at Sol and me. “They’re going to test us early.”
Sol grins. “Let them.”
I just nod, eyes scanning the opposing side as they line up. I wish I could say I feel nostalgic, or that seeing them churns up emotions in my stomach, but all I have is indifference. The media pushed this as a big deal, a reunion between teams, but honestly I don’t remember any of them.
Except Salvatore “Tore” Moretti.
An Italian striker who thinks he’s clever because he’s got quick feet and a mouth that won’t shut.
The one they brought in to ‘replace’ me. He was making waves before this team, but adding him gave them something I couldn’t, confidence. He keeps looking at me.
I smile first and he blows a kiss.
Oh, I can’t wait to fuck them up.
The whistle goes.
From the opening seconds, I know they’re in trouble.
The ball moves clean under my feet.
The pitch feels fast but controlled, exactly how I like it. Amin drops into space and dictates immediately, pulling defenders toward him and opening lanes without even touching the ball.
They try to close me down early.
Two men on me within the first five seconds. NPCs (Shout out to Frankie for telling me what that is)
I let one come in too close, roll my shoulder through him, and nutmeg the ball past the other without breaking stride.
I hear a sharp shout behind me as one of them goes down.
“Careful, number nine,” their midfielder snaps.
I glance back while still moving, passing it to Amin. “Or what?”
Sol laughs behind me.
They foul Amin in the seventh minute.
Ref gives a warning but no card. Amin just dusts himself off, calm as ever, eyes steady.
“Next one’s yellow,” he tells the ref.
The ref nods. They test us once, maybe twice, with long balls over the top. Our back line handles it easily. I track back once just to make a point, slide in clean, and win possession before popping straight back up.
Tore scoffs. “You tracking back now?”
I shrug. “I do what I want.”
By the fifteenth minute, they’re already breathing harder than we are.
They press high. Too high.
Amin sees it first.
He intercepts a lazy pass, takes one touch, and plays it wide to Sol without even looking. Sol carries it forward just long enough to draw a defender, then cuts it back inside.
Straight to me.
I hit it low and hard.
The keeper gets a hand to it but not enough.
Goal.
One - nil.
I don’t celebrate immediately. I just turn and look at the crowd, then at the defender who tried to close me down too late.
“Too slow,” I tell him plainly.
Boos rain down.
I spread my arms slowly, letting it sink in.
Amin jogs over and taps my shoulder once. “Good finish.”
That’s all he says before we reset.
They come harder after that, which is exactly what we want.
They start talking more. Complaining to the ref. Throwing arms up every time something doesn’t go their way.
Ugh!
You see, this is why I don’t respect them. Just take the cut ass like men. I’m embarrassed for them. I can’t believe I ever played with them. What does Za call it? An ick?
One of their midfielders clips my ankle near the touchline.
I look down.
Mud on my sock.
I stop walking.
The ref blows the whistle and jogs over, but I’m not listening. I bend down and swipe at my leg with my hand, annoyed at the smear of dirt now streaking up my calf.
“You alright?” the ref asks.
I look up slowly. “No.”
The defender smirks. “It’s football.”
He meant to do it. I know he did, because they know I’d be pissed and they thought it would throw me off. I straighten and look him dead in the face. “Yeah. And you’re still shit at it.”
The ref warns us both. I walk away shaking my head, muttering under my breath.
“Watch your temper,” Amin says quietly as I pass him.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Just hate being dirty.”
He snorts.
They don’t stop fouling.
By the thirtieth minute, I take another hit, this one clumsy and unnecessary. I go down harder than I need to, roll once, then push myself up before anyone can help me.
Am I breathing hard? Am I sweating?
Nah.
Air must be thin in Italy.
This lot couldn’t make me sweat if they tried. I will admit though, this is getting to me.
Halftime comes with us up one goal and in complete control.
In the tunnel, I peel my shirt off and inspect the grass stains along my side, clicking my tongue in irritation.
“Disgusting,” I mutter.
Sol laughs. “You gonna survive?”
I flip him off.
Amin leans against the wall, sipping water. “Second half, they’ll push. Stay focused.”
“I’m always focused,” I reply.
Second half starts fast.
They throw numbers forward immediately, leaving space behind them. Amin and Sol exploit it with ease, pulling them apart pass by pass.
In the fifty-third minute, Amin plays me through perfectly.
One defender lunges. Misses.
I chip the keeper clean.
Two-nil.
This time I do smile.
The crowd goes quiet in a way that feels final. I jog back, chest steady, lungs calm, mind clear.
“Captain,” I say as I pass Amin. “They’re done.”
He nods. “Finish it properly.”
They try harder to provoke me after that. A shove here. A word there. One of them stepped on my boot intentionally during a stoppage.
I look down again.
More dirt.
Enough is enough.
I walk straight to the sideline.
Coach looks confused. “What are you doing?”
“I need a new kit,” I say flatly.
He stares at me. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
The fourth official looks between us. Amin jogs over, eyebrows raised.
“You serious right now?” he asks.
I peel my sock halfway down. “Look at this.”
Amin exhales slowly, then laughs. “If you hadn’t scored two, I’d strangle you.”
Coach shakes his head but waves the kit man over.
I swap shirts and socks quickly, retie my boots, and jog back on like nothing happened.
The Italian crowd loses their minds.
“Disrespectful!” someone screams.
I look up at the stands. “Score two goals and then talk.”
Then the boos rain down. I step back onto the pitch already annoyed that the interruption was necessary but satisfied that it’s handled. The ref blows the whistle again, and play resumes with the same hostility it had before I walked off only now it’s all directed at me.
“Tore” is watching me.
He’s been watching me all match, actually, but now there’s something different in his face. Less smug. More focused. He jogs closer during the restart, just enough to make it obvious.
“Changed kits?’ he asks. “You really live up to your reputation, Titan.”
I don’t look at him. “Why are you talking to me?”
He laughs before he jogs off.
Tore drops deeper to get involved, starts demanding the ball, waving his arms like the pitch belongs to him and it didn’t. Not with me here.
In the sixty-eighth minute, one of those risks pays off.
Amin misjudges a clearance by half a step, nothing dramatic, just enough for their winger to nip in and swing a low cross across the box. Tore is already moving. He doesn’t hesitate. One touch. Clean finish.
The net ripples and the crowd explodes, finally.
Two-one.
Don’t you just hate it when players finally show up after sleepwalking halfway through the game? Where was this energy the whole time, Tore?
I stand still at midfield, hands on my hips, watching Tore sprint toward the corner flag. He slides on his knees (which I hate), fists clenched, screaming toward the stands.
Then he looks straight at me. He taps his chest. Points at the scoreboard. Then holds up one finger.
I smile.
He’s good. I’ll give him that. Strong on the ball, quick feet, confident enough to take risks.
But this is MY pitch.
When play restarts, I jog past him deliberately slow.
“Took you long enough,” I tell him. “You warming up or something?”
He leans in as we pass. “You don’t like being challenged, do you?”
“I actually love it,” I reply. “Just don’t get comfortable and start thinking you can keep up with me, ‘kay?”
The next ten minutes are chaos.
They press harder. Fouls start coming late again. The ref finally pulls a yellow. Tore gets clipped on a tackle and stays down longer than necessary, rolling once, twice, checking to see if the crowd’s still watching.
Disgusting.
As I pass him, he mutters, “You not walking off again are you Titan? The game is just getting good.”
I stop and turn. Lean down just enough so he hears me clearly.
“I walked off because I can,” I say. “You stay down because you have to.”
He gets up fast after that, all in my face.
“Piccolo sporco—” he starts but Sol separates us.
“What’d you say?”
“Woah, woah woah,” Amin pulls us away, voice calm but firm. “We don’t lose control. We don’t rush. We end this properly.”
Sol nods. I nod. Tore watches from a distance as we cool off.
In the seventy-eighth minute, I get the ball near the edge of the box with Tore on me immediately. He shoves. I hold and he clips my heel.
No whistle so I keep moving. The goal is there. I could score at any moment and break Tore’s confidence like I really want to. But for some reason, my mind turns to Frankie.
If she were here, I would show off a bit.