MY GAME MY RULES

Chapter 3 – The Stage and the Shadows

The stadium lights at San Siro beamed like twin suns. Over 70,000 fans roared, their voices shaking the steel beams of the iconic Italian arena. Flags waved. Drums pounded. Chants echoed. In the locker room tunnel, Robin stood silent, hands at his sides, heart hammering.

He wasn’t just stepping into a football match. He was stepping into a world that had once ignored him… now watching every move he made. “Deep breaths,” whispered Coach Velasquez, patting his shoulder. “Don’t chase the noise. Let the ball find you.”

Robin nodded. His boots were laced tight. The Inter Milan jersey hugged his chest like armor. He whispered to himself, “For Ma.”

Warm-Up...The camera flashes were blinding. Every flick of Robin’s boot, every step he took, drew attention. Fans chanted his name “Ash-wooood! Ash-wooood!”

The Bayern Munich squad eyed him curiously. Some smirked, some shrugged. He was just a street kid. Viral for now. Forgotten later. At least, that’s what they thought. Until the whistle blew.

First Half – The Unleashing...Robin started slow. Passing, moving, keeping it simple. But in the 12th minute, everything changed. A midfielder lofted a ball into space. Robin darted between two defenders, brought it down mid-air with a delicate touch, then flicked it past the oncoming keeper with a calm chip.

GOAL!

The stadium erupted. Commentators screamed in multiple languages. “Unbelievable composure!”

“The street prince just danced on Bayern’s elite!”

Robin didn’t celebrate wildly. He simply raised his hands and pointed to the sky. “To Ma,” he whispered again.

At halftime, the players huddled around Robin, slapping his back. “You made them believers tonight, kid,” Coach Velasquez grinned.

But while the team celebrated, a figure lurked outside the stadium parking lot—Jordan, hoodie up, phone in hand. He spoke to someone on a scrambled call. “Yeah, he’s hot now. But fame makes you sloppy. Give me time. I’ll find the crack.”

Second Half – Pain and Fire, In the 63rd minute, Robin went down. A late tackle from Bayern’s frustrated center back sent him crashing. The crowd gasped. He clutched his ankle, wincing in pain. But he waved off the medics. He stood. And kept playing.

His mother was watching. Somewhere. Quitting wasn’t an option. He assisted a goal in the 78th minute with a no-look cross. By the 90th minute, the crowd was chanting louder than ever. 3–1. Inter wins.

Robin walked off the pitch, jersey soaked, face shining with sweat and triumph, As he entered the tunnel, a reporter pushed through security. “Robin! Just one question, where did you learn to play like that?”

Robin smiled faintly. “On a broken field. With no lines. No coach. Just me and the ball.” Flash. Quote of the night.

Meanwhile… in Nigeria. The match replayed in every bar, café, and electronics store in Marrowfield. Children danced in the streets, chanting his name. Even Kev, watching from a cheap hostel, scowled. “Lucky bastard.”

Stacy watched too, biting her lip. She scrolled through Robin’s new posts, him in five-star hotels, in ice baths, with top players. Then she looked at her cracked phone and rent overdue notice. A plan began to form.

She opened her contact list and dialed a name she hadn’t spoken to in years. “Hi. I know it’s been a while… but we need to talk. It’s about Robin.”

Back in Milan, Robin sat in his hotel room, icing his ankle. The television replayed his goal on loop. His phone buzzed with hundreds of notifications. But one text stood out. From a number with no name. “They’re watching. Be careful who you trust.”

Robin frowned. He stared at it, heart skipping a beat. Then his phone buzzed again, this time a video link. He tapped it. It was a clip of Jordan, laughing in a bar with Kev, talking about “wrecking Robin’s fake fairy tale.” Robin’s face darkened.

The next morning, Don Marco and Coach Velasquez called Robin into a private office. “You’ve stirred the world,” Marco said. “But when you rise this fast, snakes follow.”

Robin sat forward. “I got a warning. And a video.” He played the clip for them.

Velasquez’s jaw tightened. “You know these boys?”

Robin nodded. “They were my friends. Once.”

Marco leaned back, eyes calculating. “We’ll investigate. Quietly. For now, focus on the pitch.”

Robin’s fists clenched. “They won’t stop me.”

Velasquez nodded. “Good. Because your next game is in Spain. Against Real Madrid. At the Santiago Bernabéu.”

That night, as Robin boarded the private jet, Stacy packed a suitcase in Lagos. She tucked a forged press badge into her bag. Kev met her at the airport. “You sure about this?” he asked.

Stacy smirked. “He rose alone. Let’s see if he can survive alone.” As the plane roared into the sky, the game behind the game was just beginning.