MY GAME MY RULES

Chapter 5 – The Boy They Tried to Break

Pain had a rhythm. A slow, dull throb that pulsed behind Robin’s eyes and down his leg. He lay in a white hospital room in Madrid, leg wrapped in bandages, head resting on a stiff pillow, and eyes wide open.

The injury wasn’t the worst part. The silence was. No crowds. No chants. No ball. Just stillness and static on the muted TV screen. His phone lit up with missed calls, voice notes, and news alerts. Most of them... weren’t kind.

“BREAKING: Robin Ashwood Accused of Age Fraud”

“Former Friends Claim He Lied His Way Into Football Fame”

“Anonymous Sources Leak Suspicious Documents”

Clips of him scoring and celebrating now ran alongside headlines questioning if he was “another age-cheating street kid from Africa.” His name trended globally, not as a hero, but as a scandal. They weren’t just trying to doubt his skills. They were trying to erase him.

Inside an upscale Madrid office, Don Marco’s jaw tightened as he scanned the headlines. “This isn’t just sabotage,” he growled. “It’s coordinated.”

Beside him, his assistant, Tomas, sorted through reports. “The files are doctored. Whoever did this knew what they were looking for. They had access.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed. “Check all credential access logs. And flag anyone connected to Robin’s past.”

He paused. “Start with this name: Jordan.”

Back in Nigeria, Martha Ashwood watched the news, fists clenched. Her son’s name was being dragged through the mud. She switched off the TV, grabbed her phone, and made a single call.

“Mr. Okonkwo? It’s time to activate the safety vault.”

A pause on the other end. Then a response: “Everything is still in your name. The legal records. His contracts. His ID trail. They can’t touch him.”

She breathed. “Good. Then let them try.”

A week passed. Doctors cleared Robin to begin therapy. His injury wasn’t as devastating as feared, no torn ligament, but a severely bruised muscle and minor ankle sprain.

Three weeks, max. But the bigger injury was to his name. Everywhere he looked, there were whispers, memes, mockery. Some of his earliest fans were now turning.

He scrolled through social media and saw former friends giving interviews: “He always talked big. I guess he was faking the whole time.” – Kev

“He lied about his age. I knew something was fishy.” – Jordan

Even Stacy gave an exclusive: “He broke up with me because he knew I knew too much.” Robin felt his stomach turn.

He wasn’t entirely alone. Coach Velasquez visited him every day, bringing books, match tapes, and silent support. One afternoon, the coach walked in and sat beside his bed. “You know what burns me the most?” Velasquez asked. “Not that they hurt you… but that they think you’ll stay down.”

Robin didn’t respond. Velasquez tossed a disc on the bedside table. “You want to heal? Good. But when you're ready, I want you to watch this.”

Robin picked up the disc. It was labeled: “The 10 who came back stronger.” A montage of legends, players who were injured, broken, counted out… then came back.

“You’re next,” the coach said, standing.

Tomas called Marco. “Sir. We traced the file leaks.”

Marco turned. “Talk.”

“It came from inside the press booth at Bernabéu. Fake badge. Video logs confirm it.”

He slid over a photo. It was blurry, but clear enough. Stacy. Marco leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing. “The ex-girlfriend. That’s who they used?”

“She’s just the bait,” Tomas replied. “The real snake’s deeper. We think it’s Jordan, and someone funding him.”

Marco folded his hands. “Let’s find out who.”

Back in Nigeria, an unexpected twist hit the media. Martha Ashwood appeared on a televised interview. She sat tall, wrapped in a simple gown, speaking with poise and fire. “My son is not a fraud,” she said firmly. “He was born in Marrowfield. We registered him properly. I have every file, every paper, every school record, under my name.”

The interviewer blinked. “So you’re saying this is—?”

“A lie,” she said. “Fabricated. And I’ll prove it.”

Clips of her interview went viral. Support returned like a wave. “His mom’s a real one.”

“Martha Ashwood for President!”

“Protect that woman at all costs.”

In his hospital bed, Robin watched the interview, eyes stinging. “She never left my corner,” he whispered. His phone buzzed. A new message. This one… from someone unexpected.

Stacy. “We need to talk. Please. Not everything is what it seems.” He stared at the screen, rage boiling. He deleted it. The next morning, Robin took his first step onto a private training pitch, leg still sore.

Don Marco and Velasquez stood by, watching. Robin juggled the ball with care. Left. Right. Right. Left. Then he dropped it and began jogging. Velasquez smiled. He was back. Not at full strength. But burning.

In a high-rise in Paris, a man in a tailored grey suit watched Robin’s training footage. He sipped wine. Next to him sat Jordan and Kev. “You failed,” the man said, voice cold. Kev panicked. “No we slowed him. He’s off the pitch. Media hates him now.”

The man looked unimpressed. “Media is fickle. Hype is water. Robin Ashwood… is fire.”

He stood, voice chilling. “If you want to destroy fire”

He turned to the window, eyes hard. “you don’t throw shade. You drown it.”

He smiled. “And I have the flood.”