MY GAME MY RULES

Chapter 6 – Fire in His Veins

The wind was sharp and dry over the private hills of Lake Como, where Don Marco had temporarily moved Robin for rehabilitation, away from media noise, away from cameras, and more importantly, away from traitors.

Here, surrounded by forests and silence, Robin could hear the sound that mattered most. The ball. Thump. Tap. Flick. Catch. He bounced it off his knee, shoulder, head, then back down to his toes like a song only he knew how to play. Every touch carried something more than just skill. It carried anger. Betrayal. Resolve.

Coach Velasquez had mapped out a 21-day return program.

Week 1: Light cardio, flexibility, and muscle reactivation.

Week 2: Ball control, movement under stress, reaction drills.

Week 3: Full-contact simulation, game-readiness, explosive speed return.

Robin demanded more. “Double the reps. Double the drills,” he told the trainer. “I’m not coming back to play. I’m coming back to take.” Velasquez didn’t argue. He saw it in Robin’s eyes, the hunger.

Back in Madrid, Stacy watched Robin’s recovery videos. Something unexpected crept in. Guilt.

She hadn’t expected the footage of her in the press room to go viral. She hadn’t expected people to connect the dots. She certainly hadn’t expected Don Marco’s men to show up at her hotel asking questions.

That night, she received a package at her door. Inside was a flash drive. It held raw footage of Jordan in Paris, taking money, laughing with men she didn’t recognize. She realized She was just another pawn.

Despite the smear campaign, Robin’s mother’s interview had ignited a fire. Clubs that had gone quiet began calling again. “He’s still clean in our records.”

“The boy can play. That’s all that matters.”

“This is just a storm. Let it pass.”

Don Marco, ever the tactician, didn’t respond to any yet. He wanted one thing: Robin’s comeback game to silence all doubt in 90 minutes. And he had just the opponent in mind.

Robin sprinted across the pitch, beating the motion tracker’s best time. Coach Velasquez whistled. “Your acceleration’s better than pre-injury.”

Robin nodded, panting. “I told you. I wasn’t just healing. I was evolving.” But the test wasn’t over. They placed him against two Inter defenders in a closed simulation. Both had played Champions League matches. Both knew his style.

This time, Robin didn’t dance. He fought. He bulldozed through tackles, twisted past grabs, and when one defender shoved him, Robin spun mid-air and launched a volley so violent the net nearly snapped.

Everyone stared. Velasquez broke into a grin. “Send the tapes. Let the world know, he’s ready.” In a dingy Paris apartment, Kev was unraveling.

The “boss” the cold-eyed man funding the smear had stopped responding to his calls. Jordan was missing. Stacy had gone dark. And now… rumors were swirling that Don Marco’s legal team had launched an investigation into cyber interference. He knew what that meant. He was a target now.

Stacy sent a private video message to Don Marco’s assistant. “I was used. I didn’t know how far it would go. Jordan wanted to ruin Robin. But the people behind him? They want more. I think they're targeting Marco's entire agency.”

She paused. “I’m willing to testify. But I want protection.” Marco watched the video that evening in silence. Then said, “Bring her in. If she’s lying, I’ll bury her.”

The Match Is Set

Date: 14 Days from now

Venue: Monaco

Event: International Charity Exhibition

Match: Rising Stars XI vs Legends of Europe

A low-stakes event on the surface, but behind the scenes, Don Marco had ensured the world’s cameras would be watching. Because Robin Ashwood would return here. Fully fit. Fully focused.

And sharing a pitch with the likes of Zinedine Rivera, Marcus Holt, and Diogo Carmal, legends, all ready to test the boy the world tried to erase.

The night before flying to Monaco, Robin stood at the balcony of his Lake Como suite. He held the ball under his arm, looking at the stars. His mother called. “I saw the announcement,” she said proudly. “You’re back, my son.”

“I’m not just back,” Robin replied. “I’m better. They wanted to break me. They didn’t know I was made from storms.”

She was silent for a moment. Then whispered, “Give them hell, baby.” In a luxury hotel across Monaco, the mysterious Paris benefactor sat with a briefcase full of documents, surveillance files, and dark contacts.

Jordan sat beside him, pale and silent. “They think the boy’s clean,” the man said. “Let them.”

He pulled out a signed document. “Because tomorrow… we expose the one truth even his mother doesn’t know.”

He dropped the file onto the table. It read: “CONFIDENTIAL: Adoption Records – Robin Ashwood”