MY GAME MY RULES

Chapter 7 – Whistle and Whiplash

The Stade Louis II in Monaco gleamed under the Mediterranean sun. A parade of Ferraris lined the streets. Cameras were everywhere. Billionaires in suits sat next to kids in jerseys. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement.

This wasn’t just an exhibition match. It was a battleground. And in the middle of it all stood Robin Ashwood, suited up in a crisp white kit. On his back, the number 10. His name, no longer just a whisper from the streets, it was a banner that carried weight.

He stood at the center circle, calm as a monk, eyes closed. Beside him, football legends did their stretches.

Zinedine Rivera, the midfield magician.

Diogo Carmal, the free-kick king.

Marcus Holt, Premier League golden boot winner.

Robin was the only “unknown” in the squad. Yet every camera pointed at him. The whistle blew. And for the first five minutes, Robin stayed quiet, observing, moving in rhythm. Then the ball came to him. A slick pass. Fast. Unexpected.

He stopped it dead with his heel. Rivera whistled. “Nice touch, kid.” Then Robin made his move. He ghosted past two defenders with a feint so smooth the crowd gasped. Then he let fly from 30 yards out. BOOM.

The ball screamed through the air, dipped at the last second, and smacked the underside of the crossbar before bouncing in.  GOAL.

Commentators went berserk. “HE’S BACK!”

“ROBIN ASHWOOD ANNOUNCES HIS RETURN WITH A SCREAMER!”

“THE KID FROM MARROWFIELD JUST SILENCED EUROPE!”

Rivera grinned and jogged over. “That wasn’t a goal. That was a statement.”

In a glass suite overlooking the pitch, the Parisian benefactor sipped wine. His name: Mr. Lucien Virell, a billionaire investor in media and sports, known for pulling strings behind curtains.

Beside him sat Jordan and an IT consultant holding a USB. “Upload it,” Virell said calmly.

“Now, sir?”

“Yes. The world should see it before halftime.” The consultant clicked ENTER.

Across the globe, notifications popped up on sports networks and social media:

“BREAKING: Is Robin Ashwood Adopted? Leaked Birth Records Suggest So.”

“Martha Ashwood’s Secret: Did She Hide Her Son’s True Origin?”

The file attached was a scanned birth certificate-issued under a different name. Different parents. Different state. A note: “Adopted by Martha Ashwood at 3 months old. No biological family listed.”

Confusion spread like fire. Comment sections exploded. “Is this even real?”

“So he’s not even Martha’s kid?” “He lied about everything???”

At minute 37, during a pause for substitution, Rivera leaned toward Robin. “Hey... just got a weird message.”

Robin frowned. “What message?”

Rivera hesitated. “Something’s trending. About your mom. And you.”

Robin’s blood ran cold. He jogged to the sideline where Coach Velasquez was on a tablet. “What’s happening?” Robin asked.

Velasquez looked up slowly. “They leaked… your birth records.” Robin stared. “Is it true?” the coach asked, carefully.

Robin shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I never asked. I never needed to.” His voice cracked. “She’s my mother.”

Flashback: He remembered being five. Sick with malaria. His mother stayed up three nights straight, sponging his forehead, singing to him in whispers. She’d cried when he got better. “She’s my mother,” he repeated to himself.

Halftime.. As the players left the pitch, a swarm of journalists crowded the tunnel. “Robin! Robin! Are you adopted?”

“Did your mother lie to the world?”

“Is your entire life a fiction?”

Security pushed them back. In the locker room, Robin sat on the bench, head down, fists clenched.

Don Marco entered, holding a phone. “We’re verifying the files. But it’s already spreading.”

Robin looked up. “Does it change anything?” he asked. “Does it change how I play? How I bled? How I rose?”

Marco didn’t answer. Because he didn’t need to. Robin stood. “Then let them talk.”

Second Half... The whistle blew. Robin turned fury into finesse. He danced past legends, turned defenders inside out, and delivered a perfect assist in minute 61. Commentators shouted: “Adopted or not, this boy is a natural-born killer on the field!”

“Robin Ashwood is writing his truth in real-time!”

But inside… Robin was unraveling. His face showed no cracks. But every touch carried weight. He needed answers. After the match a 4–2 win he didn’t join the celebrations.

He slipped into a quiet hallway and called her. “Mama,” he said softly.

Martha’s voice trembled. “You saw it.”

“Is it true?”

Silence. Then “Yes,” she whispered.

Robin closed his eyes. “I adopted you when you were three months old. Your parents… they were lost in a building collapse. No one came forward. You were just left in a government clinic. I was volunteering. I saw you. You were so quiet. So small.”

“I knew then,” she continued. “You were mine. I didn’t lie to hurt you. I just… didn’t think it mattered.”

Robin said nothing. Then,  “It doesn’t,” he said quietly. “You raised me. You fought for me. You believed when no one else did.” “You’ll always be my mother.”

She broke down in tears on the other end. So did he.

That night, as Robin walked into his hotel room, he found a note slipped under his door. No envelope. No name. Just four words: “They’re not done yet.”

And on the hotel television screen, A new headline began flashing: “Interpol to Investigate Robin Ashwood’s Documents – International Fraud Charges Possible?”