MY GAME MY RULES

Chapter 8 – Hunted, Not Humbled

The hotel room was dimly lit. Robin stood by the window, overlooking the glittering coastline of Monaco. The distant ocean shimmered, but all he saw were headlines burning in red across the TV.

"Interpol Opens Probe into Ashwood Identity Scandal."

"European Agencies Demand Documentation from Don Marco’s Firm."

"Anonymous Whistleblower Sends Files to FIFA, UEFA, and CAF."

Robin’s chest rose and fell slowly. The air felt thinner. He wasn’t panicking, he was calculating. Coach Velasquez entered, tossing a black duffel on the couch. “You’ve got two options,” the coach said. “Stay and fight this. Or leave the spotlight until it clears.”

Robin didn’t blink. “And run?”

Velasquez looked him dead in the eyes. “Sometimes surviving isn’t running. It’s regrouping.”

In a sleek office in Milan, Don Marco and his legal team surrounded a digital board. Photos. Strings. Leaked files. Time stamps. All connected to one man: Lucien Virell. Billionaire. Former club investor. Known for destroying young athletes who refused to sign under his network of agencies.

“He tried this before,” Marco growled. “A kid from Brazil. Another from Cameroon. When they didn’t sign with his firm, he buried them in fake scandals.”

Tomas, Marco’s assistant, tapped the board. “Interpol’s been infiltrated. Some of their 'sources' trace back to Virell’s shell companies.”

“Then we expose the puppet master,” Marco said. “But we need Robin clean. And we need leverage.”

Stacy sat inside a secured room, guarded by Marco’s people. She looked pale but determined. “I didn’t know about the Interpol part. But Jordan… he’s gone deeper than I thought. Last I heard, Virell offered him a fake European passport and 100 grand to vanish.”

Tomas leaned in. “You need to give us everything. Every message. Every contact. Every place they met.”

Stacy slid a flash drive across the table. “It’s all on here. Voice notes too.”

Then she looked at the mirror behind the agents. “I want immunity. And I want Robin to know… I was stupid. But I never stopped rooting for him.”

At a press-congested airport in Nice, France, Robin Ashwood walked toward a private jet. Flashing lights. Screaming headlines. Microphones thrust into his face. “Robin, are you guilty?”

“Are you fleeing before charges are filed?”

“Where are you going?”

He paused, turned slowly to the cameras. “I’ve spent my whole life running through obstacles,” he said, steady. “But I’m not running now. I’m going to train. Heal. Come back better. The truth always outruns lies.” Then he boarded the plane. Destination: Lisbon, Portugal.

Lucien Virell stared at a blank screen. Then smiled faintly. “They’re moving him again,” he said to his men. “Good. The more he runs, the more guilty he looks.”

One of his hackers, a man with a shaved head and a Portuguese accent, approached. “We’ve gained access to his agent’s cloud server. If we drop the right edited contract documents... we could forge financial fraud.”

Lucien smirked. “Do it. And prepare for the final act.” He opened a drawer. Inside: A printed message from one of Robin’s former school principals. A falsified testimony. And a name: Ibrahim Olakule.

In the quiet outskirts of Lisbon, Robin trained on a private turf. No media. No teammates. Just Velasquez and a camera crew recording every drill, for evidence, for sponsors, for the court of public opinion.

Running under heat. Practicing volleys against a wall. Striking freekicks that bent around mannequins. Each day, he pushed harder. And each night… he broke down.

He called his mother once every evening. She never missed. “Still with me, Ma?”

“Until my last breath, son.”

One week later, a bold move changed everything. Don Marco arranged a live sit-down on BBC World Sport. Robin, suited in navy blue, sat opposite a sharp-tongued interviewer known for digging deep. First came the expected questions. “Are you adopted?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know?”

“No.”

“Do you think that affects your credibility?”

“Only if blood defines loyalty. My mother raised me with love and values, not contracts.”

Then the real bomb dropped. “Interpol is now saying you're being investigated for financial forgery specifically in your signing bonuses and youth registration records. If proven true, you could be banned for life.”

Robin paused. Looked into the camera. And said, “Every cent I’ve earned is documented. Every form filed was under the guidance of professionals. If someone tampered with my records, I welcome a full investigation. But know this, if this is another attack, I’m not just going to defend myself… I’m going to fight back.”

Fans watched in millions. His calm confidence. His refusal to be broken. And then… an unexpected ally appeared. Marcus Holt, the legendary striker Robin once idolized, posted on his verified account: “I’ve played with liars. Cheaters. Prima donnas. Robin Ashwood is none of those. What he is? The future.”

It was retweeted over 2 million times in 6 hours. Clubs began privately calling again. In Paris, Virell hurled a wineglass across the room. “Get me something new!” he screamed. “We bury him now. Or never.”

The hacker returned with something curious. “Sir… we traced an old abandoned file server under Robin’s Nigerian school district. It has actual footage of him playing at ten years old. And a birthday celebration. Confirming his age.”

Lucien went pale. “That means the Interpol age fraud theory”

“was completely false,” the hacker finished.

Lucien growled. “Then we need a scandal that can’t be disproved.” He stared at a wall of photos, pausing on one, Robin, hugging a childhood friend... now in prison.

“Let’s make him guilty by association.”

That night, Robin received a private message. It was from a burner account. “They found your old friend Ade. They’re going to link him to drug money. And say you laundered it through your first football paycheck.”

Attached was a photo of Ade being dragged into a police van. Robin gripped the phone, fury shaking in his chest. “They’re coming after everything,” he whispered.

Coach Velasquez entered the room and said quietly, “Then it’s time we stop playing defense.”

Robin looked up, eyes blazing. “Let’s go on the attack.”