2025-07-04 06:40:07
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Chapter 11 – Ghosts Beneath the Grass
It was just past 3 a.m. when Robin’s hotel room phone rang. He was barely asleep, still wired from the adrenaline of his spectacular debut at Blackgate United. His muscles ached, his mind raced, and his heart hadn't slowed since the final whistle. But the call wasn’t a celebration.It was Tomas. “We’ve got a problem,” he said.Robin sat up instantly. “What now?”“Interpol just issued an international watchlist update. They flagged a passport. With your photo. Under a different name.”Robin’s pulse froze. “The name is... Darren Kalu.” Within the hour, Robin, Don Marco, Velasquez, and Tomas huddled inside a luxury suite in central London.On a screen in front of them: a digital passport image. Robin’s face. Same eyes. Same cheekbone scar. But the name read Darren Kalu. Nigerian national. Born in Port Harcourt. Last seen in Abuja, six years ago. “That’s not me,” Robin said, jaw tight.Marco’s eyes narrowed. “No... but someone wants the world to think it is.”Tomas turned to the group. “I
Chapter 10 – Blood in the Grass
The rain came down heavy over Steelshore Stadium, home of Blackgate United, as the lights flickered into brilliance above 60,000 screaming fans. Robin stood in the tunnel, chest rising and falling beneath the weight of his debut jersey. Blackgate blue. Number 9.He looked to his left, his new teammates. To his right opponents. Eastborough City, notorious for dirty tackles and dirtier rumors. But tonight wasn’t just a debut. It was a warzone cloaked in turf and nets.Because Robin didn’t know that beyond the floodlights, in the underbelly of the stadium, something had already been planted. A setup. And someone, someone inside was counting on him falling.As he jogged onto the pitch to warm up, Robin’s eyes swept the crowd. He spotted Ade and Coach Velasquez in the VIP box, waving with wide grins. But the moment was brief. Don Marco’s assistant, Tomas, pulled Robin aside near the bench. “They were here,” Tomas whispered.“Who?”“Lucien Virell’s tech guy. Our cyber surveillance team pick
Chapter 9 – The Strike Back
Midnight in Lisbon. The villa was quiet except for the steady tap of fingers on keys. Robin sat in front of a laptop, eyes locked on a paused video: his childhood friend Ade being dragged by Interpol agents through a crowded Nigerian market, face bloody, yelling something Robin couldn’t hear.Ade, the boy who once gave up his only pair of boots so Robin could train. Now being used as bait. Framed as a drug mule. The money from Robin’s early academy days allegedly “laundered” through Ade’s former phone number. A number Robin hadn’t used since he was sixteen.Don Marco leaned against the doorframe. “They want you to lose your mind. To lash out.”Robin didn’t even blink. “They’ve taken my peace. Now I take theirs.”Velasquez entered with a folder. “Our legal team has reviewed the footage and the transactions,” he said. “It’s fabricated. The timeline doesn’t match. The account number belongs to a bank that didn’t exist when you turned pro.”Robin cracked his knuckles. “Then we need to mak
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 ath
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. “
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,
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