Chapter three: The Big match

The next morning the aroma of spaghetti and meatballs woke me up. I knew my dad was home—Uncle could never make a dish that smelled this good. I jumped out of bed, hit the shower immediately, brushed my teeth, and rushed downstairs, still excited about my admission. I hadn’t told my dad yet.

“Boy boy! Good morning,” my dad greeted.

“Good morning, Dad,” I responded, joining him at the dining table. My food was already set. I glanced around for Uncle, but then I spotted him in the living room, watching the Liverpool match he had missed because he had to take me to training.

I dug into my food, still dreaming about college.

“Collins, Collins, Collins!” My dad’s voice pulled me back to reality.

“Yes, sir!” I flinched.

“You’ve been smiling and daydreaming since you sat down. You haven’t even eaten much, which is surprising. What’s going on? Did you get a girlfriend?” he teased.

I chuckled. “Dad, getting a girlfriend wouldn’t make me this happy.”

He laughed, took a sip of his orange juice, and said, “You don’t know what women are capable of making you feel. So, if it’s not a girl, why are you this happy?”

I grinned. “I got admitted, Dad. I got into Royalty College.”

“Oh? Wow! Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I would have gotten something so we could celebrate,” he said excitedly.

“I wanted to tell you in person, and I thought I could wait until you got back from work, but I fell asleep. Coach made me do some hard work,” I complained.

“Sorry about that. So, what should I get you? I think I’ll come home early today so we can celebrate.”

I scratched my head, trying to think of something I wanted, but nothing came to mind. “Anything, Dad. Just surprise me.”

“Alright, I think I have just the thing in mind. I have an important client coming in today, so I don’t want to disappoint him. I’ll see you later.”

He left shortly after, but the driver returned to pick up a bag he had forgotten. I cleared the dining table—it was time for house chores. My dad refused to hire a maid, saying he didn’t want me to be a spoiled rich kid. He wanted me to learn how to do things myself.

Uncle signaled for me to come and take his plate. I shot him a piercing look. He laughed—he knew I hated doing chores and taunted me every chance he got.

Finally, I was done. I lay on my bed, picked up my phone, reread my admission letter, and smiled. I went to the school’s I*******m page, checking out the buildings, reading comments, and doing research—something I had done countless times already. Eventually, I got tired and went downstairs.

Uncle was still in front of the TV, but this time, he was playing FIFA. I picked up a controller. He exited his game, and we got ready to face off. I picked Liverpool, he picked Man City. The match started. 3-0—I whooped his ass.

“Let’s go again,” he insisted.

This time, 2-1—I still beat him.

He refused to quit. I changed my team to All-Stars, and by halftime, I was already up 4-0.

“Unc, you used to be a pro player. How are you this bad at FIFA?” I teased. “I’ll beat you with my eyes closed anytime, any day.”

He scoffed. “Why not come to a real pitch? Let’s see if you can do it there. I’ll absolutely destroy you.”

“With your broken leg?” I chuckled. “I doubt it.”

I noticed his expression shift slightly. I might have touched a nerve, but I didn’t mean it in a bad way.

Uncle used to be a pro footballer for Preston, a Championship team. He was the best midfielder in the squad and probably the entire league. Even when he wasn’t fully match-fit, his coach still started him—he trusted no one else in that position. Uncle was about to sign for Lens, a Ligue 1 team in France, when he tore his ACL. Playing through injuries had finally caught up to him.

His career was over. No more professional football.

He fell into deep depression. It took three years of therapy to get him back to his normal self, but his dream of playing for Liverpool—the team our family supported—was shattered forever. And I had just reminded him of that.

I felt terrible.

“Sorry, Unc,” I said softly.

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”

A moment of silence hung between us, thick and heavy.

“I love you, Unc,” I muttered.

He looked at me with a straight face. “Are you gay?”

I burst out laughing. Seconds later, he joined in.

The alarm sounded—4:30 PM. Time for our local match: our community vs. another.

We grabbed our kits and jogged to the pitch, making it just in time for warm-ups. The match kicked off at 5 PM. I was on the bench, while Uncle started. We played the same position.

30 minutes in, one of our players got injured.

“Collins, warm up,” the coach called.

Two minutes after I subbed in, Uncle sent me a smooth pass. Without hesitation, I faked a shot, sending the defender sliding the wrong way. Now, just me and the keeper.

I struck the ball mercilessly. BOOM! It smashed into the net.

The keeper didn’t even move.

My teammates ran toward me, patting me on the back.

“Collins! Collins! Collins!” The spectators chanted my name. I felt on top of the world. My first goal since joining the local team.

Uncle had a proud look on his face. He hugged me, slapping my back.

First half ended. The coach made some adjustments and gave new instructions.

70 minutes in, a rough slide tackle took Uncle down.

The referee’s whistle blew. Everyone on our team rushed to him—he was screaming in pain.

Furious, I shoved the player who tackled him. My teammates held me back before I could do more. I turned to check on Uncle when I heard the opponent mutter:

“Hope it’s another ACL.”

Everything went red.

I lost it.

I charged at him, landed a punch to his face.

He was bigger than me, but he staggered. When he regained his footing, he swung.

I dodged, delivered two body shots, then a heavy one to his jaw. He collapsed, out cold.

Chaos erupted. Players swarmed in from both sides. The referee struggled to regain control.

After much commotion, things finally settled.

Red card. I was sent off.

Yellow card. The guy who injured Uncle barely got punished.

Uncle was subbed out. His injury seemed serious.

Now, we were down to 10 men against 11.

We lost the game 2-1.