Hey guys, this one's a bit shorter than the last chapter. Figured it's good to have a little balance after a long one. Enjoy the breather!
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The silence was absolute.
"So even you know there are limits to fucking with someone," Ryan said, his voice small in the immense void.
He exhaled, a long, slow breath. Alright. I have the whole stadium to myself. Corporate finally gave me my own branch. Let's see the assets.
A slow, dark grin spread across his face. "I wonder how much the rent is on a place like this," he mused aloud, his voice echoing faintly in the emptiness.
"Utilities must be a bitch, though. All these lights." He spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the Ryan Arena. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? A bit pretentious, but I've earned it."
With a new, purposefully arrogant stride, he began his inspection. He wasn't a prisoner anymore; he was a prospective owner on a walkthrough.
He ran a hand along the pitch's grass. "Hmm. Turf quality is acceptable. Could use a more aggressive fertilizer, though." He peered critically at the goalposts. "Rust on the north post. Unacceptable. That's a safety hazard. My lawyers will be hearing about this."
He marched into the dugout, picking up an invisible clipboard. "Home team benches... adequate. Away team benches..." He kicked the leg of one. "...structurally unsound. Perfect. Let's keep it that way."
His tour of criticism continued. He stalked the concourses. "Vomitoriums are... passable. But the branding is all wrong. Needs more... me." He arrived at a bare concrete space that would house food stalls. "And where's the VIP bar? Unacceptable. How am I supposed to entertain oligarchs and washed-up celebrities?"
Finally, he returned to the stands, this time with the eye of a developer. He climbed to the highest tier. "Nosebleed section. View is terrible. Can barely see the players. We'll price it as 'economy luxury'." He moved down, section by section, muttering to himself.
"Family section... too much legroom, not enough profit per square foot."
"Behind the goal... decent atmosphere, but the sun will be in their eyes. We can charge a 'passion premium'."
He finally settled in the central seat of the main stand, right on the halfway line. He sank into it with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Now this... this is the money seat. The Director's Box." He looked around at the empty seats beside him, then snapped his fingers at the void. "Service! A chilled orange juice. Freshly squeezed. And maybe some of those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. What is this, amateur hour?"
He waited, the silence mocking him.
"Hmph. This is not how you treat the new branch director. I'm going to have to file a complaint with... well, with myself, apparently." His gaze swept over the opposite stand. "And that entire east wing needs a massive renovation. Can't have the plebs looking over here with their cheap seats ruining my view."
He let out a short, sharp laugh. "So this is how Kim Jong-un feels. Huh."
He put his feet up on the back of the seat in front of him, a king on his broken plastic throne.
"Okay. If this is your idea of a time-out, it's pathetic," he announced to the silent, watching void. "Pathetic. You need some lessons from African parents."
He leaned forward, as if confiding in a business partner. "Tell you what. Let's discuss some middle ground. I can give you the Africa Punishment Pack for free. Includes the 'I Hit You, But I'm The One Getting Upset' and the classic 'Wait Till Your Father Gets Home' DLC. Limited time offer."
He waited a few seconds for a response that never came.
"Huh. Silent treatment. Classic."
A massive, involuntary yawn overtook him. The bit was done. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a deep, hollow fatigue. He stood up and stretched, his joints cracking in the silence.
"You know what," he sighed, his voice losing its last shred of edge. "If you look at it differently... this is actually really peaceful."
He walked slowly onto the pitch, the pristine grass soft under his feet. He sat down right on the center circle, cross-legged, and looked towards one of the goals, taking in the perfect, symmetrical view of the empty stadium.
"Hmmm," he murmured, a genuine, quiet thought. "So this is the view Iniesta was seeing."
He contemplated the empty stands for a moment longer. "Yeah, those Spaniards always knew how to enjoy a nice view. It's in their blood. See a new map, plant a flag, call it yours. The original beta testers."
He lay back on the grass, staring up at the unblinking lights.
"Right. Time for a nap."
He closed his eyes. He didn't know how much time passed—a minute, an hour, a day—but a sudden, weightless sensation pulled at his navel, like the lurch of a falling elevator.
Then, the world slammed back into existence.
The roar was deafening. The scent of grass and sweat was overwhelming. The ball was a white speck in the sky, arcing towards the halfway line. A Panathinaikos player was turning his back, eyes fixed on its descent.
The same player. Whole. Unharmed.
Ryan's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. A phantom sensation flickered in his right foot—the jarring impact, the sickening give of bone. His cleat felt suddenly heavy, stained with a memory. On instinct, he dragged the sole of his boot hard against the grass, once, twice, a futile gesture to clean off blood that wasn't there.
Well, look who it is, he thought, a grim, tight smile on his face as he moved into position. "What a fast recovery, my guy. Impressive. Did Zeus himself pop down from Olympus to be your team doctor?"
The player ignored him, eyes locked on the descending ball, his body coiling to jump.
Ryan watched the ball arc through the air. He saw the player leap. He saw the trajectory. He knew exactly where he needed to be, the run he needed to make to challenge for the header.
A slow, weary breath escaped him. He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, his shoulders slumping in a gesture of pure surrender.
"I don't care anymore," he muttered, the words lost under the roar of the crowd.
He stayed rooted to his spot, a statue of apathy, as the Panathinaikos player connected cleanly with the ball. The play flowed away, leaving him behind.
The game went on around him, but from that moment, Ryan had checked out.
Yeah. Fine. You win. I'll just run the clock.
He looked up at the sky, at the blinding floodlights, and spoke to the silent warden one last time, his voice flat and final.
"You are so stubborn, man. Messing with you is no fun. You should learn how to take a joke."
A final, petty thought surfaced, and he didn't bother to stop it.
"Bet you don't have any friends."