The terrace of his grandparents' house was a sanctuary of dappled shade. The ancient plane tree stretched its limbs overhead, filtering the late morning sun into a shifting mosaic of light and shadow on the worn tiles. Ryan was sprawled in the center of it, a lizard basking in the coolness, his eyes closed and his breathing slow. The world was perfectly still, save for the buzz of a lone bee and the distant, rhythmic chop of his grandmother in the kitchen.
The peace was shattered by the screen door creaking open.
"Ryan, yalla. Get up."
Ryan didn't open his eyes. "I'm dead. Come back later."
His father, Ahmed, sighed, a sound of profound paternal suffering. "Let's go out. Have a walk around the village."
A walk? Ryan thought. I've talked to every NPC. The quest log is empty
.
"Nah. I'm on a sacred napping mission. Don't recruit me for your pagan walks."
"Come on," Ahmed said, nudging him again. "Not gonna come cheer for your dad? The guys are playing."
"Tell you what," Ryan said, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm. "I'll cheer for you from right here. I'm sure your dazzling brilliance will radiate all the way from the pitch. I wouldn't want to miss it by being too close."
"Ryan..."
"Not falling for it. Go embarrass yourself in peace," Ryan declared, closing his eyes with finality.
Silence. A bee buzzed. A leaf skittered across the tiles.
Then, a crushing weight settled on his chest, driving a sharp oof from his lungs. Ryan's eyes fluttered open, vision blurring at the edges, to find the cracked sole of his father's shoe planted firmly on his sternum.
Ahmed gazed down, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Be sure. I will be on my way."
The pressure intensified, ribs beginning to protest. Ryan's hand flailed, fingers patting weakly at his father's ankle.
"On second thought–" he strained, the words a thin wheeze.
The weight lightened by a fraction, just enough for a desperate gulp of air.
"Nothing..." he gasped, chest heaving, "...is more important than supporting your family."
A dark eyebrow quirked upward. The pressure returned, heavier than before, squeezing another choked sound from him. "You sure?"
Ryan's head managed a jerky nod, his free hand giving a weak but definite thumbs-up. "Positive."
The weight vanished. A strong hand gripped his and hauled him upright.
"That's my boy," Ahmed said, clapping him on the back a little too hard.
Ryan rubbed his sore chest, a grimace on his face. He straightened his shirt with a sharp tug, then gave a slight, conceding nod. "...Cool. Nicely played."
His father smirked, the expression full of triumph, and slung a heavy arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Honestly," Ahmed said, puffing out his chest just a little. "I surprise even myself sometimes."
Ryan rolled his eyes, though a hint of a smile threatened to break through. "Okay. Now don't push it." He shrugged the arm off. "And you need to lose weight. Forget fixing any cars - at this rate, your garage will be exclusively truck-only."
Ahmed shook his head, a look of pure, mock hurt on his face. "You are too mean to your old man."
Ryan just stared at him, deadpan. You just walked all over me like Columbus stepping on the natives to discover the New World, and I'm the mean one?
"Fine," Ahmed said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Truce. Give some leeway to your father, you bastard." He reached out and ruffled Ryan's hair, a real, unforced grin finally breaking through.
Ryan swatted his hand away and quickly tried to smooth his hair back into place. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, but the fight was gone.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
He followed his father to the dusty patch of ground that served as the village pitch, plopping himself down in the shade at the edge. He watched as his dad and the other men started their game, their movements a familiar, chaotic rhythm.
Okay, Ryan thought, leaning back against a tree. It's been a few minutes. Any time now, the familiar cutscene's gonna trigger.
He didn't even need to wait long.
After a couple of minutes where Ahmed's most notable contribution was nearly tripping over the ball, one of his teammates, a man with a graying beard, called out, his voice good-natured but blunt.
"Yo, Ahmed! You're already tired! Let your son play instead!"
Ryan let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He didn't move from his spot.
Called it.
His father, red-faced and puffing, waved a hand in Ryan's direction. "Go on, Ryan! Substitution!"
Ryan shook his head, not even bothering to raise his voice. "Nope. Don't wanna."
"Ryan, yalla!" another teammate called.
"Hey, superstar, we're waiting!"
Ryan stared into the middle distance. What is this? Do they think my dad is the basic Pokémon and I'm the evolved version they can just switch into battle?
"Come on, handsome!" the gray-bearded man added with a chuckle.
Ryan's head snapped up. A slow, conceding smirk spread across his face. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his pants.
"Well," he said, finally walking onto the pitch. "Can't say no to that."
He slipped into the midfield, the game flowing around him. The goalkeeper's throw landed at his feet. A man with a proud belly—one of his dad's friends—immediately waddled over, huffing as he tried to crowd Ryan out.
Ryan just chuckled. He let the man get close, then gave the ball a little poke through his legs. As the man froze in surprise, Ryan danced around him, collecting the ball on the other side.
"Careful, Uncle," Ryan said with a grin, "you'll pull something." Then he launched a perfect pass to the winger.
A loud "OOOH!" rippled from the small crowd that had gathered to watch. The nutmegged man just shook his head, laughing as one of his friends yelled, "The boy got you good, Rachid!"
On the sideline, Mohand nudged Baba with his elbow, gesturing at the growing circle of spectators. "Omar," he said, his voice low and meaningful. "Look. Your boy is turning into a star around here."
Just then, they watched as Ryan, trapped near the touchline, casually flicked the ball up and over an opponent's head, letting it land perfectly in the path of his onrushing teammate.
Baba threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound of pure pride.
"Hahahaha! Star? Maybe. But he was always this naughty!"
As the two old men enjoyed the show, a voice cut through the crowd noise behind them.
"I've been looking all over for you," the man said, his voice a low, calm baritone.
They both turned to see him standing there. The sun glinted off his smooth scalp. He wore a dark polo shirt that fit snugly across a powerful chest and shoulders, and a pair of practical glasses rested on his nose.
Mohand turned with a warm smile. "Karim! Come, sit. This is Omar, my friend. He also knows your father." He gestured to Baba.
"Omar, this is Karim, Mokhtar's son. You remember him."
Baba gave a friendly nod. "Hey, Karim. How's your dad? It's been ages since I saw him."
Karim smiled as he sat, the movement relaxed and controlled. "Stubborn as ever," he said, his voice a calm, level baritone. "My mother says retirement is just a word in the dictionary to him."
Mohand and Omar burst into laughter. "Sounds about right!" Omar said, shaking his head.
"So, what brings you by?" Mohand asked.
"My old man wanted some stuff from the old house," Karim explained.
"Did you find it?"
"Kinda. But I think I need a ladder to get to the rest."
"I have one. Let's go," Mohand said, starting to rise.
Karim immediately reached out, placing a firm but gentle hand on his uncle's shoulder to stop him. "No, no, don't get up," he said, his tone warm but insistent. He gave a slight, apologetic shake of his head. "I'm kinda late, and I need to go. Just leave it in the garden. When I pass tomorrow, I will just get it myself."
"Are you sure?" Mohand asked, settling back onto the bench.
"Yeah, I have an appointment in 30 minutes."
"Okay, let's not hold you any longer ."
"Thank you," Karim said. He stood up smoothly and brushed a bit of dust from his trousers with a quick, precise flick of his hand. "It was nice meeting you, Uncle Omar. I will pass your greetings to my father."
He gave a final, polite nod, then turned and walked away, already pulling his car keys from his pocket. He was almost at his car when another loud "OOOH!" erupted from the crowd around the pitch.
He paused, his hand on the car door. Slowly, he turned back, his eyes searching for the source of the commotion. He reached up, took off his glasses, and squinted at the game.
His gaze immediately landed on Ryan. The kid was a whirlwind of motion in the midst of the slower, middle-aged men, the ball seemingly glued to his feet as he danced around a flailing defender.
A slow, deep chuckle escaped Karim's lips. He shook his head in sheer admiration.
"Oh, look at the brat," he muttered to himself, a wide grin spreading across his face. "He sure is a brave one."
He watched for a moment longer as Ryan executed a perfect step-over, leaving another man stumbling. "The village got its Ronaldinho, it seems."
Still smiling, Karim finally slipped into his car and drove away, the image of the talented, cheeky kid already burning itself into his memory.
As Karim's car disappeared down the dusty road, Baba turned to Mohand, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Isn't he playing abroad? What is he doing here?" Baba asked.
Mohand shook his head. "That's old news, Omar. He retired a year and a half ago."
Baba's eyes widened in astonishment. "Huh? I'm sure he didn't play for JS Kabylie..."
"No," Mohand said, his voice dropping slightly with a note of pride. "He didn't play in Algeria at all. He retired from playing professionally... abroad."
Baba let out a soft, "Tsk, tsk. Such a pity. I would have loved to watch him play, even if it was for a club in the capital."
"He did get a lot of offers," Mohand admitted with a shrug. "But even his father, Mokhtar, couldn't convince him. That boy's head is made of rocks."
Omar looked at his old friend, a knowing glint in his eye. "Well, he got a chance. Everyone in your family tree is as stubborn as a donkey."
Mohand just threw his head back and laughed. "Hahaha! Is that so?"
They turned their attention back to the pitch just in time to see Ryan dribble past one last defender and slide a simple pass to his teammate, who tapped it into the empty goal.
The goal sparked a spontaneous celebration. The players, instead of just walking back, broke into wide grins and started clapping in rhythm. Someone began singing a popular, upbeat chant, and soon the whole team was singing along, forming a loose circle around Ryan.
Caught up in the joy, Ryan laughed and started dancing, his movements loose and joyful, matching the rhythm of the claps and the song.
The infectious energy spread to the sidelines. The villagers who had been watching joined in, their own hands coming together in applause, their faces lit up with smiles. For a moment, the dusty pitch was the center of the world, a pure, uncomplicated celebration of a boy and his ball.
Baba watched it all, slowly shaking his head in wonder.
Mohand nudged him gently. "Maybe yours will play sometimes," he said softly.
"As if," Baba murmured, shaking his head. But a proud smile broke through as the dusty pitch transformed into a wedding celebration.