It was another Wednesday morning at Brandol High School. The weather had turned cold and wet, with a brisk wind sweeping sheets of rain across the compound. The downpour fell straight and silvery, like a punishment of steel rods descending from the heavens.
The sky hung low, cloaked in heavy grey clouds that bled into the horizon. The rain showed no signs of letting up.
Two weeks had passed since the new session began.
Inside the Victoria Olabisi Hall, the school's largest auditorium, students filed in quietly. Their footsteps echoed against the tiled floor, muffled by the storm outside. A total of 956 students and staff were present, taking their seats slowly, curiosity thick in the air.
Something was about to happen.
A special announcement had called them all here—and no one knew exactly why.
The Principal, Mrs. Teresa Gbadamosi, stepped onto the towering 31-foot-high proscenium stage. Instantly, the hall fell silent—completely still. That was one thing Brandol High prided itself on: discipline. Unmatched. Unrivaled in the entire state.
She approached the podium, picked up the microphone, and scanned the sea of faces before her—rows upon rows of students sitting upright in crisp uniforms, their eyes fixed on her.
"Good morning, students and staff of Brandol High," she began, her voice smooth and commanding. "I see those pretty smiles on your beautiful faces. I hope you all had a restful night?"
A soft murmur of polite laughter rippled through the hall.
"Now, let's get straight to why we've gathered here today. Some of you may already have an idea. Every year, Brandol High hosts an inter-school sports competition —an event that brings out the best in our athletes and helps us discover rising stars among you."
She paused, her voice lifting with excitement.
"But this year… Christmas came early. PepsiCo, in partnership with Rite Foods, is organizing a special football tournament for select schools across Lagos. And guess what?" She smiled. "Our prestigious school has been invited to participate."
A wave of excitement surged through the hall.
The entire crowd rose to their feet, a wave of applause erupting through the hall. Cheers and hoots echoed off the high walls as the students celebrated the announcement.
Michael, however, remained seated amidst the chaos of excitement. He clapped lazily, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Olivia looking right at him from a few seats down. Their eyes locked. She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable, then slowly lifted her hands—palms facing up—gesturing toward him.
What the hell is she doing? he thought.
Then, she mouthed the words, just loud enough for him to catch, "Get up."
His eyes widened.
"Ohh shit," he muttered under his breath, jolting to his feet.
He joined in the applause, slapping his hands together quickly, trying to play it cool.
They all sat down after a few seconds and the Principal resumed her speech.
"Schools like Chrisland College and D-Ivy will be participating in the tournament," the Principal continued, her voice firm yet enthusiastic. "We're expected to select fifteen players each for both the boys' and girls' teams. So, if you believe you've got what it takes to represent Brandol High, report to the gym teacher, Mr. Segun."
She gestured toward the broad-shouldered man standing at the edge of the stage, arms folded, a whistle hanging from his neck. He gave a curt nod, already scanning the crowd for potential recruits.
"We've been given just three weeks to train before our first match—right here on our home field," she added, her tone shifting to something more commanding. "I trust Mr. Segun will whip you all into shape. We're not just participating—we're competing to win."
There was a brief pause before she concluded, "Training begins tomorrow. With that said, this assembly is hereby dismissed. You may now return to your classes."
A ripple of murmurs followed as students slowly filed out of the hall, excitement and curiosity buzzing in the air.
Michael remained seated, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as the auditorium slowly emptied around him. The echo of footsteps faded until silence took over, but he didn't move. He was lost in a memory — back at Hawkins High, wearing the red and black of the Hawks, the crowd roaring his name. He would give anything to feel that again.
"Michael, are you okay?" Olivia's voice broke through his thoughts, gentle but concerned. "We're the only ones left. Aren't you coming?"
He blinked, as if waking from a dream, and glanced around. The hall was empty.
"I didn't even notice," he muttered, rising to his feet. "Let's go."
But Olivia didn't move. She just stood there, studying him with that look — the one people wore when they weren't convinced by your smile.
"Why the face?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm okay. Nothing's wrong. I just… drifted off for a bit. Come on, let's go."
She offered a small, forced smile and fell into step beside him. She didn't believe him — not completely. She knew what football meant to him. He'd told her stories about Hawkins, about the Hawks, about how the pitch used to feel like home.
Something was definitely eating at him… and she planned to find out what it was before the day was done.
It had been a long, dragging day. For once, Olivia found it nearly impossible to focus in class. The teachers spoke, but their words barely landed — her thoughts were elsewhere, orbiting around one thing: Michael.
She wanted to talk to him.
So when the final bell rang at exactly 3:00 PM, she let out a long sigh and quickly began packing up her books. She glanced toward the door — Michael was already leaving, moving fast, like he had somewhere to be.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him out.
"Hey," she called, catching up. "What's with the rush? Got a hot date or something?"
"What? No… No, I just have something I gotta take care of at home."
"Oh… well good-bye then. I will see you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Take care."
He stormed down the hallway, shoulders tense, footsteps sharp. Olivia stood frozen, watching him disappear into the dimly lit corridor.
Then, just before he turned the corner, she raised her voice—calm but certain.
"I think you should try out for the tournament."
He stopped dead in his tracks.
"What did you say?" he asked, turning his head over his shoulder.
Olivia walked up slowly, the hallway unusually quiet around them.
"I said… I think you should enter the tournament," she repeated, softer this time. "I haven't even seen you play, but when you talked about Hawkins, about the Hawks… your eyes lit up. I could feel it. You've got something, Michael. I don't know what it is yet, but I'd really love to see it out there… on the pitch."
"Please just stop. I'm not interested."
"I just think you should…"
"Enough," Michael snapped, his voice sharp, final. "It's not your business if I play or don't. Just focus on yourself, I don't need you to worry about me. Aight?"
He stared at her for a long, cold moment before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow corridor.
Olivia stood still, her throat tight. Why did I say anything? That was so stupid.
She turned, her pride bruised, and made her way toward the Biology lab. As she passed through the hallway, whispers swirled around her like cold wind.
"The All-Knowing Goddess is in love," one girl mocked.
"She just got turned down by the new kid… hard," another added.
Laughter followed—sharp, petty, and cruel. The kind that clung to the skin.
Olivia kept walking, eyes forward, pretending not to care. But inside, she felt like crumbling.
Olivia, however, couldn't care less—at least, that was what she told herself. They had been throwing shade her way since JSS1. Jealousy, envy, cattiness—she'd seen it all. Their taunts were stale background noise by now. And she'd always had the grades to shut them up without breaking a sweat.
They could go to hell with their insults.
But this time… this time… it just felt different.
For once, their words hit something real. Maybe they were right. Maybe she had caught feelings. And maybe—just maybe—that made her weak.
The hallway blurred as her vision welled. She picked up her pace, closing her ears to the echoes of laughter. No one could see her like this.
She pushed into the Biology lab, slammed the door shut behind her, and let the dam break.
She cried—quietly at first, then in full. Not just from hurt, but from the helplessness of caring when you didn't mean to.
After school, Michael went straight to the field like he always did. The sun was still out, but the heat had mellowed a bit. The field was busy — guys shouting, a ball bouncing somewhere in the distance, the usual after-school energy.
Tosin was already there, sitting close to the edge of the field, counting a few naira notes she had just won from a match.
"Hey champ," she said, eyes still on the money. "How was school?"
Michael was already pulling off his shirt to reveal his Real Madrid jersey. He tossed his bag under the bench and looked at her.
"School was fine. So, whose team am I playing for today?"
"You're early," Tosin said, giving him a curious glance. "You're never this early. It's not even four yet. Last time you showed up, it was past five. So, what's different today?"
"Nothing," Michael replied, shrugging. "I just felt like coming earlier. That's all."
Tosin raised a brow. "Yeah? Well, I'm not getting you a match unless you stop lying to my face."
She locked eyes with him as she slid the cash into her left pocket.
"What do you mean? I'm telling you the truth."
"I don't think you are," she said, standing up. "So, no game today."
Michael sighed and looked down for a moment.
"Fine. I'll tell you. My school's entering an inter-school football tournament," Michael said.
Tosin's eyes lit up. "That's great news, isn't it?"
"It should be," he muttered, "but... I don't know. I don't feel like I'm good enough to make the team. Just thinking about wearing that school jersey feels off. What if I mess up on the pitch? In front of everyone? I don't think I could live with that."
"So why'd you come train then?" Tosin asked. "To drown your sorrows or actually get better?"
Michael didn't answer. She went on.
"I think you've got what it takes to make that team. You've been going on and on about how much you miss football, how badly you want to play again. And now, the chance is right there and you're too scared to take it? Come on, Michael. No one really cares if you win or mess up. What matters is going for what you want. If you give it your all and still fall short, at least you know you tried—and had fun doing it."
Michael smiled. "Thanks, T. That actually made me feel a lot better. You know, you'd make a great therapist if you didn't drink and gamble so damn much."
She burst out laughing. "I know, right? But this is the last time I'm giving you a pep talk."
"Sure, sure."
"Now, get your sorry ass up—I got a match for you."
"Aight. How much?"
"The regular."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out some cash, and handed it over.
"That will be all?"
"That will be all." She replied with a grin. "Now warm up I can't lose this bet. My money is on your team so you better unleash that beast you've been talking about since I met you. You got five minutes."
With that, she walked over to the captain of the opposing team to make the match official.
It was a few minutes past six when Michael's Uber pulled up to a yellow duplex in Alfred Garden Estate. He stood at the doorstep, gathering his thoughts, his hand hovering over the doorbell for what felt like forever. After a long, tense pause, he rang it.
Within half a minute, a fair, middle-aged woman opened the door and eyed him cautiously. Michael leaned against the wall beside the door, unsure of how to begin.
"Excuse me, can I help you?" she asked.
"Sorry, ma'am," he stammered. "You must be Olivia's mom. I just… I need to talk to her. Can I see her?"
The woman's expression hardened. "You must be Michael. She told me everything—what happened today in school. And frankly, she doesn't want to see you right now. So, I suggest you leave."
"Please, ma'am. Just let me see her. I just want to…" Michael pleaded, his voice faltering.
"Leave my house, now, before I call the authorities," Regina snapped, her eyes burning with anger.
Michael stepped back, his heart sinking. He could see the rage in her eyes, and he knew there was no convincing her. He reluctantly turned and left the compound, feeling the weight of his actions.
Once he was home, he called Olivia, hoping she'd pick up.
Meanwhile, Olivia sat alone in her room, tears still streaking her face. For the past two hours, she had cried in silence, but now, as the emotions subsided, she made a conscious decision to pull herself together. She knew she needed to move past the incident, even if it hurt.
Olivia had just finished her bath and was now curled up with a book when she decided to check her phone. There were 8 missed calls from Michael and 5 unread messages. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the screen. She considered calling him back, but instead, she dropped her phone in frustration.
Almost immediately, her phone rang again. It was Michael. She took a deep breath, sighed, and picked up the call. For the past two hours, she'd kept her iPhone on Do Not Disturb, but now she needed to hear him out.
"Hello?" she answered in a quiet, subdued tone.
"Thank God you picked up," Michael's voice came through, laced with relief. "I was worried sick."
"I'm fine," she replied, her voice steady but distant. "Why did you call?"
"I wanted to apologize for today," Michael said, his voice sincere. "I really wasn't myself. I'd been trying to hide it, but I just couldn't. I was afraid of messing up on the pitch, and that's why I didn't want to apply. When you brought it up, I got mad at myself and ended up taking it out on you. I shouldn't have said what I did, and I'm really sorry. Please, can you forgive me?"
There was a long pause on Olivia's end. Her mind was racing with conflicting thoughts. After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke.
"It was my fault too," she said quietly. "I went a little overboard. So… I forgive you."
"Thanks. I promise you won't regret it. I'll see you in school tomorrow. Goodnight."
"You too."
Olivia lingered by her phone, hoping for a response, but nothing came.
She let out a small laugh, speaking softly, "You sound kind of romantic when you're asking for forgiveness."
Michael, unsure how to respond, paused.
"Uh… thanks," he finally said, his voice a little hesitant.