“Mummy. How are you?” I ask. I don’t know what it is about her voice, but a strange blend of Nigerian and British accents slips out of me the second I’m speaking to her.
“Uzoma!” she cries, and that tone alone tells me I’ve made a tactical error in answering. “What is this nonsense I am seeing on the television? This...thisspectacle?”
“Mummy, please. You don’t need to get yourself worked up.”
She sucks her teeth, the sharp, unmistakable sound of a Nigerian mother’s disapproval. “Ah-ah! Do not tell me not to get worked up. Do you see yourself? Your shirt was not even tucked in! And this girl...she does not seem to respect you. She looks like someone who will not be submissive—”
“That’s enough, Mummy,” I interject, my voice firm. “I assure you, Aspen is perfect.”
“We will see. When do I get to meet her?” My mother is now fishing to know whether or not I will bring Aspen to her party.
I let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of my neck as I watch the kids begin to swarm the field. In the distance, Croix is high-fiving them, corralling them into position.
“Mummy, I have to go. Croix and I are getting ready to speak to the children.”
“Oh! Croix? Tell him I said hello.” She always perks up at the mention of Croix. He has that effect on people, I guess. “Invite him to the party, eh?”
A ghost of a smile touches my lips. Croix has been to countless Nigerian parties at our house. For a long time, I was certain we’d end up family in more ways than one. I still remember the first time I saw him truly captivated by the magic of Black women in full traditional dress. Watching him take in the sea ofaso ebi—the vibrant colors, the intricate headpieces, the sheer grace of women of every shape and size—he actually drooled. We laughed about it for months.
I think over my mother’s suggestion to invite him to the party. Perhaps it would be good to see him in that setting again. I hang up with my mum, the echo of that memory softening the rough edges of my mood.
I take a deep breath, letting the nostalgia steady my nerves. Today isn't about the scoreboard or the tabloids or even my aching heart. It’s about the kids watching us, looking for the heroes they’ve pinned to their bedroom walls. For their sake—and maybe for ours—I want to give this a genuine shot. I want to reach across the distance and see if there’s still a shred of the old Croix and Luca left beneath the egos and bravado.
I square my shoulders, ignoring the flare of pain in my leg, and start toward him. Since he’s been buried in mid-season training and I’ve been sidelined with rehab, we haven’t been in the same zip code, let alone the same space in quite a while.
He turns, his eyes locking onto mine the second I step onto the grass. He doesn't smile. He doesn't offer even a flick of a nod inrecognition. He just stands there, watching my approach with a calculated stillness that makes my pulse spike.
I’ve led this man into battle a hundred times. I’ve defended him on the pitch and sacrificed my own body to cover the gaps he left in the defensive line. But as I come face-to-face with him now, the realization hits me like a late tackle: the biggest gap between us isn't on the field. It’s right here, in the three feet of silent air separating our chests.
“You look like hell, Captain,” Croix finally says, voice flat.
“I’m not captain yet, prick. And you look like you're enjoying the view,” I counter.
Croix shrugs, the tension in his shoulders shifting just a fraction. “Not going to lie. It gives me a special kind of tingle in my tummy.” I see the ghost of a smirk, a flicker of the old Croix. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, but the feeling of it lingers.
We’re ushered to a marked spot for promo photos. Behind us, the high-pitched echoes of kids yelling and squirming with excitement. As I watch a small girl chase a boy around a cone, a stray thought hits me out of nowhere…does Aspen want kids?Of course, this isn’t the time, but a man can wonder.
I can feel the sweat pooling at the small of my back, and every nerve ending in my right knee is screaming a different profanity. But the cameras are clicking, and Tatum is nearby watching, so I have to resist the urge to yell, “fucking dick shit wanker!”out of pain and frustration.
“Big smiles, boys!” a photographer calls out.
I feel Croix’s hand land on my shoulder. It’s a heavy, firm pat—the kind of gesture that looks like brotherly affection to a lens but feels like a challenge to me.
“You’re sweating, Captain,” Croix mumbles through his teeth, his smile perfectly fixed. “Do you need me to have your nurse bring your walker?”
I pause, wondering if it’s a joke or if he knows that Aspen ismy nurse.
“Enough shit-talking, Croix,” I snap back. “Or my first order of business as captain will be to trade you to a second-division club in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
The photographer gives us a thumbs up, and we break apart.
Normally, Croix and I would handle this part together—trading off flashy tricks and running drills. But since I'm currently a liability on two legs, I’m stuck handling the microphone while he handles the kids.
Croix immediately jumps into the role of the energetic superstar. He’s a natural with the kids, weaving through a group of seven-year-olds with the ball glued to his feet. He shows off a few step-overs and a rainbow flick that has the girls cheering and the boys trying (and failing) to mimic his footwork. It’s madness, but it brings back so many fond memories of my old friend and me.
I glance to my right and notice a kid sitting by himself on an equipment trunk, far from the sugar-enriched swarm on the grass. His posture is slumped, his expression is one of bored stoicism that feels entirely too mature for his age. Given the state of my knee, this seems more my speed.
“Hey, kid,” I say, easing myself down onto the bench beside him. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of the boys and girls?”
