Football singularity

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[10/11/2019, Stadion GOSiR, 22:30]

Rakim Rex's eyes squinted against the glaring floodlights, his body still buzzing with adrenaline. His jersey clung to his chest, soaked in sweat, as he guzzled a bottle of water trying to give his starving muscles the needed nutrients. He would have preferred an electrolyte drink, but beggars can't be choosers and could simply wanted to rest.

However, he had barely reached the side of the side of the pitch when a group of reporters encircled him. They seemed to believe that shoving as many microphones as possible in his sight would entice him to answer them. When in reality the more aggressively they acted prompted his intrusive thoughts to gain the upper hand and entice him to act out his inner Stone Cold.

"Rakim! Rakim! How does it feel to knock out Team USA from the tournament? Your own country!"

"Any words about your decision to play for Germany over the United States?"

"Is it true you have something against American soccer?"

The questions came at him with the force and speed of a machine gun relentless and unforgiving as they looked to make their bylines. His fingers flexed, almost itching to swat the microphones away. But he didn't, He couldn't otherwise he would be waking up to a completely different kind of surprise. Cameras were rolling, eyes trained on him, waiting for him to make a mistake, to fumble under the pressure.

He almost smirked but kept his features neutral. "I play for Germany because they gave me the opportunity. It's not about where you're from; it's about where you're welcomed, where you're valued."

"But you were born in the States, Rakim! Some say it's a betrayal to represent another nation," a voice shouted above the others.

Rakim's gaze locked onto the man's eyes, his voice steady. "Actually, I wasn't I grew up in my parent's house, so when the country closed the door on me representing them. My father's home country offered me a chance to play in this tournament and that is who my loyalty lies with."

Another journalist, a woman with sleek hair and a sharp suit, chimed in, "What about the rumours that you were blackballed from the USA U-17 team?"

Rakim tilted his head in exasperation as he glanced at the reporter who asked the question. "C'mon, bro I'm not gonna do your job for you, this is beyond yesterday's news. Anyone got any new questions before I leave," A beat of silence passed. Then more questions hurled his way, this time with a sharper edge.

"Rakim, is your performance today a message to the USA program?"

"Would you ever consider playing for the United States if they offered you a spot?"

"Do you regret your decision?"

He clenched his jaw, keeping his words measured. "The only thing I regret is not playing my best every time I step on the pitch. As for my performance today? I guess the win says it all." Shrugging his shoulder with a lazy smile he wanted to end the interview there, but another reporter decided to intervene.

"You haven't answered the question yet Rakim," he said with a firm tone not willing to let him leave without getting his sound bite.

"That's Mr Rex to you, what's your question again?" rakim retorted pointing to the blond man wearing a Skie press badge. He was used to journalists from the company not liking him, but he didn't recognise this reporter, they usually kept things subtle or rode the wave.

Some of the other reporters did their best to muffle their laughter finding it funny that a sixteen-year-old boy was telling someone in his thirties to call him by his surname. However, Rakim didn't wind it disrespectful in the slightest as he had learned that the best way to deal with the press is to keep them at arms-length. Why at friendly and familiar with a pack of vultures waiting for the opportunity to tear you to shreds?

"Ahem, Mr Rex my question is would you ever consider playing for the United States if they offered you a spot?" He said not at all flustered from the looks his colleagues had sent him as his gaze remained steely on Rakim.

Rakim folded his arms across his chest, his gaze unwavering. "You're asking the wrong question, Mr Brown," he said, his voice calm but sharp enough to cause the latter's eyebrow to rise in intrigue. "The real question is, why would I consider it in the first place, they are not a strong football country that they have the luxury of saying no to their talents and expect them to return."

"But you could be a star for the U.S.!" the man pressed; his desperation palpable. "Don't you want to represent where you grew up?"

"Let's not get it twisted my friend. I'm already a star and that has never been in question." Rakim retorted, "I simply chose to shine where my talents are appreciated and after what happened today, I'm more certain of my choice than ever of my choice." Following his words he took hold of a strand of his still-red-dyed deadlock as he simply walked through the crowd of reporters moving his arms as if he was moving water out of the way in a pool.

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[12/11/2019, Lublin Airport, 11:45]

The private jet touched down smoothly, its sleek silver exterior gleaming under the morning sun. As it rolled down the runway toward the terminal, the air of luxury clung to it like a second skin. The private jet's engines purred softly as the aircraft taxied to a halt at its dedicated hanger. Moments later, the cabin door swung open, and the passengers descended the stairs, guided by the crisp, chilled air of the Polish morning.

The man who stepped off the jet moved with a casual elegance that came naturally to him. His dark hair was thick, neatly styled, his sharp blue eyes glinting under the sun's ray as he exuded a natural charm. There was a certain ruggedness to his features, the kind you'd find on a man who had worked hard at some point in his life but now wore the polish of wealth like an old, comfortable coat. His tailored navy suit fit him like a glove, exuding the kind of sophistication money could money couldn't buy.

Trailing beside him was a little girl with an unmistakable air of confidence of a little girl who had her daddy wrapped around her little pinkie finger. Trailing just a step behind him was a girl, no more than ten, her golden-brown hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. Her bright, inquisitive eyes seemed to absorb everything around her as she did her best to appear sophisticated.

She could've been a miniature version of Maia Mitchell if one took a closer look just with a sunnier disposition. All her emotions were particularly written on her face as she couldn't wipe the smile away from her face. Her outfit was a blend of stylish and casual—a designer hoodie paired with fitted jeans and a pair of pristine white sneakers.

She bounced on her heels with excitement, her energy almost too much for her tiny frame to contain. Her phone was already clutched in one hand, its case emblazoned with the colours of the German flag and a sticker that read Rex Nation in bold, metallic letters. Yet despite growing up in opulence she is what one would call a certified tomboy, from Samurai swords to playing and watching football.

"Daddy, did you see the clip?" she chirped, her voice clear and vibrant. "He was amazing! Totally destroyed Team USA. Three goals, one of them a penalty, and everyone says he's like, the future of football! I mean, did you see the way he just glided past the defenders? And the way he responded to the reporters was just... so cool. Like he didn't care at all!"

Her father chuckled; his gaze fond as he looked down at her. "I saw it, sweetheart. You've only shown me the highlight reel about twenty times."

"Because it's awesome!" she protested, eyes wide and gleaming. "he's practically a legend in the making, And he's only sixteen! Can you imagine that?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm, his arm gently wrapping around her shoulders. "I can. And I suppose that's why we're here, isn't it?"

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To Be Continued...