The alarm on Miracle Johnson's phone blared like a siren in the quiet of his shared room, jolting him awake far later than usual. He squinted at the screen—7:15 AM. Panic surged through him. School started at 8:00, and with Calabar's morning traffic, he'd be lucky to make it on time. "Damn it," he muttered, throwing off the thin blanket. The house was already stirring—Emmanuel, his second-born brother, was in the bathroom, Judah and God'swill arguing over breakfast downstairs, and the twins, Divine and Deborah, giggling in the living room. Miracle rushed through his routine, splashing water on his face, yanking on his school uniform, and stuffing his books into his bag with frantic energy.
"Mom, I'm late!" he called, grabbing a piece of bread from the kitchen table as he bolted for the door. His mother, already dressed for her day as an assistant to the wealthy family in Diamond Hill, waved him off with a concerned frown. "Be careful, Miracle! And eat properly!" His father, the private naval officer, had left early for the base, his disciplined routine a stark contrast to Miracle's chaos.
He slammed the gate behind him and sprinted toward the main road, heart pounding. The streets of Edim Otop were alive with the morning rush—keke drivers honking, vendors setting up stalls with calls of "Fresh akara!"—but Miracle weaved through it all, his mind racing ahead to school. Halfway to the bus stop, he froze. His mathematics homework—the quadratic equations he'd slaved over last night—was still on the kitchen table. "No, no, no," he groaned, spinning on his heel and dashing back home, sweat already beading on his forehead in the humid air.
Bursting through the door, he ignored his siblings' surprised stares. "Forgot something!" he yelled, snatching the notebook from the table where it lay next to a half-eaten plate of yam. Deborah, his little sister, giggled. "Senior Miracle, you're running like a footballer!" He forced a grin, ruffled her hair, and bolted out again, now even later. By the time he caught a keke and arrived at Daniest High's gate, it was 8:05—assembly had already started. He slipped in quietly, hoping to avoid notice, but his disheveled uniform and flushed face betrayed him.
---
In the SS2A classroom, the post-assembly buzz was underway. Miracle walked in, trying to catch his breath, when he overheard Patricia and Favour deep in conversation near the window. Patricia, ever reserved but observant, was leaning against her desk, while Favour, the track athlete with boundless energy, gestured animatedly.
"You qualified for the 100-meter dash and the relay?" Patricia asked, her eyes wide. "That's huge, Favour. The Cross River State Track and Field Championships are no joke—last year, the winners got scholarships!"
Favour beamed, her athletic build evident even in her school uniform. "Yeah! Training's been brutal, but Coach says I've got the speed. The finals are in two weeks at the UJ Esuene Stadium. If I place in the top three, it could open doors—maybe even nationals."
Patricia nodded, impressed. "You're going to crush it. Just don't forget us when you're famous."
Miracle paused at his desk, unpacking his bag, but Patricia spotted him. Her expression softened with concern—he looked downcast, his usual spark dimmed by the late start and the lingering weight of the team's troubles. "Miracle, you alright? You look like you've been through a storm."
He forced a heavy smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes, and waved it off. "I'm good, Patricia. Just a rough morning." But in his mind, the words echoed bitterly: *Alright, my ass. Today can't even get any worse.* The defeat, the forgotten homework, the rush—it all piled on like Atlas's world, crushing but unyielding.
Favour chuckled. "Join the club. Track practice later—want to come watch? Might cheer you up."
Miracle shook his head politely. "Maybe next time. Got sports day stuff." He appreciated their concern, but his focus was elsewhere: Kelvin Okafor and the video he'd sent Eric last night.
---
It was sports day at Daniest High, a mid-week break from academics where teams honed their skills under the tropical sun. Miracle headed to the dressing room, the familiar scent of sweat and liniment hitting him as he changed into his training kit—a faded green jersey, shorts, and cleats that had seen better days. The locker room was a mix of banter and tension: Frank Anyiam taping his ankles, still brooding over his red card; Godson Edet stretching silently; Hanson Udito cracking jokes to lighten the mood. Miracle laced up his boots, his mind on the pitch ahead. Interim coach Mr. Alabi, the assistant who'd stepped up after Osahon's resignation, was no tactical genius, but he kept things moving.
Out on the field, the grass was patchy from recent rains, the goalposts casting long shadows in the late morning light. About a dozen players gathered, including Prince in goal, Samuel Estate upfront, David Akpama in midfield, and Eric Ekeng at the back. Alabi, a burly man in his forties with a whistle around his neck, clapped his hands. "Alright, lads! No slacking today. We're rebuilding. Start with warm-ups—jog two laps, then dynamic stretches."
The team jogged around the perimeter, Miracle's legs loosening as the rhythm kicked in. The air was thick with humidity, sweat beading quickly. After the laps, Alabi led stretches: arm circles, leg swings, high knees—each movement building focus. "Keep it sharp! We're down, but not out."
Next came passing drills. Alabi set up cones in a grid, dividing the team into pairs. "Short passes first—accuracy over power. Communicate!" Miracle paired with Eric, the ball zipping between them on the uneven turf. He trapped it cleanly with his inside foot, flicked it back with precision, his all-rounder instincts shining. But the team was rusty: Frank overhit a pass, sending it wide; Gideon slipped on a muddy spot, earning groans. Alabi blew his whistle. "Focus! Eyes on the ball, not the crowd!"
They progressed to possession games in a small-sided 5v5, no goals—just keep the ball for as long as possible. Alabi marked out a 20x20 yard box with cones. "Pressure the man on the ball! Support your teammates!" Miracle slotted into defense, intercepting a lazy pass from Joseph and transitioning quickly to attack. He dribbled past Hanson with a feint, laid it off to David, who headed it forward—his strength on display. But tensions flared: Frank clashed with Mfoniso over a hard tackle, echoing his red-card impulsiveness. Alabi intervened. "Easy! We're a team, not enemies."
Shooting drills followed, Alabi setting up mannequins as defenders. Prince and Scott Onyejiaka alternated in goal, the bulky second keeper huffing as he dove. "From the edge of the box—technique first!" Samuel Estate shone here, his Hephaestus-like craft in finishing: a curled shot into the top corner, drawing applause. Miracle, versatile as ever, took turns from multiple positions—right foot from distance, left from an angle. His shots were solid, but one clipped the bar, frustration flashing across his face.
Finally, a full scrimmage: 7v7 on half the pitch. Alabi refereed, barking orders. "Defend as a unit! Attack with purpose!" Miracle played midfield, linking play—dropping deep to collect from Eric, pushing forward to feed Frank. A highlight came when he won a header (channeling David Akpama's strength), dribbled through two, and crossed low for Gideon to tap in. But errors persisted: Prince misjudged a cross, conceding; Hanson overdid his tricks, losing possession. The session ended 3-2, the team exhausted but engaged.
Alabi gathered them in a circle, wiping sweat from his brow. "Good effort today. Pointers: Communication—talk more, anticipate. Fitness—you're lagging; add extra runs at home. And discipline—Frank, channel that fire, don't let it burn you. But overall nice work lads, we will bounce back. Dismissed—hit the showers."
The team dispersed, murmurs of agreement mixing with fatigue.
---
As they headed back to the dressing room, Eric fell into step beside Miracle, his defender's build casting a shadow. "That video you sent last night—wild, man. Kelvin Okafor, the Golden Boy? Our literature teacher?"
Miracle nodded, wiping his face with his jersey. "Yeah. I watched more clips after dinner. He was unreal—goals for club and country, then that miss in the U20 final. They called him The Ghost after. Sound like anyone we know?"
Eric whistled low. "Our team, basically. Choking when it counts. You think he'll coach us?"
"I know he will," Miracle said, determination hardening his voice. " He's hiding from his past, but we can pull him back."
Eric grinned. "You're crazy, but if anyone can convince him, it's you. When do we make the move?"
"Soon," Miracle replied, his mind already plotting. "We show him we're worth it first. Train harder, prove we're not ghosts."
As they changed, the fire in Miracle's chest burned brighter. Today had hurdles—late wake-up, forgotten homework, a grueling session—but each one strengthened his resolve. Kelvin Okafor was their key, and Miracle would unlock him.