The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over Daniest High, its rays filtering through the palm trees lining the school's administrative block. Inside, the air-conditioned office of Mrs. Abigail Okoye, the school director, hummed with tension. Papers were strewn across her desk—budget reports, sponsor withdrawal letters, and a dog-eared contract that held the football team's fate. Across from her sat Mr. Chukwuma, her assistant, a wiry man with a knack for numbers and a cautious demeanor. The door was closed, the blinds drawn, as they grappled with the crisis threatening to dismantle the school's football program.
Mrs. Okoye leaned back in her chair, her glasses perched on her nose, scanning the contract's fine print. "There's a clause here," she said, tapping the page. "Buried in the fine print from two years ago, when Chief Okorie's company signed on. It allows us to redirect academic funds to sports for one season if the program faces dissolution. We could use it to keep the team afloat—hire a new coach, replace some equipment."
Chukwuma frowned, adjusting his tie. "Abigail, that's risky. The board will lose their minds. Academic funds are sacred—parents will riot if they think we're prioritizing football over books. And with Osahon gone and sponsors like Adesina pulling out, we're already on thin ice. The media's already circling, ready to call us reckless."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I know the optics are bad. But disbanding the team? That's worse. Football's the heart of this school for half our boys. Enrollment's already shaky—parents want sports as much as academics. If we let the team die, we lose students, morale, everything. We can't afford that."
Chukwuma leaned forward, his voice low. "And who coaches? Alabi's interim, but he's a PE teacher, not a tactician. We need someone with vision, and we need them cheap. The clause buys us time, but it's a gamble without a leader."
Mrs. Okoye's eyes narrowed, her mind racing. "There's Kelvin Okafor. The literature teacher. I've heard whispers—he was a footballer once. A big one. If he's half as good a coach as he was a player, he could turn this around."
Chukwuma scoffed. "Kelvin? The man who talks about Zeus and Odin like they're his cousins? He's a recluse, Abigail. No coaching experience. And you know the media will dig up his past—the 'Ghost' nickname, that U20 miss. It'll be a circus."
"Let them talk," she said, her voice firm. "I'll handle the media backlash. I've dealt with worse. If we activate the clause and convince Okafor, we keep the team alive. We show the boys, the parents, the sponsors we're fighting. One season—that's all I'm asking for."
Chukwuma hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Fine. But if this backfires, it's your head, not mine."
Mrs. Okoye smiled thinly. "Noted. Draft the proposal for the board. I'll talk to Okafor myself."
---
After School — The Training Ground
The football field, still scarred from the rain-soaked final, buzzed with a tentative energy. The team gathered under the interim coach, Mr. Alabi, whose whistle hung around his neck like a reluctant badge of authority. The players stood in a loose semicircle, their training kits mismatched and faded, a stark contrast to the polished Lord's Academy squad. The rest of SS2A, showing rare solidarity, watched from the sidelines, sprawled on the grass or leaning against the chain-link fence. Mishael Akpaso, the badminton star, whispered to Favour, the track athlete, about the team's chances. Goldamier, the model, turned to Esther "Raphi" Raphael, her brows furrowed.
"Where's Miracle?" Goldamier asked, scanning the field. "He's always here."
Raphi shook her head, her phone idle for once. "No idea. He's been off since the match. Probably brooding somewhere."
Deborah, the volleyball player, glanced at Frank, who was lacing his boots in silence. Patricia, quiet as ever, read a book but kept an eye on the field, sensing the team's fragile spirit.
Mr. Alabi blew his whistle, clipboard in hand. "Roll call!" he barked. "Prince!"
"Here, sir," the goalkeeper called, his Odin-like presence steady despite the loss.
"Eric Ekeng!"
"Present," Eric said, his defender's resolve unshaken.
"Frank Anyiam!"
Frank muttered, "Here," his voice low, eyes on the ground.
One by one, the names continued—Samuel Estate, Godson Edet, Hanson Udito, David Akpama, Mfoniso, Gideon, Joseph, Tega, Nnamdi, Sadiq, Kelechi, Scott Onyejiaka. But when Alabi called, "Miracle Johnson!" the field fell silent.
"Miracle?" Alabi repeated, frowning. "Anyone seen him?"
The team exchanged glances. Eric shook his head slightly, worry flickering in his eyes. The class on the sidelines murmured, Raphi's frown deepening. "He's never late," she whispered to Goldamier.
---
The Literature Office — A Bold Confrontation
Miracle sprinted across the school, his breath ragged, sweat beading on his forehead. He'd spent the last hour pacing outside the literature block, psyching himself up. The YouTube clips of Kelvin Okafor—the Golden Boy turned Ghost—burned in his mind. The man was their salvation, he was sure of it. He reached the literature teacher's office, a small room tucked at the end of the hall, its door half-open, the scent of old books and chalk dust wafting out.
Kelvin Okafor sat at his desk, grading essays, his leather-bound book closed beside him. His grey shirt was neatly pressed, his beard trimmed, but his eyes held that distant intensity Miracle had noticed before. Miracle knocked, panting, and stepped inside.
Kelvin looked up, his expression blank. "Who're you? I don't know you."
Miracle laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "Uh, Miracle Johnson, sir. I'm a science student. SS2A."
Kelvin's brow furrowed. "Right. Not one of mine. What do you want, Johnson? I'm busy."
Miracle's heart raced, but he pushed forward. "Sir, I know who you are. Kelvin Okafor. The Golden Boy. U20 striker. I saw the clips—Enyimba, Nigeria, the World Cup final. You were a legend."
Kelvin's face darkened, his pen freezing mid-air. "You've got the wrong man," he said flatly. "I don't know anything about football. And digging into someone's past like that? It's rude. Get out."
Miracle stood his ground, his voice steady despite the rebuff. "I'm not wrong, sir. I saw you at the match, watching us. You care. We need you. Our coach quit, sponsors are gone, but you could save the team. You know what it's like to lose—to be called a ghost. We're ghosts now, but we can be more."
Kelvin stood, his chair scraping the floor. "You don't know what you're talking about, boy. Football's a dead end for me. Go bother someone else."
He brushed past Miracle, heading for the door, but Miracle's words stopped him cold. "You're not a ghost, sir. You're Proteus. You can change this team—make us unstoppable. I won't give up on you."
Kelvin paused, his hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn back. "Don't waste your time," he muttered, then left, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Miracle's fists clenched, not in defeat but in determination. Kelvin's denial only fueled him. He checked his phone—4:15 PM. Training had started. "Damn it," he hissed, sprinting toward the director's office. He had to tell Mrs. Okoye about Kelvin—someone had to know. But the secretary waved him off, saying she was in a meeting. Defeated but not broken, he raced to the locker room.
---
**The Training Field — A Punishing Return**
Miracle burst into the locker room, changing into his faded training jersey in record time, his heart pounding. By the time he reached the field, the team was midway through passing drills, Mr. Alabi's whistle piercing the air. The SS2A class still watched from the sidelines, their support a quiet show of loyalty.
"Johnson!" Alabi barked, spotting him. "Where've you been? You think you can just stroll in late?"
"Sorry, sir," Miracle panted, hands on knees. "Got held up."
"Held up?" Alabi scoffed. "Ten laps around the field. Now. Discipline starts here."
The team erupted in laughter, a rare moment of levity. Frank cracked a grin for the first time since the match. Godson shook his head, amused. Tega, the wing-back with Hermes-like speed, just smiled quietly, his eyes warm with understanding.
Miracle groaned but took off, his boots pounding the uneven grass. The laps burned his legs, but the punishment felt right—like a cleansing fire. As he ran, he glanced at the class—Raphi's worried frown, Goldamier's curious stare, Deborah's encouraging nod. He thought of Kelvin, the Ghost, and his own resolve hardened. Ten laps or ten losses, he wouldn't quit. Not on the team. Not on himself.
As the sun dipped below the Calabar skyline, casting the field in gold, Miracle finished his laps, chest heaving but spirit unbroken. The team's laughter faded, replaced by a quiet respect. Somewhere, in the shadows of the literature block, Kelvin Okafor clutched his book, Miracle's words echoing in his mind: You're not a ghost. You're Proteus.