Football singularity-Chapter 676 Puskás Nominee
Please vote to show me your support for the story. Join Discord to connect with me and share your thoughts on the story so far. https://discord.gg/hTQJtj2K9U
#More than 10 Chapters ahead on my Patreon: patreon.com/TrikoRex
{!!!Please leave a review; it helps me a lot and lets me know how many people are invested in the future of this novel!!!}
~~~
[11/12/2020 | Ristorante Verdi, Altstadt | 20:35]
The table between them had become a battlefield of shared plates. May had ordered the Pesce al Forno—a modest portion of Mediterranean sea bass with roasted vegetables—but had spent the last twenty minutes systematically raiding Rakim’s Osso Buco, claiming "just one more bite" at least six times.
"You know," Rakim said, watching her fork pierce another piece of his braised veal shank, "you could’ve just ordered that."
May chewed thoughtfully, savouring the tender meat. "But then I wouldn’t get to try both."
"You’re barely touching your fish."
"I’m pacing myself." She speared a piece of sea bass with exaggerated delicacy. "See? Eating my own food like a civilised person."
"That lasted three seconds."
"It’s called sharing, Rakim. Couples do it."
"Sharing implies reciprocity. This is just theft."
She grinned, unrepentant, and used her fork to spear another piece of sea bass and reached across the table again. "Say ah," she said, feeding him a bite before he could even realise. "See, I share,"
He only looked at her but didn’t stop her as she continued to eat whatever she liked—he never did. Instead, he pushed the plate slightly closer, making it easier for her to reach. The conversation had drifted comfortably through various topics—Leverkusen’s upcoming match against Hoffenheim, May’s latest modelling project (a shoot for a clothing brand for the spring collection).
"You’re not playing Sunday, right?" May asked, breaking off a piece of bread.
"Nah. Bosz is resting me. Wants me fresh for the Munich match next week." Rakim took a sip of water. "Probably for the best, gives me a chance to ."
"You poor thing," May teased. "How are you gonna survive missing two matches?"
"You joke now, but it’s you who’ll be driving crazy later on—" He paused as his phone, face-down on the table, buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time in rapid succession. He ignored it, continuing his thought. "Still kinda unbelievable sitting at the top of the table with a four-point lead to Bayern"
*Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.*
May raised an eyebrow. "You gonna check that?"
"It’s probably just Instagram." He waved dismissively. "People are still celebrating our win at the Bernabeu."
*Buzz.*
"Or," May suggested, "it could be important."
"If it was important, they’d call."
As if summoned by his words, the phone began vibrating continuously—an incoming call. The screen lit up, and even face down, they could see the brightness against the dark wood table. Rakim sighed, reaching for it. The caller ID read **Mama Lion** in all caps, followed by three trophy emojis he’d programmed in as a joke.
He answered, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hey, Ma. What’s—"
He didn’t get to finish. Even from across the table, May could hear Lisa’s voice, excited and rapid-fire, the words tumbling over each other too fast to parse individually. Rakim’s expression shifted from mild confusion to something more challenging to read.
"Wait, slow down. What are you—" He paused, listening. "Are you serious?"
May watched him carefully; his free hand had stilled on the table, fingers no longer drumming. His eyes had gone distant, focused on something beyond the restaurant’s brick walls. "When did they announce it?" Another pause. "No, I haven’t checked. We’re at dinner." He glanced at May, mouthing *sorry* before returning to the call. "Yeah, she’s here. We’re at Verdi."
Lisa said something that made Rakim smile slightly. "I’ll tell her you said hi. But Ma, are you absolutely sure? Like, officially confirmed, not like the time I played for Celtic or the other time, oh, and there was that one time? And it’s always a matter of my age."
Whatever his mother said next made him sit back in his chair, the movement slow and deliberate. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Thanks for calling. I’ll... yeah, I’ll call you later. Love you too."
He ended the call and set the phone down, staring at it for a moment like it might suddenly start speaking on its own. May waited exactly three seconds before her patience evaporated. "Well? Are you going to make me guess, or—"
"I’m finally a Puskás Award finalist," Rakim said, his tone almost conversational, as he’d just mentioned the weather.
May blinked. "You’re a what?"
"Puskás Award. For the best goal of the year. I’m one of the finalists."
She stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the grin that would indicate he was messing with her. It didn’t come. "You’re serious."
"Apparently." He picked up his phone, unlocking it. His screen was chaos—WhatsApp notifications, Instagram alerts, text messages, missed calls. He scrolled past them until he found the official email from FIFA, forwarded by his mother. The subject line read: **Congratulations - 2020 FIFA Puskás Award Finalist.**
He opened it, scanning the contents. The email confirmed his nomination for his goal against Wolfsburg’s solo-finish goal this season. The goal had gone viral, racking up millions of views across social media.
The other finalists were listed: Son Heung-min for his solo run against Burnley. Luis Suárez for his long-range effort with Atlético Madrid. A handful of others, each representing a moment of individual brilliance captured on camera and replayed endlessly.
Rakim read it twice, making sure he hadn’t misunderstood. Then he handed the phone to May without comment, picking up his fork and returning to what remained of his Osso Buco.
May took the phone, her eyes widening as she read. "Finally, they are giving you your flowers."
"A nomination," he replied, chewing thoughtfully, having been added to a lot of these nominations since the last season but never actually won. "Not a win."
"A ’FIF’* nomination. It’s the most prestigious individual award in football. You’re seventeen," she said, looking excited as ever as she rambled about having to let everyone know. "You will win this one for sure. No one scores more spectacular goals than you, I guarantee it."
"With what credit?" he asked, smiling at her excited expression before filling another bite onto his fork. "Never mind, try this," He said, feeding her bite before she could respond.
~~~
[11/12/2020 | 22:35]
(Vrooom) a silver Sian Sián could be seen zooming along the Autobahn, gliding between the sparse traffic. Any cars in its vicinity cautiously moved out of the way, not willing to risk scratching it. Behind the wheel, a pair of slender hands gripped the steering wheel, moving the stick up and down as the V12 roared.
Rakim, sitting in the passenger seat, had his eyes closed, listening to the soft melody of Erykah Badu’s "On & On," from the surround speakers. His eyes fluttered open when the melody quietened, and he looked over to May, who was glancing his way. "You know, winning this could be huge for you if you win, especially with the season you’re having." She said her eyes were searching his face for a reaction.
"Hmm, yeah, but I’d rather win man of the match at the Champions League, at the Cup final and win the league." He responded with a smile, leaning back with a content smile as if he had just set his bottom line. "A little greedy now that I think about it."
"A little? That’s greedy for sure." She replied, stating the obvious. "Though if anyone has the right to be its you with how hard you work, still can’t believe they didn’t give you the golden boy award."
"He is also having a monstrous season with 18, just two off Lewandowski," he replied, fighting intent evident in his eyes. "Makes me excited to play against them."
"You’re ok, you’re such a football nerd, anything to do with competition, and you can run through a wall," she said, chuckling lightly.
"You’re one to speak, or should I go through your embarrassing moments?" He replied with a sly smile. "I have receipts, you know."
"Sure, go ahead, babe," she said, but the smile set off all kinds of alarm bells.
.
.
.
.
To be Continued...
