Football singularity-Chapter 724 Chat With Friends

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[2021-04-14, 19:00 | Signal Iduna Park, Dortmund]

[Champions League Quarter-Final 2nd leg | Leverkusen (1) 0 v 0 (2) Dortmund]

The famous Yellow Wall loomed empty behind one goal, but even without the 25,000 fans who would normally fill the Südtribüne, the Signal Iduna Park still appeared intimidating. The floodlights cut through the early evening darkness, illuminating the pristine pitch below as both squads went through their final warm-up routines.

Rakim performed continuous juggles, his red Apex Ace 11s, laces untied, glinting in the floodlight’s glow. He’d considered breaking in the all-black Singularity-T1 prototypes for this match, after getting used to them over the past few days, but decided against it. It was too risky, though he wished they had shown him the boots after the season ended, but he understood why they couldn’t.

The national team squad would be announced next month, and he wouldn’t have much time getting used to the new boot technology. Football boots are among the few pieces of sports equipment that undergo the highest rate of technological advancement. The shoes of 2000 were a world of difference from those in 2010, at the height of the Messi and Ronaldo era.

In that sense, at the turn of the decade, the technological jump will also see a drastic change. Thinner outer soles, more stable ankle and heel support and a bouncier insole. Some shoe brands went a step ahead by experimenting with friction technology to enhance touch and control. So it came as no surprise that Rakim felt like he had been given rocket boots but was told he couldn’t use them in an important match like the Champions League quarterfinal.

"Ready to lose, again, Rak?" a familiar voice called out from behind him.

Rakim turned to see Youssoufa Moukoko jogging over, a wide grin on his face. The sixteen-year-old Dortmund striker looked primed and ready, but hadn’t seen much action this year behind the monster that Haaland is. He stood at a lean 1.79m with long legs primed for an explosive playstyle.

"You still fighting with your hairline?" Rakim asked, sparing him a glance as he performed a sudden around-the-world and continued juggling.

"Pffft, bro, he got you there." Giovanni, who had followed his friend, burst out, barely holding back a full-blown cackle.

Moukoko’s grin faltered for a split second, his hand subconciosly brushing the short stubble of hair barely 4 centimetres before he recovered. "Yo, that’s cold, man. My hairline is fine."

"Sure it is," Rakim said, catching the ball on his foot and flicking it up to Giovanni. "It’s hard when Micah Richards has a better hairline than you."

Reyna caught the ball cleanly, laughing as he continued jugglin’ it, flicking it back to Rakim. "He’s not wrong, Yous. I’ve seen your Instagram. Beanies in December, hoodies in April, baseball caps in July, and bucket hats in October? The allegations are mad my friend."

"It’s called high fashion," Moukoko protested, though he was grinning now. "You Americans wouldn’t understand."

"I’m Nigerian-American-English-German," Rakim corrected, flicking the ball back to Moukoko with the outside of his boot. "Danm, I’m a cheat code."

"Still American," Moukoko shot back, trapping the ball. "And last I checked, you’re wearing joggers and hoddies all year round."

"Bro, that’s because I’m working nonstop," He responded with a smile, trapping the incoming ball before flicking it up to his head. "Somehow still made various best looking peoples list without even trying. Don’t poke the bear, otherwise the game’s gonna be hard for the rest of ya’ll."

"You’re still too arrogant; you should have been French." Giovani retorted with a disgruntled frown. "Too bad you’ve been pining for the same girl since the Nike camp days. So even if you tried, it won’t affect us much."

"Don’t matter to me as long as I look good for my May," he responded with a smirk, shoulder flicking the ball to Youssoufa. "Still, comparison is an ugly mistress."

The three of them fell into an easy rhythm, passing the ball between them as they talked. It was surreal in a way—here they were, about to face each other in a Champions League quarter-final, and yet the banter felt exactly the same as it had nine years ago at that Nike camp in Portland.

"Man, remember when you showed up to that camp with those neon green boots?" Gio said, shaking his head at the memory. "You thought you were Cristiano."

"I was eight," Moukoko said defensively. "And those boots were fire."

"They were hideous," Rakim countered. "You looked like you were wearing highlighters."

"Says the guy who showed up in LeBron basketball shorts," Moukoko shot back.

"Hey, those shorts were comfortable," Rakim said with a shrug. "Plus, the camp was in LA, and all we did was run that day, you sweated through your compression jogger and stank up the dorm for a week despite washing it thrice."

"That week was horror, coach Matthias had it out for us, and even after burning his joggers, the stench remained." Gio lamented with a bitter smile. "Honestly, it felt like we were living in a locker room. So many guys wanted to beat you up for the chemical attack."

"Wait, it was you guys who burned my joggers, those were new from Santee Alley," the striker protested before smiling brightly. "Hahah, at least I won the best-improved award at the camp."

"That’s nothing to brag about; it just means you were bad to begin with." Gio retorted with a side eye.

"Yeah, bro, sometimes silence speaks louder," Rakim added with a smile. "By the way, did you guys hear about the Euros? UEFA expanded the squads to twenty-six players."

"Yeah, because of the COVID protocols," Gio explained. "Extra players in case someone tests positive or gets injured. But it also means more spots up for grabs."

"Too bad for you, America isn’t even participating in the Copa this year," Youssoufa added with a sad smile, knowing that his friend would get less chance on the international stage. "Though I won’t get to play Germany either yet."

"It’s ok, I’ll send you a picture of my gold medal." Rakim boasted with a smile, earning a scoff from the latter. "Let’s end the chat, we are enemies after all. Good luck."

"Good luck," Reyna said, extending a fist to Rakim.

"You too," Rakim replied, bumping it. "But not too much."

Moukoko laughed as they parted ways, jogging back toward the Dortmund side of the pitch. "See you on the field, Rex!"

Rakim watched them go for a moment before turning and heading toward the Leverkusen group, heading back to the lockers. Wirtz was waiting for him near the entrance, typing something on his phone. "Making friends with the enemy?" the German teenager asked.

"Old friends," Rakim corrected, falling into step beside him, putting an arm over his shoulder. "We go way back to camp days."

"Cute," Wirtz said dryly, flicking his arm off. "But when that whistle blows, they’re just obstacles."

"Obviously," Rakim said. "Are you jealous or something? Just send me some assistance to vent those feelings." 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

"Tsk, I won’t send a single ball your way," he retorted, hurrying his steps.

"hey dont be like that. I’ll get you Swift tickets when the lockdown ends." Rakim exclaimed chaing after him.

"What would I do with those? I don’t even listen to pop music," he retorted with a disdainful glance.

"Sigh, I guess May was wrong when she said Aaliyah was a super fan. I’ll give them to Shick then," he lamented with a sigh, running a hand through Mohawk locks.

"What don’t you dare? Those tickets are mine."

~~~

[Leverkusen Dressing Room | Signal Iduna Park | 19:30 CET]

The away dressing room at the Westfalenstadion wasn’t designed for comfort—it was functional, utilitarian, with white-tiled walls and harsh overhead lighting. Players sat on wooden benches, some leaning against walls, others pacing in tight circles as they did last-minute stretches.

Peter Bosz stood at the front, near the tactical board, arms crossed, watching them in silence. His assistant, Fredrick Bauer, stood nearby with a clipboard, though he wasn’t looking at it.

The room wasn’t silent—cleats clicked against tile, water bottles were squeezed and discarded, players murmured last-minute checks of their gear. But there was a tension in the air, a collective understanding that the next ninety minutes would define their season champions league season. "Alright, lads," Bosz said finally, his voice cutting through the noise. "Gather round."

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To Be Continued...