PENALTY KISS: Here's Your Red Card, Mr. Player!

JORDAN

Jibril fucking Reynolds.

The one. The only. The greedy bastard who nicks goals off his own teammates and still gets called a genius for it.

Who else would turn up to a charity match for other people’s kids looking like he’d just stepped out of a Champions League final? Already stretching, already looking round the pitch like he owned the place. Parents pulling their phones out. Mums fixing their hair.

Of course.

This was Jibril Reynolds. The American who jumped clubs every five minutes. Fulham, Galatasaray, Arsenal, Chelsea—wherever the money was biggest. And every bloody highlight reel, every magazine, every pundit couldn’t just shut up about him.

I’d spent years shouting at the television whenever he pinched a goal that should’ve been someone else’s. 'Leave it, you prick.' 'Let someone else score for once.' But he never did.

And now the bastard was here in St. Albion, a kids football Academy.

I still couldn’t believe I was here either.

Two hours earlier I’d been sat on the edge of some girl’s bed with my jeans open and my cock soft as a wet flannel. She’d already pulled her top back on and wore her skirt, silently. The silence was fucking painful.

“It’s fine,” she said, not looking at me. “It happens.”

It didn’t feel fine. It felt like my dick had packed up and left.

Twenty-three years old and I couldn’t get it up. Young lads aren’t supposed to have that problem. Young lads get hard if the wind changes direction. But there I was, skint, unemployed, and my cock just… nothing.

I had no money for an actual doctor who specialised in these kinds of things and I had no idea what was wrong. Just the same humiliating soft cock every time I tried.

I left her flat feeling like shit. My phone rang before I even got to the car and it was my older sister, Mary.

“Jordan.” She had that tone she uses when she’s already decided everything. “I’ve found you a job.”

“If it’s another one-day thing just say it.”

“It is a one-day thing. But it pays eight hundred.”

I stopped walking. “Quid?”

“Yes, eight hundred pounds. And it's just refereeing. They need someone right now and I’ve already told them you’re on your way.”

She hung up before I could properly tell her to piss off. Typical Mary.

The address took me through big fancy gates into a place that looked more like a rich bloke’s house than a school. There were perfect grass, stone fountains, cars that cost more than my life. Kids were in matching kits running about and parents under tents drinking coffee that probably cost a tenner a cup.

I thought I was here to referee a kids match but the coach sorted that out quick.

“The match is between the fathers.”

I stared at him. “Fathers?”

“Fathers.” He shoved a black kit into my hands. “Changing room’s through there. Don’t be late.”

So here I was, standing on the touchline in a borrowed black shirt that still smelled of someone else’s sweat, whistle round my neck, watching Jibril Reynolds jog onto the pitch like he owned the fucking world.

He looked exactly the same as on the television. Tall. Cocky. Moving like the rest of us were just background noise.

I hated that I noticed.

Men don’t compliment other men. First rule. I’d told myself that enough times. Still, my eyes stayed on him a second longer than they should’ve before I forced them away.

Me tossing the coin was the first time we properly looked at each other..I held the coin out. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads," his voice was as deep as the tabloids exaggerated.

It landed heads. I told him his lot had the first ball and stepped back.

His eyes stayed on me a bit too long, and I raised an eyebrow the same way I’d do to any arrogant prick who thought the rules didn’t apply to him, then turned away.

The match started. I wasn’t gentle.

Every time he came in late, whistle. Every time he left a foot in, I stopped it. When he scored the first goal—of course the bastard scored—I gave him a long look and a quiet warning.

“Play the whistle. This is a charity match, not the fucking Champions League, Mr. Reynolds.”

He looked at me like I’d grown another head.

By the time he scored the fourth goal I already had the yellow card in my hand. I held it up. No drama.

Parents made noise, probably cursing me for bullying their favourite player while some of them laughed. But Jibril didn’t. He jogged past me and muttered, “You’re enjoying this, huh?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept blowing the whistle when it needed blowing and ignored the way his eyes kept finding me.

He was used to people looking at him like he was God’s gift. He wasn’t used to a referee treating him like any other overconfident dad who needed telling to calm the fuck down.

When the final whistle went I walked straight off without looking at him. Job done. Eight hundred quid. That was all that mattered.

I pushed into the changing room, already pulling the whistle over my head, already planning how fast I could get this kit off and get the hell out of here. The room was empty. Good.

I’d just grabbed the bottom of the shirt when the door flew open hard enough to bang against the wall.

Jibril Reynolds walked in still in his kit, with the same unreadable face he’d had when I showed him the yellow card. The door clicked shut behind him.

For a second neither of us said anything. Then he said, casual as you like, “You and I need to talk.”

I stared at him.

Of all the people who could’ve followed me in here, it had to be this bastard.

The goal thief. The club-hopper. The man I’d spent years disliking from the safe side of a telly screen. And now he was standing between me and the door, looking at me like that yellow card had been an invitation.

I should’ve told him to fuck off. Instead I heard myself say, “Talk about what?”