2026-06-29, 03:45 PM - Word count:
“...and the whistle blows and the end of stoppage time at the Nelson Mandela Stadium and Kaapstad have just managed to hold on against a determined Inter London side to win 3-2.”
Kasak takes a breath, his face red from running the length and breadth of the pitch, his hands on his knees.
His midfield partner Felix Pedro has emerged a deserved player of the match with a goal to their name, and is enjoying a lap of honour alongside Homme III and Bad Wolf, who similarly had a great game.
“Nice on Felix!” Kasak shouts, receiving a thumbs up and a smile in response from across the pitch. Nick had an ok game at best; a couple of chances created and trying to cover every blade of grass was not enough to shake the feeling that he could have done better.
The message from the coach was he wanted the opposition to “lose count of how many Kasak’s we’ve got out there.” He tried… but he blamed himself for one of the goals they’d conceded, and he was sure he should have passed to Von Wolfe in space instead of taking the run but-
At the other end of the field, someone else caught his attention. While Nick was already overanalyzing his own performance, Jimothy Erickson was at the other end, head down, the weight of this loss unjustly being carried on his shoulders alone.
Before he had even realised Nick had closed the distance between the two, not to try and dribble past or trying to win the ball back, but to speak to the 3rd overall pick of Season 26: Jimothy himself.
He held out a hand to Erickson:
“Allo mate, you alright?” Nick smiles through his South London accent, trying his best to appear comforting and not smug; but it was a hard line to cross.
“Er… yeah hey… Kasak right?” Erickson replies in broad American.
“Yeah that’s right. Never got to say well done to you mate, thought I saw you at Heathrow but… well I saw you today. Congrats!”
“Oh,” Jimothy lets a smile creep out “thanks man, it’s been great. Kinda. Can’t seem to get myself quite into gear over there.”
“Oh, me neither mate,” Kasak replies, “I’ve been trying my best but I can’t seem to get the hang of this- it’s only my third game at center mid.”
“What are you talking about, Nick, you were everywhere, man! I thought there was at least three of you on the pitch!”
Nick gives a toothy grin in response, his widest smile in a while, “Oh no, that’s not true. Look mate, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping your chin up, yeah? London’s my… Mum’s team and we all know you’re gonna knock it out of the park for us- for them.” Nick quickly corrects himself
“Oh thanks… mate,” Jimothy leans in conspiratorially, “Whats the deal with tea, Kasak? I’ve been drinking the Yorkshire Gold like the fellas tell me I just don’t think its for me.”
“Well,” Nick laughs, “I used to hate tea growing up, but it becomes second nature after a while. But if you don’t like something that’s fine, no one’s going to care, and those that care about something as boring as that probably aren’t worth knowing.”
Jimothy and Nick share a laugh over this, before the two both suggest a shirt swap.
“Hey man, do you-”
“Ere, mate, could we?”
Laughing once again, Nick walks off clutching Jimothy’s Inter London top, glancing back to see his own name over the number 8 drifting off back towards the away fans.
Giving polite applause to the fans still left, Nick looks up and around at the beautiful stadium in the floodlights, drinking in the atmosphere and enjoying the win despite it feeling personally undeserving. He catches the eyes of some keen supporters still banging drums and blowing Vuvuzelas despite the match being over for several minutes now.
He raises his fist to the air, Erickson’s shirt thrown over his shoulder and shouts to the crowd “KAAPSTAD!”
Kasak takes a breath, his face red from running the length and breadth of the pitch, his hands on his knees.
His midfield partner Felix Pedro has emerged a deserved player of the match with a goal to their name, and is enjoying a lap of honour alongside Homme III and Bad Wolf, who similarly had a great game.
“Nice on Felix!” Kasak shouts, receiving a thumbs up and a smile in response from across the pitch. Nick had an ok game at best; a couple of chances created and trying to cover every blade of grass was not enough to shake the feeling that he could have done better.
The message from the coach was he wanted the opposition to “lose count of how many Kasak’s we’ve got out there.” He tried… but he blamed himself for one of the goals they’d conceded, and he was sure he should have passed to Von Wolfe in space instead of taking the run but-
At the other end of the field, someone else caught his attention. While Nick was already overanalyzing his own performance, Jimothy Erickson was at the other end, head down, the weight of this loss unjustly being carried on his shoulders alone.
Before he had even realised Nick had closed the distance between the two, not to try and dribble past or trying to win the ball back, but to speak to the 3rd overall pick of Season 26: Jimothy himself.
He held out a hand to Erickson:
“Allo mate, you alright?” Nick smiles through his South London accent, trying his best to appear comforting and not smug; but it was a hard line to cross.
“Er… yeah hey… Kasak right?” Erickson replies in broad American.
“Yeah that’s right. Never got to say well done to you mate, thought I saw you at Heathrow but… well I saw you today. Congrats!”
“Oh,” Jimothy lets a smile creep out “thanks man, it’s been great. Kinda. Can’t seem to get myself quite into gear over there.”
“Oh, me neither mate,” Kasak replies, “I’ve been trying my best but I can’t seem to get the hang of this- it’s only my third game at center mid.”
“What are you talking about, Nick, you were everywhere, man! I thought there was at least three of you on the pitch!”
Nick gives a toothy grin in response, his widest smile in a while, “Oh no, that’s not true. Look mate, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping your chin up, yeah? London’s my… Mum’s team and we all know you’re gonna knock it out of the park for us- for them.” Nick quickly corrects himself
“Oh thanks… mate,” Jimothy leans in conspiratorially, “Whats the deal with tea, Kasak? I’ve been drinking the Yorkshire Gold like the fellas tell me I just don’t think its for me.”
“Well,” Nick laughs, “I used to hate tea growing up, but it becomes second nature after a while. But if you don’t like something that’s fine, no one’s going to care, and those that care about something as boring as that probably aren’t worth knowing.”
Jimothy and Nick share a laugh over this, before the two both suggest a shirt swap.
“Hey man, do you-”
“Ere, mate, could we?”
Laughing once again, Nick walks off clutching Jimothy’s Inter London top, glancing back to see his own name over the number 8 drifting off back towards the away fans.
Giving polite applause to the fans still left, Nick looks up and around at the beautiful stadium in the floodlights, drinking in the atmosphere and enjoying the win despite it feeling personally undeserving. He catches the eyes of some keen supporters still banging drums and blowing Vuvuzelas despite the match being over for several minutes now.
He raises his fist to the air, Erickson’s shirt thrown over his shoulder and shouts to the crowd “KAAPSTAD!”
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