Chapter Two
2351 Words
The next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds, casting geometric patterns across the polished oak floors of The National Daily’s Sports Desk. The newsroom hummed with renewed energy. Phones pinged softly, tablets buzzed with alerts, and journalists tapped away on wireless keyboards, earbuds in, half-listening to live commentary streaming across wall-mounted screens.
Adaeze stepped in, clutching her laptop like a shield, navigating between colleagues balancing laptops, coffee mugs, and smartphones. Heads lifted, curiosity flickering across faces.
‘There she is!’ Kamsi called, leaning over a minimalist desk, her voice slicing through the hum of conversation, the tap of keyboards, and the low rumble of phones ringing across the bustling newsroom. ‘Our rising star!’
Adaeze slowed. ‘What happened?’
Kamsi thrust her phone forward. A headline glowed on the screen, bold and scrolling:
‘Reporter Challenges Izunna Obieze After Victory — Sparks Fly!’
A short clip of Adaeze’s exchange played beneath, viewers’ comments streaming in real-time.
‘That girl has guts!’
‘Who is she?’
‘You can’t talk to Izunna like that!’
‘Fearless!’
Adaeze’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
‘Oh yes,’ Kamsi replied, a grin lighting her face. ‘You are trending. Already called the bold reporter.’
The glass door to the Sports Editor’s office, perched along the side of the bustling newsroom floor, slid open. Mr Ikenna emerged, coffee mug in hand, steam rising from it and glowing in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. He glanced at the busy reporters typing and moving around before his eyes settled on Adaeze. ‘Adaeze.’
She squared her shoulders, held her head high, and met his gaze. ‘Sir.’
‘You shook the table. I like tables that shake when it brings readers. Your story pulled more clicks than any other match report combined.’
A quiet breath escaped her.
‘And it’s not just online,’ the Chief Editor called from the newsroom doorway. ‘The circulation team just reported that every kiosk and newsstand we track has sold out. People are buying the paper to read about you. That’s real impact, Adaeze.’ He nodded and walked away.
Adaeze blinked, a small, proud smile spreading across her face.
‘However,’ Mr Ikenna said, sipping from his mug, ‘next time, ease your tone. We report, we do not wrestle. Ask the hard questions, yes, but do not make players feel ambushed. We need them to talk to us again.’
Adaeze nodded.
Mr Ikenna then walked towards the newsroom’s automatic door. It slid open as he got close and clicked softly behind him as he left.
Kamsi leaned close, elbow nudging Adaeze’s arm. ‘Still,’ she whispered, ‘you cut through the noise. People noticed. That is a start.’
Adaeze sank into her sleek chair and opened her laptop. She typed steadily, the soft clicks of the keys keeping a calm rhythm, even though her heart was still racing. Every now and then, Izunna Obieze’s eyes flashed in her mind—steady, amused, and a little impressed. He lingered there longer than she expected.
For the rest of Sunday, she monitored the tournament from the newsroom. While other teams played their matches, Adaeze reviewed footage from Saturday, fact-checked quotes, and prepared player profiles and tactical breakdowns for her readers. Even without stepping onto the field, she remained fully immersed in the tournament, building stories that would set the stage for Nightengale United’s next match.
***
Monday was a preparation day. Adaeze arrived early at work, laptop in hand, reviewing training footage and scouting reports. She reached out to Nightengale United’s media liaison for extra insights, noting standout players and possible story angles.
Around midday, she visited the Nightengale United Training Complex to observe the team’s training session. The field hummed with activity: players jogging, stretching, practicing set pieces, and coaches offering detailed instructions. Adaeze moved along the sidelines, capturing photos, noting player interactions, and jotting down quotes. She focused on subtleties: the way Izunna communicated with teammates, the goalkeeper’s concentration, and the coach’s gestures during drills.
By evening, she returned to the newsroom, compiling her notes, selecting photographs, and drafting stories for the upcoming match. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, creating previews for readers: features on Izunna’s journey, tactical insights, and behind-the-scenes glimpses of the team’s preparation. Though Monday had no match for her to cover live, Adaeze’s day was as full and intense as any match day, ensuring she was ready for Tuesday’s action.
***
The next day, Tuesday, the National Cup continued. Onikan Stadium buzzed again, louder and brighter than before. Adaeze wore her press vest and held her notebook close, though her hands felt unusually warm.
She told herself it was just another match, another story. Yet the moment she stepped onto the sidelines and saw number 9 jogging onto the field, her heart reacted before her mind did. It skipped, quick and uninvited, as if it recognised him first.
Izunna did not notice her at once. He was with his teammates, laughter bubbling between them, shoulders gleaming with fresh sweat. There was something lighter about him today, a softness beneath his focus. He looked ready, but he also looked happy.
The referee’s whistle blew. The game burst to life. Boots thudded against grass, the ball rushed across the pitch, and the crowd rose in a wave of noise that wrapped itself around the stadium. Adaeze found her eyes drawn to Izunna again and again. He moved with the ease of someone born for this stage: quick, bold and certain. Watching him felt strangely personal, as if she were seeing more than just a player.
Halfway through the first half, an opponent blocked his shot and he crashed to the ground. The stadium gasped as one.
Adaeze shot to her feet, fingers gripping the railing. A sharp worry pricked through her chest. Izunna rose slowly, wincing, brushing dirt from his shorts. Only then did she release the breath she had been holding.
Minutes later, when he scored, the stadium erupted. Izunna did not celebrate wildly this time. He simply lifted a hand, then looked up towards the press box. His eyes searched, found hers, and did not let go. It felt like a moment meant for two, in a crowd of thousands.
Adaeze froze, her pen slipping from her fingers onto her notebook. She bit her lip, caught between wanting to look away and unable to move her eyes from him. A small smile tugged at his lips before he jogged off to rejoin his team.
Kamsi leaned in. ‘Was he… looking at you?’
Adaeze cleared her throat, heat rising to her cheeks. ‘No. Probably at the cameras.’
‘Hmm.’ Kamsi arched a brow. ‘If you say so.’
***
After the match, Adaeze followed the other journalists towards the players’ tunnel. The sharp scent of disinfectant mixed with sweat, warm steam, and the faint trace of cologne.
Most players gave quick answers, eager to leave. But Izunna stood at his locker, a towel draped around his neck, head bowed slightly as he wiped his face. He looked calmer now, almost thoughtful.
When he finally looked up, his gaze landed on her as if he had been expecting her. ‘You again.’
There was no irritation in his voice. If anything, it sounded like a soft welcome.
Adaeze lifted her chin, though her pulse fluttered. ‘I’m here for post-match comments.’
He smiled, slow and easy. ‘Careful. People might say you are following me.’
‘I’m just doing my job.’
He rested one arm against the locker door, his posture relaxed. ‘And doing it very well, it seems. Everyone is still talking about your question the other day.’
Warmth crept up her neck. ‘That was not the intention.’
‘Still,’ he said, lowering his voice as if sharing something just for her, ‘you asked what others were too afraid to ask. I like that.’
She blinked, caught off guard. ‘You do?’
‘Most reporters flatter. You…’ he paused, his eyes taking a gentle tour of her face, ‘… you challenge.’
Adaeze lowered her gaze to her notebook, fighting a smile. ‘I ask for truth. That is all.’
He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Truth can be dangerous.’
Something in his tone made her heart shift, just slightly.
Not wanting the moment to stretch too far, she stepped back. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Izunna obieze.’
He nodded. ‘See you at the next match, Miss Adaeze.’
As she turned to leave, his voice reached her, soft, warm and unmistakably personal.
‘Nice shoes, by the way.’
Adaeze paused mid-step, her lips lifting before she could stop them.
He had noticed her in a way that went beyond a casual compliment about shoes. He had noticed the gentle sway of her walk, the spark of ambition in her eyes, the subtle scent of her perfume that lingered when she moved past him. His attention was not on the shoes at all; it was on the woman wearing them.
***
That night, Adaeze returned to her small apartment in Surulere. She kicked off her heels and sank onto the couch, exhaustion melting into the cushions. The hum of distant generators filled the night air, a familiar soundtrack of Lagos after dark.
Her laptop sat open on the centre table, its screen glowing softly in the dim room. She pressed play on the recorded interview and listened to Izunna’s voice fill the space as she typed.
‘Nightengale United continue to rise, powered by the relentless drive of Izunna Obieze, a player whose confidence is often mistaken for pride, but whose hunger fuels every shot.’
She paused, reading her line back. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should I soften it? Should I remove the edge?
She did not. She saved the file, closed her eyes for a moment, and leaned back, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above her as if it were in no hurry to judge her thoughts.
Izunna’s face slipped into her mind uninvited: the easy grin, the teasing glint in his eyes, the way he said her name as though it held a secret only he understood. She felt it again, that spark, the one she pretended not to notice.
She shut her laptop gently. ‘Focus, Adaeze,’ she whispered. ‘You came for the story, not the player.’
Outside, a light breeze drifted through the curtains, carrying faint echoes of cheering fans from a nearby viewing centre. Somewhere in the city, Izunna was likely celebrating his win. She pictured him laughing, bright, carefree and magnetic, and for a fleeting second, she wondered what it would feel like to be part of that world.
Sleep tugged at her, soft and insistent, and she let herself give in.
***
The next morning, Adaeze woke to her phone buzzing non-stop. Amid the flood of notifications, Kamsi’s message caught her eye: ‘Ada! Check the news!’ Half-asleep, Adaeze reached for her phone. One glance, and the drowsiness vanished.
Goalpost Chronicles, a popular sports blog, had reposted a photo of her standing close to Izunna in the locker room, both mid-conversation, his eyes fixed on her with a look that needed no caption.
The headline sat boldly above the image, impossible to ignore:
‘Reporter and Star Striker Too Close for Comfort?’
Comments poured in quickly beneath it:
‘They look cosy.’
‘Is this journalism or romance?’
‘No wonder she gets all the exclusive interviews.’
Adaeze sat up, her heart thudding. She called Kamsi immediately.
‘This is bad. Really bad.’
‘Do not panic,’ Kamsi said, although her voice held worry. ‘It is gossip. It will fade.’
But Adaeze knew better. Rumours travelled quickly and died slowly.
Moments later, her editor’s name lit up her screen. She inhaled, steadied herself, and answered.
‘I warned you,’ Mr Ikenna said, his tone sharp. ‘No drama. What is this nonsense all over the internet?’
‘Sir, it is false. Someone took the photo out of context.’
‘Then stay off social media for a while. Keep things clean. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
When the call ended, Adaeze stared at her phone, her hand trembling slightly.
It buzzed again. A new message appeared:
‘Ignore the noise. People talk. You did well.’
A small frown appeared on her face, but it softened into a smile when she looked at the sender’s name at the end of the message on her phone—Izunna Obieze.
How did he get my number? she wondered. Then she remembered: the team’s media liaison had sent her press passes and contact info before the tournament, and Izunna must have asked for it through official channels, purely professional.
***
That evening, Adaeze stood on her verandah with a small nylon of akara and bread. She had bought it from Mama Ifunanya, the woman who sold akara opposite her apartment. People bought from her in the mornings before work, some with bread, others with akamu, and in the evenings too. Her akara was always hot, fresh, and delicious.
Adaeze took a bite of the warm akara and bread. The soft, comforting taste made her smile. The city lights glowed softly below, and the air carried the faint, earthy scent that always came before rain.
She looked at Izunna’s message again. It was short, but it made her feel calmer.
She typed a reply and sent it before she could change her mind. ‘Thanks. I just hope this doesn’t affect your image.’
His response came a few minutes later: ‘I’ve survived worse. You?’
She wiped her fingers and replied: ‘Trying.’
For a while, there was no message. The silence did not feel heavy. It felt calm, almost comfortable.
Then the rain began to fall, light at first, tapping gently on the roof.
Her phone lit up again:
‘You ask hard questions, Adaeze. Maybe one day, I will ask you one too.’
A small smile crossed her lips. You and your riddles, she whispered, listening to the rain wash the stress of the day away.
- Writer
