Chapter 17: The Weight of the Jersey
The ninety-minute lecture on Romantic Poetry was the longest of Rimon's life. He didn't hear a word about Keats or the sublime. His ears were ringing with the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic flickering of the Sync Rate.
[Sync Rate: 11.8%]
[Status: Cognitive Dissonance Detected. External Logic vs. Internal Potential.]
When the bell finally rang, the students scrambled out, tossing playful jabs at Rimon as they left. Mahima stayed in her seat for a moment, her eyes fixed on her notebook.
"Are you going?" she asked, her voice steady.
"I have to," Rimon said, standing up. "The Professor is waiting."
"They're going to ask you for a trial, Rimon. You know that, right?" She finally looked up, her gaze piercing. "Abahani doesn't send three suits to an English Department just to say hello."
"I'm going to tell them no," Rimon replied flatly. He adjusted his bag strap, his knuckles white. "This is Bangladesh, Mahima. Footballers here... they play in the mud, they get injured, and then they're forgotten. There is no future in it. I'd rather be a novelist. At least books don't break your ACL."
Mahima didn't argue. She just watched him walk toward the door, her expression shadowed by a worry she couldn't quite voice.
Rimon walked down the corridor toward Professor Sabid's office. Every step felt like he was walking toward a gallows. He knocked, and the door opened to reveal a room that felt too small for the energy inside it.
Professor Sabid was sitting behind his desk, looking slightly amused. Across from him sat three men. Two were in sharp, dark suitsโcorporate scoutsโand the third was a broader man in an Abahani training track-top. His face was weathered, his eyes the kind that could spot a flaw in a player's gait from a mile away.
"Shoaib, come in," Sabid Alom gestured. "These gentlemen have been very patient."
The man in the track-top stood up. "I'm Coach Farhan. We saw the video Rifat shared. Then we saw the full raw footage from a student named Nuhab." He didn't offer a handshake; he just stared at Rimon's legs. "The way you move... it shouldn't be possible for an untrained amateur. We want you at the Dhanmondi grounds tomorrow morning for a closed-door trial."
Rimon stood in the center of the room, feeling the eyes of the professionals boring into him.
"I appreciate the offer, Coach," Rimon said, his voice quiet but firm. "But I'm not interested."
The room went silent. Even Professor Sabid raised an eyebrow.
"Not interested?" the scout in the suit asked, leaning forward. "Do you know how many thousands of boys in this country would give their right arm for an Abahani trial? We're talking about a path to the professional league, a salary, and a legacy."
"I know," Rimon said, his introverted soul reaching for the logic he'd built over years. "But I also know the reality. Bangladeshi football is a dead end. The infrastructure is crumbling, the pay is inconsistent, and the moment I get a serious injury, I'm just another kid from Keraniganj with a limp. I'm here for my degree. I want to write. I don't want to be a viral clip that people forget in a week."
Coach Farhan didn't look angry. He looked disappointed, which was worse. He walked over to the window, looking out at the campus.
"You think you have a choice, Shoaib?" the Coach asked, turning back. "I saw you play against Monday Osagie. You weren't just 'playing.' You were dominant. That 'slap' pass... that's not something you learn from a book. That's in your blood. You can hide in this library all you want, but your body is already screaming for the pitch."
"My body is fine right where it is," Rimon countered.
"Is it?" Farhan stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Then why did you play? Why did you risk your 'literary career' to defend a neighborhood field against pros? Because you're a Prodigy, Shoaib. And Prodigies don't stay hidden forever."
He reached into his pocket and placed a business card on Professor Sabid's desk.
"Dhanmondi grounds. 7:00 AM tomorrow. If you don't show up, you're just another 'Lazy Genius' who was too afraid to see how good he actually was. We'll have a pair of boots waiting for you. Real ones. Not mud."
The three men walked out, leaving Rimon in the sudden, heavy silence of the office.
Professor Sabid looked at the card, then at his student. "He's a very dramatic man, Farhan. But he's rarely wrong about talent, Shoaib. Wordsworth once wrote that 'the child is father of the man.' Perhaps the boy who played barefoot in Keraniganj is the man you're supposed to be, not this version of you that hides behind Shakespeare."
Rimon didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the office, his head throbbing.
[Sync Rate: 12.0%]
[New Quest: The Trial of the King.]
[Objective: Arrive at Dhanmondi Grounds.]
[Reward: Advanced Muscle Memory Unlocked.]
[Penalty for Failure: Sync Rate Stagnation. System Hibernation.]
The flickering blue text was a threat now. Rimon walked out of the department building, the bright Dhaka sun hitting his face. He wanted to go home and sleep. He wanted to delete the video. He wanted everything to go back to normal.
But as he looked at his hands, he saw them trembling. Not with fear.
With hunger.
Author Note:
Rimon's logic is so relatable for a Bangladeshi student! ๐ง๐ฉ The skepticism about the football career is realโit's a risky path compared to a degree.
SORRY FOR LATE UPDATE. YOU KNOW 3 BOOK IS CONTINUING IN SAME PACE SO IT'S SOMETIME DIFFICULT TO UPDATE IN TIME.
PLEASE STAY TUNE!!!