Chapter 25: The Grandmother's Gaze
The back room smelled of camphor and old books. It was a sanctuary of shadows, far removed from the sharp lights of the agents' iPads. Rimon's grandmother, Solema, lay propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her left side was still partially paralyzed, but her right eye—the one that wasn't clouded by time—was as sharp as a hawk's.
"You've brought the world to our door, Shoaib," she rasped, her voice a dry whisper that somehow carried more weight than Coach Farhan's roar.
Rimon sat on the edge of the bed, the blue HUD flickering weakly.
[Sync Rate: 14.2%]
[Status: Emotional Anchor Detected. Processing...]
"I didn't mean to, Nanu," Rimon said, taking her weathered hand. "I just played a game. Now they want to take me to Dubai. They want to turn me into a 'product.'"
Solema looked at him for a long time. She was the one he'd inherited the bad eyes from, but she was also the one who taught him how to see through the blur. "They see a King. You see a burden. But tell me, my boy... when you are on that field, do you still feel like you're hiding?"
Rimon looked down at his calloused palms. "No. For the first time, I feel like I'm actually looking at the world."
"Then the world is just trying to look back," she squeezed his hand. "Go out there. Your mother is tired of holding that broom, and your sister's husband is coming home soon. Don't let them decide your price. You decide your value."
Rimon stood up, the heaviness in his chest shifting into something sharper. Something cold. He walked out of the back room, through the curtain, and back into the battlefield of the living room.
The agents stood up immediately. One held out a Montblanc pen. "Mr. Rimon, the Dubai satellite academy is a once-in-a-lifetime—"
"Sit down," Rimon said.
It wasn't a request. The tone was the same one he used when commanding Hassan to hit the 2 o'clock gap. The agents sat.
Shabana-ma leaned her broom against the wall, sensing the shift. Nodi stopped pacing. Even Nuhab paused his laddoo-eating spree.
Rimon picked up the Dubai contract. He didn't need the System to tell him what it was. His eyes—the half-blind eyes—scanned the hazy text.
"Section 4, Clause B," Rimon read aloud, his voice steady. "Exclusivity of image rights for ten years. 40% commission on all future transfers to Kabir's group. No guarantee of first-team minutes." He looked up, the blue light in his eyes flaring. "This isn't a football contract. This is a deed of ownership."
The lead agent stammered. "It's industry standard for international placements from 'untested' regions like Bangladesh—"
"I'm not an untested region," Rimon cut him off. "I'm a student of English Literature. I know exactly what 'standard' exploitation looks like."
He turned to the table where a second, humbler document lay—the one Rifat had mentioned. The Abahani contract. It was local. It was messy. It involved traveling through Dhaka traffic instead of flying in private jets. But it mentioned his university fees. It mentioned staying close to Keraniganj.
"Tell Kabir his sweets were excellent," Rimon said, sliding the Dubai papers back across the table. "But I don't sign anything I haven't edited first."
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Shahjahan, Rimon's brother-in-law, walked in, looking confused at the sea of suits. Behind him stood a man Rimon didn't expect to see today.
Coach Farhan. He wasn't wearing his training gear. He was wearing a traditional Panjabi, looking like a man who had come to a family gathering, not a business meeting.
"I told them to give you space, Shoaib," Farhan said, ignoring the agents. "But since the vultures are already nesting, I figured I should bring the real ink."
[Sync Rate: 14.5%]
[Warning: Professional Crossroads Imminent.]
Rimon looked at his mother. She nodded once, her hand moving from the broom to her prayer beads. She trusted him.
"I'll sign with Abahani," Rimon announced.
The room erupted. The agents began to protest, but one look from Coach Farhan and the menacing shadow of Ma's broom silenced them.
"On one condition," Rimon added, looking Farhan in the eye. "I don't miss a single lecture. And I want Hassan, Torongo, and the others to have access to the Abahani medical facilities. We came from the mud together. We stay together."
Farhan smiled—a real, weary smile. "Done."
As Rimon picked up the pen to sign his first professional contract, his phone buzzed.
Mahima: Did the broom win?
Rimon smiled as he pressed the pen to the paper.
Rimon: The broom stayed. The King is staying too. See you in class tomorrow.
Author Note:
Nanu Solema is the true soul of this family! 👵❤️ She's the one who gave Rimon the push he needed to stop being a "Lazy Genius" and start being a "Decisive King."
And Rimon reading the fine print?! 📑🔥 That English Literature degree finally paid off! He spotted that 40% commission clause like a defender trying to offside trap him. Kabir's agents really thought they could trick a guy who reads 18th-century law and poetry for fun? Not today, Suit-mamas! 🚫👔
Signing with Abahani but keeping his university life? That's the "Rimon Way." 🇧🇩⚽ Now the real work begins. He's no longer a viral clip; he's a professional. How will the "robotic" BPL teams react when they have to face the ghost of Keraniganj? Stay tuned! 🔥💪