Chapter 12: RETURN TO RIVERA

Durban's salty air wrapped around Stephen the moment he stepped off the bus.

But it didn't smell like comfort. Not this time.

It smelled like unfinished business.

The Royal Midrand shortlist had lit the fuse of a new chapter in his life. But the fire now depended on a man who had once clipped his wings, watched him fall, and never once looked back.

Coach Rivera.

Stephen's old mentor. Old warden. Old wall.

Now, gatekeeper.

The man who held a pen—signed in his father's hand—anchoring Stephen to a past he had fought so hard to outrun.

And Stephen wasn't here for nostalgia.

He was here for war.

He arrived at Oakridge FC's grounds just after midday. The sky above was bruised, heavy with clouds that threatened to spill. The place hadn't changed—faded green fencing, peeling paint on the locker doors, old gym bags thrown against the wall.

Only now, Stephen saw it all for what it was.

A box he had outgrown.

The training field was half-full. Young players warming up, cones scattered, voices bouncing around with nervous energy. And there, standing with a clipboard in his right hand and a whistle around his neck, was the man himself.

Rivera.

Still lean. Still sunburnt. Still wearing the expression of a man who had seen too many dreams die before they matured.

He didn't spot Stephen immediately.

But when he did—he froze.

And smirked.

"Well, well," Rivera called out. "Look what the cat dragged back."

Stephen walked up slowly, eyes locked.

"I'm not here for old times."

Rivera shrugged. "Didn't think so. Midrand's legal office already called me. Sounded a bit panicked."

Stephen stood firm. "Then you know why I'm here."

Rivera's smirk faded.

They moved into his office. Same smell—liniment oil, sweat, and something that clung to the walls from decades of lost potential.

Rivera sat behind his desk like a judge.

Stephen stood.

"I'm not here to beg," Stephen began. "But I'm here to make this simple. You have a signature that shouldn't mean anything anymore. I'm asking you to release me."

Rivera folded his arms.

"And why would I do that?"

Stephen didn't blink. "Because holding me back helps no one. You didn't build me. You didn't protect me when I got injured. You cut me."

"I made a decision," Rivera snapped. "You were done. You looked done."

"And now I'm not."

Rivera leaned back, eyes narrowing.

"You think Midrand's your salvation?"

Stephen said nothing.

"You think they won't drop you the moment someone shinier shows up? You think the PSL has time for poetic comebacks? Let me tell you something, boy—this game doesn't care about your story."

Stephen took a step forward.

"Then why are you so desperate to stay in mine?"

That silenced the room.

Rivera looked away, jaw tight.

For a moment, Stephen saw something flicker in the man's eyes—not rage, not bitterness. Guilt.

Maybe even… remorse.

"I made mistakes," Rivera said quietly. "I know that."

Stephen didn't move.

"I was going through a lot back then," the coach added. "Pressure from the board. Budget cuts. We had five injured players and I had to clear the books."

"So you dropped a 17-year-old with no warning."

Rivera's eyes flinched.

Silence.

Then Stephen said: "Do the right thing now. End the mistake."

Rivera stood and walked over to a filing cabinet.

He pulled out a manila folder and placed it on the desk. Inside—Stephen's old forms. Scanned ID. Photos. And that damn page.

His father's signature. Shaky. Slanted. Final.

Rivera looked at it long and hard.

Then slowly, he pulled out a pen.

"You're lucky I'm getting soft," he muttered. "Or maybe you finally grew into what I thought you could be."

He signed the release form.

Then stamped it.

Stephen watched, heartbeat steady but wild beneath his skin.

When Rivera was done, he slid the paper across the desk.

"You're officially released from Oakridge," he said. "No strings. No threats."

Stephen picked it up.

And for the first time, he let himself smile.

"Thank you."

Rivera nodded, almost human now.

"You still owe me one."

Stephen looked him in the eye.

"No. Now we're even."

Outside, the clouds finally opened.

Rain poured down in thick, warm sheets.

Stephen didn't run from it.

He walked through it.

Like a baptism.

By the time he returned to his mother's house, soaked but glowing, she didn't need to ask what happened. She just hugged him.

Later that night, he scanned and emailed the form to Royal Midrand.

Then texted Coach Du Plessis:

Release signed. No more chains.

–Stephen

The reply came quick:

Good. Now come back and show us why you're worth the war.

The next morning, Stephen boarded a return shuttle to Midrand. The city faded behind him as the bus coasted through KwaZulu-Natal's hills. He watched the rain dry from the windows, one drop at a time.

He thought about the past week.

The fight. The shortlist. The scarred contract. Leah. Keletso. Spike. Rivera.

All of it.

And realized something…

He wasn't running from anything anymore.

He was running toward something.

The difference?

Everything.

To be continued…