After The Fall

Marcel woke up much later than usual, the bright light slipping through his curtains reminding him it was already well into the morning. He turned to his bedside clock—10 a.m. Normally, his mother wouldn't allow him to sleep in this long, and he still had household chores waiting for him. But today, he just didn't feel like getting up.

The sting of elimination was still fresh. He kept replaying the match in his mind—the missed chances, the referee's call, the way he felt when the final whistle blew. He knew it was just a youth tournament, that bigger competitions would come if he kept playing well. But that didn't matter to him right now. Losing hurt. More than he expected.

He thought back to the Brasseries Academy match. That loss had frustrated him, but at least they weren't eliminated. Now, it was different. He hated this feeling. It sat heavy in his chest, a kind of burning frustration he didn't know how to shake off.

For the first time since he met her, he ignored Christina. It wasn't her fault, but he just couldn't bring himself to talk to her. She had sent several messages, asking how he was, but he left them unread. He wasn't in the mood. His mind was still stuck on the loss, on how it made him feel.

He lay there for another twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling. Just thinking.

Eventually, he forced himself to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Enough sulking.

The first thing he did was make his bed—partly to avoid his mother's nagging, but also because he knew if he didn't start moving, he'd stay in this mood all day.

His eyes drifted to his poster of Cristiano Ronaldo, frozen mid-air in his famous Siuuuu celebration. Marcel let out a deep breath. Ronaldo had it harder than him growing up—no stability, no wealth, no privileges. And yet, he worked his way to the top. Marcel couldn't let one tournament define him. He had to work harder.

He stepped into the hallway, rubbing his face, his mind still clouded from everything that had happened in yesterday.

In the small living room, Francine was already dressed for work, securing her hair into a tight bun as she glanced at the small mirror near the door. She was in her usual rush, adjusting the strap of her bag while making sure everything was in place before heading out to her restaurant.

She noticed Marcel standing there, still in his crumpled sleeping clothes, looking half-awake.

"Good morning, Mom," Marcel said, his voice quieter than usual. He kept his head down, feeling a twinge of guilt for how he had ignored her yesterday.

Francine glanced at him while adjusting her work apron. "Hmm, so you finally decided to join the living?" She teased. "I was beginning to think you'd spend the whole day locked in your room. Good thing you woke up on your own—otherwise, I would've dragged you out by the ear."

Marcel forced a smile, a bit embarrassed. "Ha, ha, ha… No way, Mom. I wouldn't do that. I have too much to do today."

"Good. I don't like seeing you sulking," she said, adjusting her headscarf. "But just so you know, I wasn't joking about dragging you out by the ear."

Marcel shuddered slightly. Knowing his mother, she really wasn't joking.

Before leaving, Francine looked at him seriously. "When you're done with your chores, go talk to Christina."

Marcel frowned slightly, but she continued before he could say anything.

"She's sad because you're ignoring her. I don't care how upset you are about football—she didn't do anything wrong. She shouldn't be the one suffering just because you lost a game."

Marcel exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. He knew his mother was right.

Francine stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I want to see both of you smiling before I get back," she said, kissing his forehead.

And with that, she left for work, leaving Marcel standing there, thinking about what she said.

...

Marcel finally finished his chores, wiping sweat off his forehead as he stepped back to inspect his work. The plates from the night before had been scrubbed clean, stacked neatly on the drying rack. The living room floor, which had been coated in the fine dust that always seemed to creep in from the street, now gleamed after he had swept and mopped it. He had wiped down the table, rearranged the chairs, and even straightened the small family shelf holding framed pictures and a few old books.

It wasn't a grand house, but it was home. A modest but well-maintained apartment, not in the poorest part of Yaoundé but far from the wealthiest. The lingering scent of palm oil from last night's cooking still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the cool morning breeze slipping through the open window.

Satisfied with his work, Marcel grabbed his phone, opened his messages, and typed quickly.

> Marcel: Hey, I'm really sorry for ignoring you yesterday. Can we talk? I'll wait outside.

The reply came almost immediately.

> Christina: Okay.

It wasn't much, but at least she responded.

Marcel exhaled, put down his phone, and stepped outside, leaning against the wall near the entrance to his building. The minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.

By the time he hit thirty minutes, he began to wonder if she would come at all. Just as he was about to send another message, he spotted her walking toward him.

She had her stressed braids tied back loosely, her brown skin a shade lighter than his but still rich and warm under the morning sun. She wore a sleeveless denim vest over a fitted sheer top with a bold tiger print, tucked slightly into a pair of distressed denim shorts with frayed edges. Her blue sneakers, well-worn but stylish, matched her relaxed but effortlessly put-together look.

Marcel watched her approach, his heart thudding slightly—not from nervousness, but because he suddenly felt like an idiot for making her wait so long to talk.

She stopped in front of him, folding her arms. Her expression was neutral.

He met her gaze and swallowed. "Sorry…"

She didn't reply.

"I'm really sorry," he continued. "I know football shouldn't affect how I treat you."

Still, she said nothing.

"Look, I know I messed up. I should've talked to you instead of shutting you out. I don't want to ignore you again just because I lost a match."

Christina let out a soft sigh, finally breaking her silence. "I'm not mad at you, Marcel. I was just… thinking."

"Thinking?"

She nodded. "It's been two years since we got together, and I thought I knew you completely. But yesterday, I realized how much you hate to lose." She looked him in the eye. "I expected you to be upset, but I didn't think you'd completely ignore me."

Marcel opened his mouth but found no words to say.

Christina shifted her weight slightly, her voice softer now. "If a youth tournament loss affects you this much, what happens if you lose something bigger? Will you shut me out again? Will you push me away if things get hard?"

Her words struck him more than he expected.

He scratched the back of his head. "Honestly… even I didn't realize how much I hate losing until now. It's not just disappointment, it's like…" He struggled for the right words. "Like something I can't stand, no matter what."

Christina studied him for a moment before smiling faintly. "Well, at least now you know." Then she lightly tapped his forehead. "But promise me something."

"What?"

"No matter how much you hate to lose, don't shut me out again."

Marcel nodded. "I promise."

She smirked. "Good."

"So… do you forgive me?"

Instead of answering, she suddenly leaned in and kissed him—just a quick, playful peck. Then she pulled back and held up her fingers, pinching the air slightly. "A little bit."

Marcel blinked, slightly stunned, before regaining his composure. "What do I have to do for full forgiveness?"

Christina grinned. "Take a walk with me."

He chuckled. "That's all?"

"That's all."

"Alright then." Marcel reached out, gently taking her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, soft against his own.

"Let's go," she said, squeezing his hand lightly before leading the way.

...

...

After his walk with Christina, Marcel returned home feeling lighter than before, but the moment he stepped inside, he was met with the loud voices of his two best friends, Dimitri and Jordan, who had just arrived.

"Acer combi, how are we sending you text messages and you don't respond?" Jordan grinned, his hands on his hips like an annoyed parent.

"That's right," Dimitri added, shaking his head. "We texted you so many times that we even thought you were dead or something."

Marcel chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, don't worry, bros. I just wasn't in the mood to talk after losing yesterday in the Brasseries tournament."

Jordan dramatically stepped back, clutching his chest like he'd been hit. "Ekié, you lost?! Since when does Marcel, the Ronaldinho junior, lose?"

Marcel sighed but smiled—it was typical Jordan, always the loudest in the room.

"It's because we weren't there," Jordan continued, pointing to himself with exaggerated confidence. "Didn't you notice the difference? When you played with us, you didn't lose a single match, but immediately after we're not here, you lose! Maybe it wasn't you that was that good, maybe I was the reason!"

Marcel simply shook his head, smirking.

"If I wanted to play football as a career, I'd already be at Real Madrid, replacing Cristiano Ronaldo," Jordan declared, puffing out his chest.

"Ha! You're always exaggerating," Dimitri scoffed, crossing his arms.

Marcel chuckled. "Don't worry, I'm not that sad about it anymore. I just need to do better next time."

Dimitri suddenly looked up from his phone. "Yeah, next time means the matches with Cameroon U17. You have to win the CAN U17 and the U17 World Cup! If you make it to at least the semi-finals of CAN U17, you'll qualify for the World Cup in Chile!"

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "You've already looked all that up?"

Dimitri turned his phone toward him, showing the tournament format on Wikipedia.

Jordan clapped his hands together. "Ahh! So combi will play in the World Cup?! That's it—I'm posting on Facebook right now! 'My best friend will play in the World Cup!' I'll even add a photo!"

"Wait!" Marcel panicked, reaching to grab Jordan's phone. "I haven't even been called up yet, and you're already telling the world?"

Jordan ducked away, holding his phone high. "Ekié, what are you saying?! You're doubting that you'll be called up? If they don't call you, everyone that gets picked instead is a fraud! Who deserves it more than you?"

"Yeah," Dimitri nodded. "I'm sure you'll be called up."

Marcel appreciated their confidence in him, but he remained cautious. "I really like your support, but it's better to wait. Besides, I saw many other players that deserve to be called up too—Jean Mvondo, our captain… Ignatius Ganago, Brasseries Academy's striker… and especially Ngono Ngoah, the midfielder from Kadji Sports. He was a nightmare to play against."

"If you're talking about them like that, that means they're really good," Dimitri said, nodding thoughtfully.

Jordan suddenly clapped his hands again. "Acer Marcel, aren't you watching the Real Madrid match today?!"

Marcel blinked. "Real play today?" Then, as memory hit him, he smacked his forehead. "That's right! The UEFA Super Cup!"

Without hesitation, Jordan grabbed the remote and switched the TV to Canal+.

As soon as Real Madrid vs. Sevilla filled the screen, Dimitri groaned. "I hope they lose."

Marcel and Jordan burst into laughter at the exact same time.

"There's only jealous Barcelona fans like you that say that," Marcel teased.

Dimitri scoffed. "Laugh now, but you'll see. This season will belong to Barça! With Messi, Suárez, and Neymar, we'll win everything, and Messi will win another Ballon d'Or, proving again that he's miles ahead of Ronaldo."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Dimi, sure," Jordan said, waving him off.

They settled in to watch the game, stretching out comfortably in Marcel's living room. The TV was a solid flat-screen, not the latest model but good enough for clear football broadcasts. A standing fan hummed in the corner, circulating the air in the warm room. The furniture was simple but well-kept, reflecting his mother's care in maintaining their home. Marcel's house wasn't extravagant, but it had everything they needed, and his mother ensured it always felt welcoming.

As the match kicked off, Real Madrid dominated but struggled to find the net. In the 30th minute, Gareth Bale whipped in a cross, and Cristiano Ronaldo meet it with his leg while sliding.

BOOM!

The ball rocketed into the net. 1-0!

At that exact moment, Jordan jumped up from the couch, spread his arms wide, and shouted along with Ronaldo on TV:

"SIIIIUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!"

He even did the celebration in front of Dimitri, who was rolling his eyes.

"I swear, Jordan, you're unbearable."

Marcel laughed as Jordan continued prancing around the room like an overjoyed fan.

By full-time, Real Madrid had won 2-0, thanks to another Ronaldo goal.

As the players lifted the trophy, Marcel felt a pang in his chest. Watching Real Madrid celebrate made him think of what could have been—he could have been celebrating too if they had reached the Brasseries Tournament final and won.

It stung.

But not as much as before.

He took a deep breath and let the feeling pass. There would be more tournaments. Bigger tournaments. He just had to make sure he won the next one.

As his friends got up to leave, Dimitri turned to him seriously.

"Even if you lost this time, don't doubt yourself for the next one. You're going to get called up. You have to win the CAN U17."

Jordan grinned, slapping Marcel on the back. "Yeah, combi. When you get back from the CAN U17, I want to see you with a medal around your neck."

Marcel bumped fists with both of

them. "By God's grace."

As he watched them walk away, he made himself a silent promise.

Next time, he wouldn't lose.