The sun was low on the horizon, stretching golden beams across the crisp, manicured lawns surrounding the Chelsea training facility. One by one, luxury SUVs and sports cars rolled into the compound, players spilling out in designer tracksuits, each with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. A few had headphones clamped over their ears, others scrolled through their phones absently as they entered the main building.

Inside, the locker rooms buzzed with the usual pre-match banter. Someone had smuggled in a baby, although not the first time. One of the midfielders had become a new father, and unable to part with his child for the night, he’d slipped his wife and newborn into a quiet lounge on the second floor. Everyone knew, but no one said a word. Footballers were gods on the pitch, yet they were just boys clinging to the people they loved off it.

Down the corridor, the team’s captain, a tall, lean warrior of a man named Jamal, had just stepped out of the manager’s office. He looked around, scanned the crowd of teammates unloading gear and greeting each other, then locked eyes with Ham.

“Ham,” Jamal called firmly, his voice a blend of command and camaraderie.

Ham looked up, halfway through unzipping his travel bag. Next to him, Henry adjusted his boots and straightened up. But when he stepped forward, Jamal raised a hand and shook his head. “Not you. Just Ham.”

Henry rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Of course. Golden boy.” Then he turned and walked away, but not without stealing a quick glance at the legend who had called his friend.

Ham followed Jamal into the glass-walled lounge. Seated in the far corner was Ruzzi, one of the last true icons of the game. He was still sharp, still clinical on the ball, though his legs weren’t what they used to be. Word had it he’d already signed a pre-contract with a Middle Eastern club that would pay him handsomely to bow out gracefully at the end of the season.

Ham stood still as Jamal gestured toward Ruzzi.

The veteran looked up. “Come. Sit.”

Ham sat down, suddenly aware of how tense he was. Ruzzi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said in his low, gravel voice, “You’re starting tomorrow.”

Ham’s heart skipped.

“I’ve spoken to Coach,” Ruzzi added. “We all agree. You’ve earned it. This is a big one, Ham. United under the lights. We need you sharp. Clinical.”

Ham straightened. “Thank you. I promise, I won’t disappoint.”

But Ruzzi didn’t smile. He tilted his head and studied Ham. “Are you sure you’re ready for today? You don’t look like yourself. You’ve lost that spark. That joy. What’s going on?”

Ham swallowed. “Just… personal stuff. Nothing serious.”

“Is it a woman?”

Ham hesitated, and that was enough answer.

Ruzzi sighed and leaned back. “Let me give you some advice. If it is about a girl, don’t do anything drastic. And definitely don’t get married now. Trust me on this one, I’ve been in this game long enough to know. Marriage at this stage? It complicates everything.”

He gestured loosely toward the open window. “You’re at the top now. You need peace of mind, not drama. Have a steady chick if you must. Someone who keeps you grounded. But don’t put a ring on her finger until you’re ready to retire.”

Ham smiled politely. “Thanks, Ruzzi.”

“I’m serious. You’re good, kid. Too good to be throwing energy at things that don’t help your game. Stay focused.”

“I will,” Ham said.

He returned to his room briefly, changed into his training kit, and stepped out just in time to see the rest of the squad filing toward the pitch for a light session under the floodlights.

The evening breeze was cool, the grass glowing under the lights. Everyone moved fluidly through warm-up drills. Phones weren’t allowed on the field, but Ham had insisted his assistant hold his and discreetly signal if anything came through.

At halftime, while everyone took a breather, his assistant caught his eye and gave a short nod. Ham jogged over, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey, and asked quietly, “Mutale?”

The assistant shook his head. “Zainab.”

Ham exhaled sharply and looked away. He took the phone, typed a short message to Mutale, and hit send:

I’m sorry. I truly am. Please come tomorrow. Come and watch me play. You can be in my booth. I’d really like that.

He returned to the pitch but Ruzzi was already watching him from across the field. The captain’s earlier warning echoed again in Ham’s head.

And in that moment, Ham couldn’t help whispering to himself—

“Damn.”

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 MUTALE

The house was too quiet. Mutale had been walking from room to room since she woke up, taking it all in. It still didn’t feel real, how big the place was, how polished. Not a speck of dust in sight.

Yet… no one.

There were workers, she’d seen the gardener outside, and the housekeeper’s shoes by the back door, but they floated like ghosts. Silent and invisible.

She ran a finger along the clean marble counter in the kitchen and sighed.

Someone definitely worked here. But no one lived here. Not really. The house felt like a luxury hotel lobby after closing hours, neat, sterile, soulless.

Her stomach growled.

“Of course,” she murmured, annoyed with herself. “Hungry in a house like this.”

She dropped a small bag on the counter, reached in, and pulled out a package.

Dry fish. She had brought it from Zambia. Just in case.

She set water to boil and glanced at the spice rack. To her surprise, everything was there, salt, pepper, tomatoes, even groundnut powder. She smiled faintly.

Chikanda. That’s what she’d make. Or maybe Ifisashi. No… she settled on Nshima with dry fish stew and pumpkin leaves.

Ham’s favourite.

“Not that I’m cooking it for him,” she said aloud, opening the pot.

“I’m cooking it for me.”

Still, she made enough for four people.

By the time the food was ready, she served herself, left the rest to cool, and packed them into plastic containers for the fridge.

The aroma filled the kitchen, grounding her.

She stood quietly by the window, staring out at the empty backyard.

Then, without warning, the tears came.

“I was happier when I was poor,” she whispered.

She pulled out a chair and sat, her head in her hands.

“Lord… I know I messed up. I know I sinned but I also know You’ve forgiven me. Please show me the way. If leaving this marriage is what You want me to do, show me. If staying is what You want, show me how to survive it. How to make it work.”

She sat still for a moment, then shook her head, wiping her face.

“Leaving this marriage can’t be Your will,” she muttered. “But how do I live with a man like him?”

Her phone buzzed. A WhatsApp notification.

She checked.

It was from Ham. Sent last night.

I’m sorry. I truly am. Please come tomorrow. Come and watch me play. You can be in my booth. I’d really like that.

No emojis. Just words.

She hadn’t replied.

A second later, David’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hey,” his voice came through, cheerful as always. “I’m coming by 2 p.m. to help you get dressed for the match.”

Mutale frowned. “Get dressed for what? I can dress myself, thank you.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I know. But the women’s box… girlfriends and wives… it’s a whole… look. Thought I’d make it easier for you.”

“I’m not trying to be one of them. I just want to be there as a guest.”

“That’s fine. But looking good, really good, makes your point better than saying it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll look good. My way.”

Then she paused. “You know what? Fine. I’m not doing anything. Might as well let you play dress-up.”

David laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

As she hung up, she whispered to herself, “God, help me not to lose myself.”

But even as she said it, she knew.

To thrive here, she would have to adjust. Not disappear, but evolve. Conform just enough to survive.

She looked down at the floor tiles.

“Do I even want to go to that match?”

She glanced at the fridge where the containers sat. At her plate, barely touched.

She sighed. “I’ll be bored by nightfall. Maybe… just maybe, I need to go.”

 HAM

The roar of Stamford Bridge swallowed the tension, but Ham barely heard it.

He stood on the field, focused, absorbing the buzz like a man under water. Whatever the captain had said, whatever the coach had planned, Ham was here to execute.

He had to.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea was immediately on the back foot.

Manchester came hard.

They pressed with a hunger that confused even the pundits. This wasn’t how the match was supposed to go. Manchester hadn’t been playing like this all season.

The commentators buzzed:

“Chelsea expected an easier ride today, but Manchester’s press is relentless… Ham seems off his rhythm… That’s not the Ham we’ve come to know.”

Chelsea played defensively, pushed back again and again. Jamal finally broke through in the 18th minute,  he made a beautiful run, then passed it to Ham, a perfect setup.

Ham had space.

He could have scored.

Instead, he lost the ball.

A simple misstep.

The crowd gasped. The commentators winced.

“Oh no, that’s unforgivable! Ham Mwansa from that range?”

Ham felt the loss like a slap.

His stomach tightened.

Mutale was watching.

And suddenly, the roar of the stadium couldn’t drown out the voice in his head:

“I’m losing at home. I’m losing on the field. I’m just… losing.”

Henry jogged up beside him. “Bro. Shake it off. You’re in your head.”

Ham didn’t answer.

And then, as if to seal the shame, Manchester scored.

1–0.

The crowd groaned. Chelsea heads dropped. Ham bent slightly, hands on his knees. The pressure felt heavy.

The locker room was ice and fire. Sweat, frustration, silence.

Then the coach let loose.

“You’re playing like bloody children! Like boys who want to be paid for showing up, not for fighting!”

He turned to Ham. “You — you need a break? Or do I bench you and bring someone who actually came here to win?”

Ham stood, straightened, locked eyes with him.

“No, coach. I’m going back in.”

The coach stared at him for a beat, then nodded and walked away.

Mutale sat in a space too pretty to be real, velvet seats, polished glass, soft drinks with straws already in them. The wives and girlfriends sparkled beside her like luxury accessories.

She felt out of place.

And Ham playing badly didn’t help.

She had seen him play a better game in his old dusty high school field back in Lusaka. This? This was… off.

Then the whistle blew.

Second half.

As the players returned, something shifted. Ham looked… lighter. Or maybe hungrier.

She didn’t know why, but she began to whisper a prayer.

“God, please. Help him. Let him find himself again.”

The game dragged on. Chelsea pushed. Manchester blocked. The board showed 88 minutes. It was still 1–0.

David walked up beside her. “They’ll start exiting now, just so we beat the traffic. Want me to walk you out?”

She nodded faintly, disappointed.

And then…

A break.

Ham.

He cut through the right. One touch. Two. He dodged one defender, then another.

The goalkeeper rushed out, Ham shot.

The net rippled.

GOAL.

The stadium erupted.

David shouted. Mutale stood, stunned.

1–1.

A draw,  but it felt like a win.

Outside, the car waited. Flashing lights and chanting fans echoed behind them. Mutale smiled faintly.

“I think I’m ready to leave now,” she said.

David nodded. “Ham might want to see you, though.”

She shook her head. “No. I’d just like to go home.”

David studied her for a moment. “Alright. I’ll call the driver.”

They walked in silence for a bit. Then David added, “He may not come home tonight. Just a heads up.”

She nodded. “That’s fine. I was alone last night too. I guess it’s something I need to get used to.”

David’s voice softened. “Yeah…”

Mutale turned to him and smiled, tired but composed. “It’s okay. Thank you, David.”

He opened the door for her. She slid into the car, looked out at the lights of Stamford Bridge one last time, then let the door close behind her.

HAM

The noise outside was deafening. Inside, it was oddly calm.

Ham stepped into the dressing room, sweat still trickling down his spine. The moment the door shut behind him, a wave of exhaustion hit.

He headed straight to the shower, peeled off his jersey like it was made of lead. The hot water blasted over his back, and for the first time in 90 minutes, he exhaled.

He’d scored.

He’d saved the game.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

Laughter echoed behind the frosted glass. Jamal and Henry were cracking jokes, high-fiving, reliving every pass like it was magic.

Ham stepped out quietly, towel wrapped around his waist. He barely glanced at them.

“Bro,” Henry called, grinning. “Big goal, yeah? You turned the stadium upside down!”

Ham gave a half-smile, nodded.

His phone buzzed on the bench.

David:

She left already. Told me she wanted to go home.

Ham’s jaw tightened. He wiped his face, muttering under his breath.

The coach walked past, clapping a few backs.

“Good save today, Mwansa,” he said, pausing briefly. “Good recovery. Now keep it consistent.”

Ham just nodded again.

He dressed fast, tied his laces like a man running from something, and grabbed his keys.

Neon washed across black glass. Inside, the bar was buzzing, moody lighting, soft house music, waiters in black waistcoats moved around.

Ham stepped in and scanned the room like a ghost in his own skin.

He shouldn’t be here.

He should be home.

But home was quiet. Awkward. Cold.

And Mutale… she probably wouldn’t say a word to him anyway.

He made for the bar.

“Vodka. Double. No ice.”

The bartender nodded, quietly acknowledging his legendary comeback earlier.

Ham took the shot. It hit fast.

“MWANSA!”

He turned to see Kelvin, lean, stylish, fellow Chelsea star, at a private booth in the corner. Three other players sat around him, drinks in hand.

Two girls were with Kelvin, laughing loud in their flashy hair, and expensive perfume.

Kelvin waved him over.

Ham shook his head at first. But after a few seconds, he walked toward them, slowly.

“Ma guy!” Kelvin raised his glass. “You turned that match on its head, bro.”

Ham dropped into the velvet booth. One of the girls slid closer, she was  tall, curvy, and familiar.

She leaned in, pressed her chest against his shoulder, whispering, “We’ve missed you. Don’t be quiet tonight.”

Ham pulled back slightly. “I’m not here for that.”

Kelvin laughed. “Let him breathe.”

Another round of drinks arrived. Ham grabbed a second shot.

“I am losing my mind,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Kelvin clapped him on the back. “Still, tonight, you were sharp. Game started out messy, but you ended it like a beast.”

Ham’s phone lit up.

Mutale:

Congratulations. Glad you didn’t lose.

He stared at the screen.

His chest tightened.

“What am I doing here?”

He took the third shot, let it burn, then stood up without a word.

“Where are you going?” Kelvin asked, mid-laugh.

Ham didn’t answer. He just tossed a few notes on the table, nodded once, and walked out, into the cold London night, headed home.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Ham stepped into the house quietly, his keys soft against the polished wood of the entry table. The lights had been dimmed, someone, maybe the housekeeper, had left one lamp on in the living room, casting long shadows on the marble floor.

He paused.

He hoped she had gone to bed. Or at least wasn’t waiting up. But the silence told him nothing.

He dropped his gym bag at the door and moved through the house, passing the sweeping staircase, his footsteps quiet on the tiles. He opened his bedroom door and flipped on the light.

Empty.

No sign of her.

A wave of shame passed through him, the kind that prickled at the back of his neck. He couldn’t just crawl into bed like nothing had happened.

He turned and started checking the guest rooms.

One door creaked as he pushed it open, the one in the left wing.

She was there, sitting by the dressing table, her hair loosely tied back. She was in a modest nightwear. No makeup. Her skin was bare and glowing under the light. She was looking into the mirror, but when the door opened, her eyes lifted and caught his through the glass.

He froze.

“I just…” he cleared his throat. “Thank you. For coming to the match.”

She didn’t turn. “Well. There was nowhere else to go.”

“You’re saying you came because you were bored?”

“I don’t have an answer to your question,” she said, still not facing him. “Just leave me be. Go back to your room.”

“We’re supposed to be in the same room,” he said, stepping in. “You’re my wife.”

She turned to him now, slowly. “The room you’ve shared with your girlfriend? Or girlfriends? That’s where you want me to start my life with you?”

Ham looked around this guest room, its soft lighting, large windows, thick carpet.

“I like that you picked this room,” he said, as if dodging the accusation. “We can redecorate it. It’s as big as mine. We’ll make it ours.”

Mutale stared at him. “You can’t even deny that you’ve slept with other women in this house.”

Ham’s shoulders dropped. “It’s unfair that you want me to suddenly become another person.”

“No,” she snapped, standing up now. “What’s unfair is that I came here with nothing but my name and my body, and I have to wonder if the person I married ever meant to protect either.”

“You know me,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not perfect. I’ve never been. I’m only just now trying, trying because of you.”

“Please,” she said, “don’t change for me. That never lasts.”

Ham’s face was tense. “But I am trying. My life is different now. I’m married to you. That’s not just a word, it’s… look, I’m here tonight. That’s not routine for me. I’d usually be doing something else.”

She looked at him, really looked at him. “How did you become like this? We are christians.”

He smiled faintly, bitterly. “We used to go to church together, yeah, but I didn’t go because I was holy. I went because they served food after. And because of you.”

Mutale blinked. Ham moved to her side, till he was standing behind her, both of them, looking into the mirror.

“That was the only place I got to sit beside you. In school, you wouldn’t talk to me. You didn’t like the people I moved with. But in church… we could sit together.”

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head. “Ham… you’re messing everything up. This is sad.”

“Why must it be sad?” he murmured, turning her to face him so that he could look into her eyes. “Why can’t it be simple?”

He pulled her into his arms.

It startled her, the tenderness. For a second, she didn’t resist. His arms locked around her. Her head pressed into his chest, and she broke.

The tears came quietly, slowly soaking his shirt. He didn’t flinch.

He stroked her back gently. “We’re gonna get through this, babe. If anyone can make something work out of this… it’s you and me.”

Then he lifted her face, his thumb brushing away tears. He leaned in and kissed her deeply, as if the kiss would fix them.

Her breath hitched. His hands slid down, finding the hem of her nightdress. He began to unbutton the top.

She pushed him back, voice breaking. “Ham… this isn’t the answer.”

“You’re my wife,” he whispered. “And I need some sugar tonight. I feel like I’ll think clearer after we…”

His phone rang.

He paused, jaw clenched.

“Pick your call,” she said, stepping back.

“No, it can wait—”

She pushed him gently. “You need to clear your head. I need to clear mine. We need to figure out what we’re actually doing.”

He stood there, eyes fixed on her.

Then he nodded, stepped back slowly, and left the room.

Outside her door, in the hallway, he finally looked at his phone.

Missed call – Zainab.

Ham ran a hand over his face, hoping Mutale didn’t see the caller.

“Damn. Oh God!” He exclaimed, and suddenly, the  hallway felt colder than the night outside.