Football singularity

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~~~

[02-07-2021 | DFB Hotel, Saint Petersburg, Russia | 03:26 BST]

Wirtz woke up to the rush of cold wind and the sound of nightlife drifting in through the open balcony doors of their room. Still groggy, he took a while to get his bearings, his vision swimming as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The other bed was empty, the sheets thrown back, and for a moment his sleep-addled brain conjured a dozen ridiculous scenarios before logic caught up with him.

He found the answer where the cold air was coming from. Out on the balcony, silhouetted against the pale glow of Saint Petersburg’s endless white nights, Rakim sat in one of the two chairs, a steaming cup cradled in his hands, staring out over the city as though it owed him money.

Wirtz groaned, dragging himself upright and shuffling across the cold floor, a blanket half-draped over his shoulders like a cape. He dropped into the empty chair beside his friend with all the grace of a felled tree, squinting at the cup in Rakim’s hands. The smell of green tea reached him a second later.

"Don’t even think about it, this one’s mine," Rakim said, seemingly sensing his gaze on the cup, not even bothering to turn to face him.

"It’s almost half three," Wirtz mumbled with a roll of his eyes, his voice shaky as the chilly wind brushed against his warm body. "Why are you awake at this unholy hour?"

Rakim did not look away from the skyline as he took a sip of his tea, letting the silence stretch. "I felt a disturbance in the force."

"Bro, just admit you had a nightmare," Wirtz deadpanned, pulling the blanket tighter. "Just go back to sleep; we have an early start."

[Ding: -$17,000.00 — Club IBIZA]

"See what I’m talking about." Rakim held up his phone after glancing at the notification.

Wirtz leaned over to squint at the screen, his tired brain taking a full three seconds to process the string of digits and the little minus sign in front of them. When it finally registered, his eyes went wide, and any trace of sleep evaporated on the spot.

"Seventeen thousand?" he hissed, snatching at the phone as if getting a closer look would somehow change the number. "Dollars? Who is spending fourteen thousand dollars of your money in a club in Russia at three in the morning?"

"Take a wild guess," Rakim said, calmly reclaiming his phone and taking another unbothered sip of his tea.

Wirtz stared at him, then at the phone, then back at him. "May?"

"May."

"Your May?"

"Do I have another one?"

"I—" Wirtz opened his mouth, closed it, then dragged a hand down his face. "Why does she have access to seventeen thousand dollars of your money?"

"She has access to all the money my money guy puts into our joint account," Rakim said with a shrug, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. "Funny thing is, she has never touched the money we put in there other than when we buy groceries and things for the house. Then again, she does alright for herself, influencers are getting to that bread."

Wirtz blinked slowly. "You have a joint account with your girlfriend?"

"Well, yeah, it’s just easier to put a percentage of both our earnings in one place." Rakim shrugged. "It’s like a living and emergency fund, plus how you can ask someone to move in with you and not trust them to spend your money?"

"Yeah, I guess, but seventeen thousand though?"

"I know,"

~~~

[02-07-2021 | Ibiza Nightclub, Saint Petersburg, Russia | 03:26 BST]

Ivan had been expecting a certain response to his gesture, and it always worked. No matter who it was, everyone liked to feel appreciated, especially with an expensive gesture. Naturally, he expected his plan to go off without a hitch, and he could make his move once their defenses were lowered.

So why was the host returning with an entourage of waiters? A bottle parade suddenly formed near the bar, six servers carrying sparklers and illuminated signs as they made their way toward the VIP section. The DJ suddenly cut the music with a flourish. "We have some high rollers in the building, let’s give em a round of applause."

The inebriated crowd cheered loudly despite it having nothing to do with them. "The bottle of Beluga Epicure by Lalique is officially off the menu." Another round of cheers erupted before the music began blasting again as the bottle procession approached Ivan’s table.

The writers carried ice-filled boxes of champagne and vodka above their shoulders as sparklers sprayed. But the main attraction was the bottle, carried in an ornate black box with golden highlights. A crystal bottle rested on purple velvet fabric, encased in glass, with ice vapor dancing around it.

The bottle almost looked mythical, something out of Babylonian times, especially with sparks of fire illuminating it. The procession stopped before their section with all the fanfare that money allotted. "Compliments from the ladies, they appreciate the gesture, but won’t be joining you."

The host delivered the line with a professional’s straight face, setting the ornate glass case down on the marble table in the middle of Ivan’s section before stepping back with a small bow. For a moment, the entire table stared at it, the fire sparks fizzling out around the crystal bottle as the ice vapor continued to curl lazily over the purple velvet.

Ivan Volkov looked at the Beluga Epicure by Lalique, then down at the lower floor, where three women were not even looking up at him, returning to their own world. His friends had gone quiet, which was somehow worse than if they had laughed. Vladimier made a sound like a cough that was not quite a cough, and Ivan shot him a look sharp enough to silence it entirely.

The bottle sitting in front of him cost more than most people in the club made in a year. He had sent three golden bottles of Ace of Spades down as an opening move. And they had answered by buying him something four times more expensive and turning him down. It was not a rejection, no, this was checkmate.

"Who is she?" Ivan asked quietly, and this time there was no lazy amusement in his voice.

~~~

"Babe," she said, keeping her voice low and even beneath the music, "I love the power move, I really do. But I don’t think that was a man who takes no for an answer, and I really don’t think this is a club where we want to find out what happens next."

Sarah felt it before she understood it, her instincts sensing the change in the air the way a rabbit senses a fox closing in. "Should we go?" she asked, her voice smaller than it had been all night, one hand already reaching for her clutch. "I feel like we should go."

Before any of them could decide, two men in dark suits detached themselves from the balcony and made their way toward them. The host reappeared at the edge of their booth, and this time his professional smile was strained thin, an apology already forming in his eyes.

"The gentleman insists," he began, the phrase carrying an underlying edge. "He would consider it a great disrespect if you did not at least come up to share a drink. Just one. It would be... better."

Eniola’s hand closed around her wrist beneath the table with a warning squeeze. Sarah had gone pale beside them. The two suited men blocked off the escape paths, and the booth suddenly felt very small. The pulsing crowd on the dance floor was another wall between them and any exit.

"Tell Ivan if he messes with my friends, we will have a problem." A voice cut through the tension, sounding bored and utterly unafraid. "Take a rejection like a man, plus it’s not like he didn’t make a profit from this."

A young woman who could only be described as representative of Russian beauty stepped past them. Reflexively, they tried to stop her, but before they could act, they were manhandled by a tall russian man who was built like a polar bear. The contrast between the man whose suit could barely contain his bulging muscles and the slender girls no older than twenty was stark.

Dirty-blond hair fell in a sleek curtain past her shoulders, framing a face that belonged on a magazine cover, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and expressive pale grey eyes. Her black dress was simple, elegant, and clearly expensive, matching her aura as she regarded the two men with utter disdain.

She looked up toward the balcony, directly at Ivan, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, it was Ivan who looked away, or rather, he was forced to do so when another blond-haired man with similar features slapped him over the head. The man, a couple of years older than Ivan, gave her a two-finger salute before motioning the two men to return.

"Hi, I’m Svetlana. You are May Parker. Are you not?" She suddenly asked, looking more excited than was allowed for someone who had been so tense a moment ago. "Rakim Rex’s, May Parker, right?"

𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

"I—yeah," she said, the surprise plain on her face. "I am. How do you—"

"Oh, this is wonderful." Svetlana clapped her hands together once, softly, and naturally slid into theirs, grabbing a hold of May’s hand. "My aunt is trying to get him to play for our team next year."

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TO BE CONTINUED...