Richard's next few games weren't as explosive as his first start had been, but he was consistent. A key pass here, a clever run there—small but important contributions that kept Beerschot moving forward. He was learning that not every performance needed to be a headline. Sometimes the work that mattered was the work that went unnoticed: the pass that kept possession alive, the movement that pulled a defender out of position, the decision to play simple when the spectacular was not there. Those moments added up, even if they did not make the highlights.
After training, Coach Van Gorp pulled him aside near the sideline. The rest of the squad was already heading toward the locker rooms, their voices fading as they disappeared through the tunnel. Van Gorp stood with his arms crossed, his expression serious but not stern, the way he looked when he was about to say something he wanted to be heard.
"You're adapting well, Blake." His voice was low, meant only for Richard. "But football isn't just about moments—it's about control. The flashes of brilliance, the big passes, the goals—those get the attention. But the players who last, the ones who build careers, are the ones who control the game even when they're not making the highlight reel. Keep improving, and you'll run the show, not just play in it."
Richard nodded. He already knew that. He wasn't here for flashes of brilliance. He was here to dominate. The moments would come, but they would come because of the foundation he built in the minutes between them.
---
LEAGUE STANDINGS
A month into the season, the Belgian Second Division table looked like this:
1. Zulte Waregem – 19 pts
2. Beerschot – 18 pts
3. Lommel SK – 16 pts
4. Beerschot – 15 pts
5. RWDM – 13 pts
Beerschot was in fourth place, just within playoff contention. A good position, considering where they had started. But not good enough. Richard stood in front of the table posted on the locker room wall, his arms crossed, his jaw tightening as he studied the numbers. The gap between fourth and second was three points. The gap between fourth and first was four. Nothing insurmountable. Nothing that a run of good results could not close.
"Top two get automatic promotion," Luka reminded him from the bench behind him, his voice carrying the casual tone of someone stating a fact that did not need stating.
Richard smirked, the expression settling into something that felt like certainty. "Then we need to start winning more."
---
RICHARD BLAKE – SEASON STATS
Appearances: 5 (3 starts, 2 as sub)
Goals: 2
Assists: 4
Key Passes: 10
Dribbles Completed: 7
He was making an impact. The numbers told a story of a player who contributed, who created chances, who could be relied upon to make something happen. But Richard wanted more. He wanted his name at the top of every list, his presence on the pitch to be something the opposition had to plan around, his contribution to be measured not just in statistics but in the shape of the game itself. The numbers were fine. But fine was not where he was trying to go.
---
The atmosphere at Stade Edmond Machtens was tense. RWDM, sitting just below Beerschot in the standings, was desperate for a win, and their fans made sure the visiting team felt every moment of it. The stands were packed, the noise constant, a wall of sound that seemed to press down on the pitch from every direction. RWDM's press was aggressive from the first whistle, their players closing down Beerschot's midfield before they could turn, their tackles hard and delivered with the kind of edge that came from a team playing for survival.
Richard felt it immediately. Every time he touched the ball, a midfielder was there, closing him down before he could assess his options. They knew he was the danger man now. The scouting report had been clear, the instructions from their coach obvious: deny him time, deny him space, and Beerschot's creativity would dry up.
"Blake's struggling to get on the ball," the commentator noted, his voice carrying across the broadcast. "RWDM is pressing him high, cutting off passing lanes. Smart strategy. If they can keep him out of the game, Beerschot loses their primary playmaker."
Richard hated it. He was not here to be marked out of the game, to be neutralized by a well-drilled press. He was here to control it. But in the opening minutes, he found himself chasing the game, his touches limited, his influence reduced to nothing.
---
FIRST HALF – RWDM STRIKES FIRST
20th minute. A misplaced pass from Beerschot's left back, rushed under pressure, gave RWDM possession in a dangerous area. The ball moved quickly—two touches, a pass into the box, and RWDM's striker, Jonas Declercq, found space between the center backs. He controlled with his chest, let the ball drop, and rifled a shot past Beerschot's keeper before anyone could close him down. 1-0.
The home crowd erupted, the noise of it crashing over the Beerschot players like a wave. Richard stood in midfield, his hands on his hips, watching the celebration unfold in front of the RWDM supporters. He could feel the frustration building in his chest, the same frustration he had always felt when the game moved faster than he could shape it.
Beerschot tried to respond, pushing forward in the minutes after the goal, but their passes were rushed, their movement disjointed. The pressure was getting to them. Every decision seemed to come a fraction of a second too late, every pass a yard too heavy or a yard behind its target.
Richard had one chance before halftime. A loose ball from a tackle in midfield bounced toward him, and he was on it before anyone else could react, driving forward into the space ahead. He lifted his head, found Luka making a diagonal run, and released a through-ball that looked destined to break the defense open. But at the last second, an RWDM defender read it, his leg extending, his toe just catching the ball and redirecting it to the goalkeeper. The chance was gone. Richard jogged back into position, his jaw tight.
---
SECOND HALF – RICHARD TAKES OVER
Halftime. The Beerschot locker room was quiet, the weight of the first half pressing down on the squad. Coach Van Gorp stood at the center of the room, his arms crossed, his gaze moving from player to player. When his eyes landed on Richard, he pulled him aside near the door, his voice low enough that only Richard could hear.
"You're letting them dictate the game. They know you're the one they need to stop, so they're putting two men on you every time you get near the ball." He paused, letting the words settle. "So drop deeper. Pick up the ball from the center backs, from the goalkeeper if you have to. Force them to chase you. When they follow, there will be space behind them. You need to control the tempo, Blake. Not fight it."
Richard nodded, the frustration in his chest shifting into something sharper, more focused. If they wanted to mark him, he would make them run. If they wanted to close him down, he would pull them out of position and let his teammates exploit the gaps.
The second half began, and Richard dropped deeper than he had all match. He positioned himself between the center backs, collecting the ball from the goalkeeper, from the fullbacks, from anywhere it was available. The RWDM midfield hesitated—their instructions had been to press him, but pressing him this deep meant leaving space behind. Richard waited. He moved the ball quickly, one-touch passes that kept possession alive, that forced the opposition to shift, to chase, to open the gaps he was waiting for.
And it worked.
50th minute—Richard received the ball just inside his own half, his back to goal, a midfielder closing from behind. He felt the pressure, let it come, and turned away from it in one movement, the ball following his foot. The RWDM player overran, his momentum carrying him past, and Richard had space. He lifted his head, saw Jasper making a run down the right wing, and sprayed a perfect cross-field pass that traveled sixty yards and landed at Jasper's feet without him breaking stride.
The momentum shifted. Beerschot was no longer chasing the game. They were controlling it.
55th minute – Equalizer!
Richard picked up the ball in midfield, the RWDM defense organized, their shape compact. He feinted left, drawing a defender, then shifted the ball to his right foot. The movement was small, almost invisible, but it created a gap—a narrow corridor between two center backs that had not been there a moment before. Luka saw it at the same moment Richard did, his run beginning before the pass was played.
Richard threaded the ball between the two defenders, the weight of it perfect, the angle precise. Luka was onto it in a stride, one-on-one with the goalkeeper, his finish low and hard into the far corner. 1-1.
"There's the playmaker we've been waiting for!" the commentator shouted, his voice rising above the noise of the stadium. "Blake has been anonymous for fifty-five minutes, and now suddenly he's running the show. That pass was world-class—the weight, the vision, the execution under pressure."
RWDM looked shaken. Their press, which had been so effective in the first half, was now being bypassed with a single pass. Beerschot kept pushing, the confidence flowing back into their movements, their passes sharper, their runs more purposeful.
---
88th MINUTE – THE DECISIVE PENALTY
Richard picked up the ball on the edge of the RWDM box, his back to goal, his body between the ball and a defender who was pushing into him from behind. He shielded, turned, and saw space opening to his left. He drove into it, his first touch taking him past one defender, his second drawing a second. The RWDM center-back, panicked by the speed of Richard's movement, lunged in.
The contact was clear—studs on Richard's shin, his body going down, the ball rolling away. The whistle came immediately, sharp and definitive.
PENALTY!
The stadium roared, the home crowd's anger mixing with the Beerschot supporters' celebration. Richard stayed on the ground for a moment, catching his breath, feeling the sting in his shin where the defender's boot had caught him. Then he pushed himself up, his eyes finding the ball.
Luka was already walking toward the penalty spot, the usual taker, but he stopped when Richard picked up the ball. Their eyes met.
"You taking it?" Luka asked, his voice low, his expression unreadable.
Richard nodded, the ball firm in his hands. "I got this."
He walked to the spot, the noise of the stadium fading into something distant, something that did not matter. He placed the ball down, his fingers tracing the white paint of the spot, his breathing steady. The referee checked with the goalkeeper, the whistle held in his hand, waiting for Richard to signal.
Richard took a deep breath. The goalkeeper was moving slightly, trying to distract him, shifting from foot to foot. Richard did not look at him. He looked at the ball, at the bottom corner, at the space he had already chosen.
He ran up. His foot connected with the ball, his body balanced, his technique clean. The shot was low, hard, aimed for the inside of the left post. The goalkeeper dived right—the wrong way—and the ball nestled into the corner of the net before he could correct.
GOAL! 2-1 Beerschot.
Richard turned, his arms raising slightly, his expression calm. Luka was the first to reach him, wrapping him in a brief embrace, his voice loud in Richard's ear. "Ice cold, man. Ice cold."
The rest of the team arrived, a pile of bodies celebrating on the RWDM pitch, the away section behind them in chaos. Richard stood in the center of it, his chest heaving, his leg throbbing where the contact had been, and let himself feel the moment. The comeback. The win. The penalty he had stepped up to take when it mattered most.
---
POST-MATCH REACTIONS
The broadcast booth was quieter now, the game winding down, the result all but decided. The commentators watched Richard jog back into position after the celebration, his movements measured, his focus already shifting to the final minutes that remained.
Commentator 1: "What a second half from Blake. He was invisible for fifty-five minutes—RWDM had done their homework, they knew exactly how to mark him. And then he just… took over. Dropped deeper, forced them to chase, controlled the tempo. Assisted the first goal, and then had the confidence to take that penalty when the game was on the line. That's not just talent. That's mentality."
Commentator 2: "Beerschot has found their leader in midfield. And he's sixteen years old. That's the most remarkable part of this. He's not playing like someone who's just happy to be here. He's playing like someone who expects to change games."
In the locker room after the match, the celebration was contained but genuine. Players shook hands, clapped backs, the exhaustion of the ninety minutes settling into something like satisfaction. Luka sat across from Richard, his boots off, his grin wide.
"Big-time player, huh?" he said, his voice carrying across the room.
Richard just smirked, leaning back against the bench, letting the cool air of the locker room wash over him. His shin was already bruising, a dark mark forming where the defender's studs had caught him. He did not care. This was only the beginning.
---
The morning after Beerschot's win over RWDM, Richard woke up to an insane number of notifications. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up again and again as messages came through—teammates, friends from Nigeria, even some numbers he did not recognize. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and scrolled through them. His penalty had gone viral. Clips of his ice-cold finish, his smirk after scoring, and the commentators hyping him up were all over social media. The edit had already been made: slow motion, dramatic music, the kind of video that got passed around and racked up views.
Luka and Jasper were not going to let it slide.
At breakfast, Luka held up his phone, a grin already spreading across his face before Richard had even sat down. "Look at this dude."
The video played—Richard walking to the penalty spot in slow motion, his expression serious, his steps measured. The overlay was a "Sigma Male Grindset" song, the kind of edit that was equal parts hype and mockery, the kind that got passed around locker rooms precisely because it was impossible to take seriously.
Jasper burst out laughing, nearly choking on his coffee. "Bro, you got the 'Main Character Edit' treatment. You've officially made it. That's the sign. When the edits start coming out, you know you've arrived."
Richard rolled his eyes, grabbing a plate and loading it with toast and eggs. "I swear, y'all need new hobbies. Like actual hobbies. Things that don't involve being on your phones all day."
"Oh, we got hobbies." Luka smirked, still scrolling through his phone. "Like reminding you that you almost shanked that pen. The stutter-step had me nervous, man. I was already planning the 'what went wrong' headlines."
Jasper clapped his hands together, leaning forward. "Yeah, that stutter-step was wild. You took three business days to hit that ball. I thought the ref was gonna call you for time-wasting."
Richard shook his head, stealing a slice of toast from Luka's plate before he could pull it away. "That's crazy. Y'all are hating while eating breakfast I paid for."
Jasper froze, his juice halfway to his mouth. "Wait—what?"
Richard grinned, leaning back in his chair. "I got the match-winning goal, right? That means I paid for this meal… with greatness."
Luka groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "Bro thinks he's Ronaldo now. It's only been a month. One month. And he's already like this."
Richard shrugged, taking a bite of toast. "I'm just saying. Greatness isn't free. Someone has to pay for it. Today, it's breakfast."
---
LATER THAT DAY – A TRIP TO THE CITY
Since they had a free afternoon, Jasper invited Richard and Luka to explore Brussels. The city was still new to Richard, the streets not yet familiar, the landmarks still things he was learning to recognize. Jasper took the lead, guiding them through streets that blended old and new, pointing out buildings that had stood for centuries and others that had gone up in the last decade.
First stop—a famous waffle shop tucked between two older buildings, the smell of sugar and dough drifting out onto the street before they even opened the door. Richard took one bite of the waffle, the sweetness hitting his tongue, the texture perfect, and nearly ascended.
"Yo." He stopped walking, his eyes wide. "This is fire."
Luka, his mouth already full, nodded vigorously. "Belgian waffles, man. Can't beat 'em. This is what they're known for. This and football. And maybe some other stuff. But mostly waffles."
Jasper smirked, taking a more measured bite of his own. "Better than Nigerian jollof?"
Silence.
Richard slowly put his waffle down, his expression shifting from enjoyment to something far more serious. "I beg, no disrespect me. In this house, we don't compare anything to jollof. Jollof is jollof. Everything else is just food."
Luka looked at Jasper like he had just committed a crime against humanity. "Bro, you wanna get us deported? You can't just say things like that. There are rules."
Jasper raised his hands in surrender, laughing. "Okay, okay. My bad. No comparisons. Jollof is untouchable. I've been educated."
Richard picked his waffle back up, satisfied. "Good. Now let's finish these before they get cold."
---
NEXT STOP – SHOE STORE
The shoe store was one of those places that Luka had found on his phone, a spot with displays that made the prices clear before you even walked in. They wandered the aisles, looking at the latest releases, the leather shining under the lights. Jasper spotted a pair of Nike Mercurials near the back, the colorway fresh, the design sharp. He picked them up, turned them over, and then checked the price tag.
His expression shifted immediately. "Damn." He put them back down, shaking his head. "My wallet ain't built for this."
Richard watched him for a moment, an idea forming. His system—the internal sense he had developed, the one that pushed him to think differently—told him that generosity had its own rewards. But he decided to have some fun with it first.
"If you do twenty push-ups right here," Richard said, his voice casual, "I'll buy them for you."
Jasper turned, his eyes narrowing. "Wait. For real?"
Richard shrugged. "For real. Right here, right now. Twenty push-ups. The shoes are yours."
Jasper hesitated for a moment, looking around the store, at the few other customers browsing the aisles, at the cashier behind the counter who was not paying attention. Then he shrugged. "Bet."
The dude dropped to the floor and started pushing. His form was decent, his movements quick, the kind of push-ups that came from years of training. He was on number eight when the security guard walked over, his expression somewhere between confused and concerned.
"Uh… what's going on here?" the guard asked, his voice carrying the flat tone of someone who had seen strange things in this store but never quite this.
Luka, trying desperately not to laugh, said, "Endurance training."
Richard nodded, his face straight, his voice calm. "For the mental battle on the pitch. Gotta stay sharp."
The security guard just stared at them for a long moment, his expression unchanging. Then he shook his head and walked away, muttering something in Dutch that Richard was glad he could not understand.
Jasper finished the twentieth push-up, stood up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was breathing hard, but he was grinning.
Richard walked to the counter and handed the cashier his card. When he came back with the bag, he handed it to Jasper.
"Respect, bro." Jasper took the bag, still grinning. "You earned it."
Jasper looked inside, then back at Richard. "Hey, next time, I'll do fifty for a Rolex."
Richard laughed, shaking his head as they walked out of the store. "Calm down, bro. Let's get through the season first. Then we can talk about Rolexes."
---
END OF THE DAY – LOCKER ROOM CHAOS
Back at the club, the team was in high spirits. The RWDM win had boosted morale, and Richard was getting more comfortable around the squad with each passing day. The locker room was loud, the noise of the team bouncing off the walls as players unpacked their bags and changed out of their training gear.
As Richard walked in, Luka caught his eye and whispered, "Watch this."
He casually strolled up to Beerschot's goalkeeper, Pieter, who was sitting on the bench tying his shoes. Luka leaned against the locker next to him, his expression innocent.
"Bro, what's your hand size?" Luka asked, his voice casual.
Pieter frowned, looking up. "Uh… normal? Why?"
Luka shrugged. "Just curious. Hold this real quick." He handed Pieter a bottle of water, the cap already loose.
As soon as Pieter grabbed it, Luka snatched the cap and dumped the entire bottle of ice water over Pieter's head.
The locker room exploded. Pieter shot up, shouting something in Dutch that Richard was fairly certain was not polite, and started chasing Luka around the room. Luka was laughing too hard to run properly, dodging between benches, knocking over a bag in his escape attempt. The rest of the team was in chaos, some cheering, some shouting warnings, all of them laughing.
Richard shook his head, stepping out of the way as Pieter lunged past him. "I swear," he said, loud enough to be heard over the noise, "this team is unserious. Completely unserious."
Jasper appeared beside him, still laughing, watching the chase continue down the hallway. "You love it, though."
Richard watched Pieter finally catch Luka, the two of them wrestling against the wall, the rest of the team crowding around to watch. He smiled, the expression coming easier than it had a month ago.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."