The composure cracked. The no-celebration dissolved. The complicated loyalty that had kept his face blank and his arms still was overwhelmed by the thing that was larger than loyalty, larger than respect, larger than the boy who had been released at fourteen. The thing that was happening now. The thing that was real.
Eze ran to the corner. He didn't plan it. He didn't decide. His legs carried him to the advertising boards beneath the Palace fans, and he jumped, grabbing the top of the hoarding, pulling himself up, his face level with the front row. The fans reached for him. Hands on his shoulders.
Hands on his head. Hands grabbing his shirt. A Palace scarf draped around his neck by someone whose face he would never see. He was screaming. The fans were screaming. The distinction between player and supporter, between the pitch and the stands, between the boy who had been rejected and the people who had accepted him, dissolved entirely.
