While Sam caught up with his dad, Sophia already queued up a "Welcome Home Sam" playlist on the living room speaker.

The crazy thing was that the unfamiliar girl had it all on camera.

"Dad, did you allow this?" Sam eventually asked.

Mr. Moses shrugged with a chuckle. "She says they're paying her good money for it, so who am I to say anything?"

Sam groaned. "SOPHIAAAA!"

"What?" She stared at him innocently.

Sam palmed his face.

Kayla disappeared and soon returned with a glass of zobo sweating ruby drops onto her palm. "Doctor's orders," she said. "You need to stay hydrated".

Sam didn't argue; he drank.

When Sam eventually sat down, Sophia sat next to him which left Sam glaring at her. Pretending like she didn't notice his glare, she threw her arm across the back of the couch and assessed him with smoldering intensity.

"So… injury boy, out for how long?"

Sam stared at the unfamiliar girl with the camera again and groaned. "Five weeks," he said, keeping it light. "But I'll be good."

"Five weeks?" His mother's voice flew from the kitchen. "He will not be good unless he eats, you better eat my soup well well this period. You think injury heals with air? Ehn?"

"Mom!" Sam complained. "I'm literally just getting here".

"Eat first, complain later".

Well, she prepared a feast as the house quickly became filled with music and comfort. There was suya on a tray, smoky and spiced, with chin chin rattling in a glass bowl, and a mountain of jollof that made Sophia salute the pot.

The smart TV flickered with a Nations League pre-show before France's first game, pundits trying to look wise as Kayla tucked close to him.

It was at that moment that his phone buzzed.

DING!

[NEW! Unread Message – Raphinha]

>I heard you landed. You better eat well to recover fast. If your mom doesn't feed you, I'm coming to Abuja to protest.

Sam grinned and sent a photo of the table groaning under food with the caption. [>Don't worry, I'm in safe hands.]

Another ping soon followed, and it was Yamal with a selfie from the Spanish national team. His cheeks were puffed as he did a thumbs up.

[Rest champ, we'll hold the fort.]

Gavi, Pedri, and Balde also sent their own message.

Sam carefully replied to each one, then he put the phone face-down and let the house swallow him whole.

Night soon slipped in as the garden lights clicked on, scattering golden light under the trees.

Sam and Kayla drifted outside with two glasses, one blanket, and a silence so gentle it felt like prayer.

He eased into a chair with his leg raised, an ache whispering under the skin; his injury was still healing. The healing process took time.

"How's the pain?" Kayla asked, reading his face like a book.

"Manageable," he said with a slight grimace. "It complains when I turn wrong, like a grumpy old uncle".

She chuckled. "We'll keep the grumpy uncle happy".

He smiled and rested a hand over hers where it lay across her belly. "Hi," he said, his voice a whisper. "It's your dad. I'm the one who shouts at TV referees."

"Correction," Kayla teased. "You shout at everyone".

Sam laughed.

They sat with the sky, enjoying the ambience and thinking.

Sam thought of stadiums that sound like thunder, of the way grass feels under studs, and of Turin's roar plus the unforgettable memory that came with it.

But the picture that gave him calm wasn't a net rippling or a trophy gleaming, it was this… a garden in Nigeria, the shoulder he'd promised to cherish, and the small world they were building.

"You know," he said. "Every time I come home it's like I remember what the word means, home". He smiled.

She turned her face to his. "Home is where you're allowed to be small again".

He exhaled a laugh. "You're going to make me soft. You think they want their Football God to be soft?"

"Well, you already are". She whispered in a mischievous tone.

Sam laughed.

Inside, Sophia shouted at the TV, apparently outraged that the Big Brother Naija candidate she was supporting failed to win the contest. "Fraudsters!" She howled, but Mrs. Moses quickly shushed her with the authority of ten mothers.

DING!

Kayla's phone buzzed.

She checked it and grinned. "Your mother just sent me a calendar invite".

"For what?"

"Teach your husband how to rest. Daily, one hour".

Sam blinked, then he dissolved into laughter. "God! I'm finished!" He laughed till he cried.

"She's correct though," Kayla said once he was done laughing.

"Lesson one, tomorrow you're sleeping in. Lesson two, a back rub. Lesson three, we sit on the couch and watch the Nations League while you pretend not to analyze wrong play on the pitch".

He tilted his head. "W-what? Impossible".

"Then I'll distract you".

"How?"

She leaned over and kissed him slow enough to change his mind.

Well, maybe she had a point; that did manage to distract him.

When the night thinned, he walked the halls of the mansion barefoot, reminiscing. He reminisced Abraka, the good old days when he was a boy and when all that he cared for was being able to kick a ball.

Now, he had so many responsibilities and expectations. Heck, he was even expecting a baby.

He was not one to complain, but still. 'I miss the simple days man'.

'But on another note, I always prayed for days like this,' he grinned, once again realizing just how blessed he was.

"10 year old me would never believe it if I said we'll live in a mansion like this, how times fly and situations change". He smiled.

Sam met his father in his office where they once again discussed different topics, ranging from football, politics, to the economy of the country.

By the time he crawled into bed, Kayla already made a fortress of pillows, one under his leg like the physio taught, and another under his back for comfort.

He watched her, stupefied.

Seeing his reaction, she watched him with a smirk that said 'submit to pampering' and he did, gladly.

"Tomorrow," she said into the dark. "We discover the wonders of naps."

"Naps are for cowards," he countered.

"Football freaks need them most".

He snorted, then yawned. "Fine, just one nap".

"Three".

"Two and a half," he bargained, closing his eyes.

"Deal".

Before sleep carried him, his phone buzzed once more on the nightstand. He looked to find that it was a photo from the group chat.

It was an old photo of the squad, arms around each other after training, tongues out, tired and happy.

[Rest up, champs,] Pedri wrote. [We keep it warm.]

He smiled into the dark.

Tomorrow the world would keep moving, Nations League would arrive with horns and headlines. The injury would heal, inch by stubborn inch, and the treadmill would start again soon enough.

But tonight, in Abuja, in a house that smelled like everything good, Sam allowed himself the rarest luxury of all.

He allowed himself to be simply, perfectly, home.

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