The Football Scout's Secret

I've been scouting Somali kids in London for three years.

Arsenal. Chelsea. Tottenham. They all want the next Ibrahimović, the next Pogba—kids with immigrant hunger and natural talent. I find them in parks and estate pitches and community leagues across the city.

Abdirahman Hassan is the best I've ever seen.

Twelve years old. Left foot like magic. Vision that belongs in a thirty-year-old's head. He's going to be a star—I'd bet my career on it.

His mother is going to be the death of me.

Fardowsa Hassan is thirty-four.

Single mother since her husband died in a car accident when Abdi was two. She works nights as a nurse at the Royal London, days raising her son, and somehow still manages to look like she stepped out of a dream when I show up to talk contracts.

"I don't understand why you keep coming here," she says, pouring tea in her flat in Bethnal Green. "Abdi's already signed with the academy."

"Follow-up meetings. Standard procedure."

"You've had four follow-up meetings in two weeks."

"Your son is exceptional."

"My son is at practice right now." She sits across from me. "So why are you really here?"

I should tell her the truth.

That I requested this assignment even though it should have gone to someone junior. That I've memorized her schedule—when she works, when she sleeps, when she sits by the window and reads while waiting for her son to come home.

That I'm falling for a woman I'm supposed to be professional with.

"Your son—" I start.

"Is not here," she interrupts. "And you know that. You scheduled this meeting during his practice specifically." She leans forward. "So again—why are you really here, Mr. Warsame?"

"Mahad."

"What?"

"My name. Use it."

She studies me. Her eyes are dark and knowing, and I feel like she can see everything I'm trying to hide.

"Fine. Mahad. Why are you here?"

"Because I can't stay away."

The silence stretches between us.

I've crossed a line. I know it. She knows it. The professional relationship is crumbling, and I should get up and leave and never come back.

But she's standing. Walking toward me. Stopping so close I can smell her perfume—something floral that she probably puts on before these meetings, just like I put on my good cologne.

"I have rules," she says.

"I'm listening."

"No one knows. Not Abdi. Not the neighbors. Not your bosses."

"I can do that."

"I don't have time for games. I work sixty hours a week and raise a child alone. If this is just—"

"It's not just anything." I stand, bringing us face to face. "I don't know what it is, but it's not nothing."

"That's not very romantic."

"I'm not a romantic man." I touch her face. "But for you, I might learn."

She kisses me.

We make it to her bedroom.

Barely. Stumbling through the small flat, past Abdi's football trophies and school photos and all the evidence of a life that doesn't include me—yet.

"Wait—" She pulls back as I lay her on the bed. "There's something you should know."

"What?"

"I haven't—since my husband—it's been ten years."

Ten years. The weight of it hits me. This woman has been alone for a decade, raising a child, working herself to exhaustion, never asking anyone for anything.

"We can stop," I say. "We can slow down."

"I don't want to stop." She pulls me down. "I want to remember what this feels like. I want—"

"What?"

"To feel like a woman. Not just a mother. Not just a nurse." Her eyes glisten. "Just for tonight."

"Not just tonight." I kiss her softly. "As many nights as you want."

I take my time with her.

Undress her slowly. Kiss every part of her that's been untouched for a decade. Listen to the sounds she makes—surprise at first, then pleasure, then desperate need.

"Mahad—"

"Tell me what you want."

"I don't know anymore. I've forgotten."

"Then let me remind you."

I kiss down her body. Part her thighs. Taste her for the first time.

She cries out.

She's sweet and desperate and responsive.

Every touch makes her shake. Every lick makes her moan. She's been starved for so long, and now she's finally being fed.

"I can't—it's too much—"

"Let go."

"I don't know how anymore—"

"Yes, you do." I look up at her. "Trust me."

She trusts me.

Comes with a scream that she muffles with a pillow, her body arching off the bed, her hands in my hair, her thighs clamping around my head.

"Oh God—oh God—"

I don't let her come down.

I slide up her body, position myself, and push inside while she's still shaking.

She feels like coming home.

Tight and hot and perfect, her body welcoming me like it's been waiting for exactly this. I hold still, let her adjust, watch her face transform from overwhelmed to hungry.

"Move—please—"

I move.

Slow at first, then faster as she demands it. She wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper, matches my rhythm with one she probably forgot she knew.

"Yes—yes—don't stop—"

"Never."

We build together. The bed creaks. Her headboard hits the wall. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about neighbors, about her son at practice, about everything that could go wrong.

None of it matters.

All that matters is her.

"I'm close—"

"Me too." I reach between us, find her clit. "Come with me, Fardowsa."

"Yes—Mahad—yes—"

We shatter together.

Fall into each other.

Breathe.

After, we lie tangled in her sheets.

"Abdi will be home in an hour," she says.

"I should go."

"Probably."

Neither of us moves.

"This is complicated," she says. "You're his scout. His future depends on your reports."

"I'll recuse myself. Pass him to another scout."

"Can you do that?"

"For you, I can do anything." I kiss her forehead. "Your son is going to be a star regardless. My feelings for you don't change that."

"Your feelings?"

"Don't act surprised. You know why I kept coming back."

"I wanted to hear you say it."

I pull her closer. "I have feelings for you. Strong ones. The kind that make me want to take you out properly—dinner, movies, whatever you want. The kind that make me want to be here when Abdi comes home, to meet him as more than just the scout."

"He'd like that." She smiles. "He's been asking why the scout keeps visiting."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you're very thorough." She laughs. "Turns out I was right."

Six months later, I'm at Abdi's first academy match.

Not as his scout—I passed that job on months ago. As his mother's partner. As the man who helps him with homework and watches his games and is slowly, carefully becoming part of his life.

"He's good," Fardowsa says, squeezing my hand.

"He's exceptional."

"You say that about all your prospects."

"I only say it about him." I pull her close. "And his mother."

She rolls her eyes. "That was terrible."

"You love it."

"I love you."

She's said it before—but not in public, not where anyone could hear. The words hit differently here, surrounded by other parents, in the open air.

"I love you too."

On the pitch, Abdi scores.

He looks to the stands, finds us, grins.

This is my life now.

Scout. Partner. Something like a father.

I never expected it.

But I wouldn't change it for anything.