"Black has got a sour fuckin' flavour, here's a taste of it, but Black is all I know, there ain't a thing that I would change in it." ──── DAVE
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𝐊𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐑 is continuously climbing the ranks as a footballer for Manchester United...
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˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩ °
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𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 ᵐᵃʳᶜᵘˢ ʳᵃˢʰᶠᵒʳᵈ
⁺ ˚ . * ✦ . ⁺ .⁺ ˚ . * ✦ . ⁺ . . ⁺ ⁺
⁺ ˚ . * ✦ . ⁺ .⁺ ˚ . * ✦ . ⁺ . . ⁺ ⁺
A SATISFACTORY GRIN plays on my face as soon as the ref on the console blows the whistle to signify the end of the game.
"And Marcus Rashford puts the game to sleep with a goal from none other than Jadon Sancho!" I mimic Martin Tyler with my own piece of FIFA commentary, using the words to taunt the man himself who throws his head back in frustration from the other side of the world.
He grunts, "How can you score the winning goal with my player?"
"I'm just sick, bro," I shrug nonchalantly. "Now, when are you booking that plane ticket to Manchester?"
He chuckles, "Bro, it's mid-season."
"A deal's a deal, Sanch," I say, "I beat you at FIFA, and you hand in a transfer request. Simple."
And with that, his chinky eyes shut tight as he lets out a belting laugh that echoes in Jesse's living room. "Rashy," he says between laughs, "Let the transfer window come about first."
"Just making sure," I smile loosely, tossing the PlayStation controller beside me and scooping my phone up so that I can see his face more clearly.
"I won't even have to put in a transfer request if United actually put in a bid for me."
"No worries, bro, I got you. I'll tell the gaffer about this convo and Old Trafford will see you soon."
"Nice," he nods, picking up another phone he has lying around to use just as Jesse descends the last set of his porcelain stoneware-tiled staircase.
