Supa Strikas One-shots ⚡❤️

A messy day off

This one's gonna be interesting... 😌

Word count: 1003 words

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The cool breeze drifted through the open windows of Dancing Rasta’s spacious, sunlit kitchen as the Supa Strikas gathered around, engaging in their usual banter. Rasta, their captain, was in his element, guiding his team even off the field as they spent a rare free day together at his home in the hills. The setting was peaceful; the warm scent of freshly brewed coffee and spicy jerk chicken filled the air, giving the place a homely atmosphere.

“Man, this is just what we needed, ya know?” Rasta said, flipping some chicken on the grill. “No football, no stress, just chillin'.”

“Ah yes, but we cannot forget that even during downtime, we must remain fit,” Klaus chimed in, a goofy grin on his face as he stuffed his mouth with a strudel. “Right, El Matador?”

El Matador, reclining in a plush chair with sunglasses on, waved dismissively. “Fitness? Please. Fitness is a state of mind, amigo. I, El Matador, am always fit. Always ready.” He sat up, flipping his long hair dramatically. “But what’s important is style. Speaking of which, do you know what would look amazing here, Rasta?”

Rasta raised an eyebrow as he continued grilling. “What’s that, man?”

“A statue of me. Right here. You know, something simple—perhaps a golden one with diamonds inlaid in my hair?” El Matador beamed, clearly imagining his face carved in stone.

Shakes and North Shaw exchanged amused glances. Shakes leaned over and whispered to North, “Typical El Matador. He’ll want a golden spoon for his spaghetti next.”

Cool Joe chuckled from the corner, adjusting his shades. “Hey, El Matador, why don’t you go help Rasta cook instead of dreamin’ about statues, brother?”

“El Matador does not cook, Cool Joe,” El Matador said dramatically, leaning back again. “El Matador creates art, whether on the field or off it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be inspecting Rasta’s kitchen for better ingredients for my next masterpiece.”

As El Matador strutted into the kitchen, Klaus stood at the counter examining a basket of walnuts. He sniffed them suspiciously, remembering his allergy. “You know,” he said, his voice taking on a nervous tone, “if I accidentally ate one of these, I could—”

“Lock yourself in the shower?” Twisting Tiger teased, barely glancing up from where he sat, watching some action movies in the living room.

Klaus frowned, but before he could respond, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen. Everyone turned to see El Matador stumbling out, covered in what looked like flour, spices, and some sort of golden powder. His hair stood up, making him look even more like a wild rock star than usual.

“¡Ay, caramba! My golden hairdryer—it's broken!” El Matador cried, holding up the now-cracked appliance as though it were a priceless artifact.

Rasta rushed over, concerned but amused. “El Matador, man, why do you even bring a golden hairdryer to a barbecue?”

“This is no ordinary hairdryer,” El Matador explained with a pained expression. “This is Carlito. He has served me for years! And now—look at him!”

Shakes was trying hard not to laugh. “It’s just a hairdryer, El Matador. Relax.”

But El Matador wasn’t listening. Instead, he pointed accusingly at Cool Joe, who was holding a 24-Carat Golden Sundae. “You! It was the sundae! The golden sprinkles must have overloaded the circuit! My poor Carlito couldn't handle all the extra gold!”

Cool Joe raised his hands in mock defense. “Hey, brother, don’t blame me ‘cause you brought a fragile hairdryer to Rasta’s.”

As they argued, Klaus suddenly let out a high-pitched sneeze, causing everyone to pause.

“Klaus, you alright, man?” North asked, moving closer. Klaus’ face had turned red, his eyes watery.

“Walnuts! I touched the walnuts!” Klaus gasped, wiping his nose frantically. “I knew they were dangerous!”

In his panic, Klaus stumbled backward, knocking into the counter, and sent a bowl of jerk sauce flying. The bowl spun through the air in slow motion, crashing down onto Twisting Tiger, covering him in spicy sauce.

The entire room fell silent for a moment, stunned by the series of chaotic events. Then, Twisting Tiger wiped some of the sauce off his arm, his eyes narrowing.

“Not... cool,” he muttered.

“I swear, man, this place is turning into a circus,” Rasta said, shaking his head. “Shakes, help me get Klaus some water. North, keep an eye on El Matador, and Cool Joe, man, tone down the golden desserts.”

Shakes nodded, still chuckling, and ran over to get Klaus some water. “Klaus, you need to relax. You’re gonna be fine,” Shakes said as he handed him a glass.

Klaus took a sip, still sniffling. “I always knew walnuts would be the end of me.”

Meanwhile, Twisting Tiger had started wiping the sauce off himself and inspecting the damage. “That sauce... it's actually pretty good,” he admitted, breaking the tension as the team collectively burst into laughter.

Rasta, ever the captain, took charge, ushering everyone back to their tasks. “Alright, man, let’s clean up this mess before Coach finds out we had a total crack overload.”

El Matador, still holding his broken hairdryer, sighed dramatically. “Carlito, we will rebuild.”

“Or maybe,” Shakes said with a grin, “you could focus on cooking like the rest of us.”

El Matador gasped, horrified at the suggestion. “Me? Cook? Never!”

But as the day went on, even El Matador got swept up in the fun, attempting to help Rasta with the grill, Klaus with his allergies under control, and the team laughing at the series of ridiculous events that had turned what was supposed to be a relaxing day into complete chaos.

“Typical Supa Strikas day,” Shakes said, smiling. “Nothing ever goes according to plan.”

As the sun began to set, the team sat around the fire pit, their earlier chaos forgotten. It was moments like these, filled with laughter, camaraderie, and a bit of madness, that made them more than just a team. They were family.

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There! I hope you liked this oneshot guys!!

-Willow