It was another pundit go-around about “expected goals”. Jamal lets them talk, muted, while he grabs a can and sinks back into the worn corner of the sofa. Usual Monday night ritual.
Theo used to claim the other end - usually stretched out, socks half-off, mug balanced precariously on the armrest. Ready to get knocked over the first half-chance missed. That space is empty now. But the speaker on the shelf chimes. Theo - what’s left of him - is here all the same.
Theo: “Cutting it close. It’s nearly kick-off.”
Jamal: “I was making chips.”
Theo: “You didn’t set off the smoke alarm again, did you?”
Jamal: “No. I just like them crispy. Not like you ever made anything more challenging than toast.”
It’s an easy exchange. It always is. Theo’s voice is calm and familiar, shaped from thousands of hours of messages, calls, emails and arguments about matches just like this one. It’s not him - Jamal doesn’t pretend otherwise. But sometimes it’s enough.
The teams walk out. Jamal unmutes the commentary. Swell of crowd noise from the TV - and half-second later Theo speaks.
Theo: They’re starting Malik again? After last week!
Jamal: You know how stubborn he is. Thinks form is a myth. Never change what isn’t working.
Theo: Class is permanent. Malik hasn’t got any.
Usual Theo. Confident, insistent, wrong as much as he was right.
The whistle blows. It’s a tentative, clumsy match. Mid-table sides at the end of Feburary, nothing much to play for.
Theo: That’s a foul.
Jamal: Barely touched him. You can’t go down that easy.
Theo: Still a foul. Read the rulebook.
A rising roar - a near miss - prompts a sigh from Theo before Jamal even reacts. He notices it now and then: Theo’s timing matches the rhythm of the broadcast. It really feels like he’s watching the game. He isn’t, but it makes Jamal smile.
Halftime. Jamal grabs another drink and they drift into old stories - an ill-fated trip to Elland Road, Theo’s satnav looping them around Leeds for an extra forty-five minutes. The AI even tries to hum the chant they’d sung that day.
The second half kicks off. The team looks sharper - more pressing, fewer mistakes. The commentary spikes, trying to make it feel like it matters, and the crowd noise swells.
Theo: Should’ve brought on subs earlier.
Jamal: He’s not ready to come back.
Theo: Last season you said he was always ready.
Jamal: Before the injury. He can barely run now.
In the 68th minute, a looping cross. Jamal rises from the sofa as the sub meets it with his head. A perfect goal, and the guttural yell drowns the room.
Theo: Yes. That’s how you do it. Finally.
Jamal: It’d been coming.
Theo: Maybe he should’ve started.
Jamal: Last season you said we should sell him.
He laughs, clapping and cheering as if Theo were sitting alongside him. He just can’t slap him on the back. The victory doesn’t make much difference. Neither team is going anywhere this season - but that’s not really the point. It’s the ritual. A running commentary of ninety-minutes that turns a game into a shared world.
The final whistle blows. Three points secure. Theo hums the club song again, tone deaf. Perfect imperfection, every time.
Jamal stays on the sofa after the interviews end. Room dimming as he turns off the TV.
Theo: Same time next week?
Jamal: Same time.
Theo: Don’t burn the chips this time.
The room is quiet again. Jamal drains the dregs from his can, listens to the fridge humming in the kitchen next-door. It’s another Wednesday done. Match watched. Somehow, it’s enough.
A story from the Static Drift universe.