Location: Hayes, Bromley
Mantras: “We swarm, we strike, we thrive.” / “The
flower fades, the Bee remains.”
Home Ground: The Hive
Club Anthem: “Sugar, Sugar” by The Archies
Formed in 2018 in Hayes (Bromley), the Hayes Honeybees began as a grassroots side of friends who simply loved the game. Built on attacking football, slick passing, and fluid motion, the Bees played with instinct and flair before the lore truly took hold. The Hive — their spiritual home — became a fortress of fun and failure in equal measure. The fans were few, but loyal. The legends? Still unformed.
Position: Defensive Midfield
Nationality: English
Era: FC23-FC25
Nicknames: The Circleborn, The Silent Wall, Page the
Quiet, 3rd Victim
Legacy: Every Bees kickoff now begins with the captain
kneeling on the center circle — a silent nod to the man who was born
there, and died in the shadows.
No one knows how James Page came to be. There are no birth records. No youth academy photos.
Only this:
He was born in the center circle of The Hive. During a thunderstorm. And the sprinklers didn’t come on that day.
That’s what the legends say.
From that moment on, it was his destiny to protect that circle — the anchor of the Hive, the axis of the swarm.
Page never spoke more than a sentence at a time. No interviews. No celebrations. He’d win the ball, dust himself off, and return to position.
But what he lacked in voice, he made up for in steel.
He intercepted passes like a prophet. Tackled like a ghost. And somehow always knew exactly where danger was about to happen.
One scout once said:
“He doesn’t read the game. The game writes itself around him.”
He wore no jewelry, no flashy boots — just black tape around his wrists and a stare like rain on glass.
Then came the Villa Massacre — the sniper bullet that felled Papa Fresh, Charlie Randall, and — in a twist no one saw coming — James Page.
He wasn’t even meant to be there. But he was.
In the closet of the honeymoon suite. No one knows why.
Some say he was hiding. Others say he was watching. Theories include:
A secret affair with Papa.
A misplaced scouting assignment.
A ritual of Hive loyalty known only to the inner circle.
What is known: he died. Quietly. As he lived.
Position: Attacker
Nationality: Austrian
Era: FC23, FC25
Nicknames: The Dutch Anchor, Zuuvi, The Forgotten
Link
Legacy: A name that won’t dominate chants — but will
always earn a nod when whispered in pubs.
Before the chants. Before the chants. Before murals and masks, sniper bullets and finesse icons — there was a team trying to survive.
It was in this age — the Dust Era, as older fans call it — that Jonas Zuiverloon became a key figure.
An Austrian-born forward with Dutch ancestry and a name that sounded far more exotic than his quiet demeanour, Jonas was the kind of attacker who did everything well and nothing loudly.
He played left, right, central — never complained. He helped link play, found little pockets, made sensible runs. While others chased personal glory, Zuiverloon stabilised the system.
As FC24 kicked off, the Bees began to evolve — faster, more aggressive, dripping with lore. Jonas? Not forgotten. But… misaligned.
He was loaned to Bromley Beavers — a local club with ties to The Hive, often seen as younger sibling, testing ground, or retirement pasture.
He flourished there.
Captain. Focal point. Mentor.
While the Bees chased fireworks, Jonas brought steady sparks to Bromley — and the fans respected that. Every now and then, Beavers supporters would raise banners with:
“Zuiverloon Built the Bridge.”
In early FC25, he returned — a few appearances off the bench. His touch was still clean. His vision still sharp. But the Bees were a different beast now — faster, more chaotic, soaked in drama and destinies.
Jonas smiled. He nodded to the crowd. And then, quietly, returned to Bromley — to where he could make a real difference.
No tears. No drama. Just respect.
Position: Strikers
Nationality: English
Era: FC24
Nicknames: Ben: RedCardfrey, The First Placeholder,
Benny Brutal
Daniel: Elder NPC, The Beige Blade, Goodbye Godfrey
Legacy: Too bland to hate, too average to love.
Ben Godfrey was one of those players who filled out a formation. Nothing flashy. No signature move. But if you needed someone to run around and maybe score a tap-in… Ben would give you 45 minutes of low-effort loyalty.
He played during a time when the Bees were mid-table fodder, still chasing an identity.
Ben had one distinct trait though: He loved a red card.
Two-footed lunges. Late shoulder barges. One time, he got sent off for sarcastically applauding the ref on his own birthday.
When fans chanted “SEND HIM OFF!” — it was for fun. And also usually warranted.
Then one day — Ben died.
Mysterious. Unexplained. There was no autopsy. Just a closed-casket and a replacement already in the wings.
Enter Daniel Godfrey, older brother of Ben — and somehow identically average.
He was 36 years old when he signed. A relic. A desperation deal.
He ran like his knees were filled with soup. He shot like he was scared of hurting the ball. But he was there. And sometimes… that was enough.
For a brief moment, the Godfrey bloodline continued — One mundane striker handing the baton of mediocrity to another.
Daniel’s reign was short. A few matches. A few mis-kicked chances. One mildly successful backheel that deflected off his shin into the net.
Then… he announced his retirement, in the middle of a training session, after losing a footrace to the assistant kit man.
His final words to the team were:
“I’ve had enough of running. I want to fish.”
He left quietly. And his replacement? A former escort with a vendetta and a finesse shot: Jessica Neal.
The fans didn’t cheer Daniel’s departure. They didn’t boo either. They just… nodded.
“Makes sense.”
Position: Striker
Nationality: English
Era: FC24
Nicknames: The Ankle Whisperer, Fiddz, The Taboo
Talisman
Legacy: He left no interviews. No trace. Only memories
— and one dented crossbar that still bears his name.
The name. The name alone. Kiddee Fiddler.
It echoed awkwardly through tannoys. It confused commentators. Opposition defenders hesitated to say it out loud — which only made it more terrifying. But at The Hive, fans didn’t care what you were called — they cared if you could ball.
And Fiddler could ball.
No one remembers when exactly he joined the club. He seemed to just appear one day, on the training pitch, in oversized boots and a look in his eye that said he wasn’t here to make friends.
He scored the kind of goals that didn’t belong in FC24. Overhead kicks. 30-yard volleys. Flicks over heads and toe-poke finishes. He didn’t follow the laws of physics — or the laws of taste. He was chaos in boots.
Journalists stopped printing his full name. Commentators called him “Kiddee” or just “Number 9.” Some fans affectionately called him “The Ankle Whisperer”, others… avoided eye contact.
But inside the Hive, he was respected. Revered, even. For a time, he and Bagsmanovic formed a deadly, if bizarre, partnership — the Masked Beast and the Mad Fiddler.
And then one day — he was just gone.
No announcement. No farewell post. One week he was curling in a left-footed rocket from the corner of the box, the next his locker was empty.
Rumors swirled. Deportation? Rebranding? Witness protection? One story claimed he faked his own injury to escape a libel case. Another said he now plays beach football under the name Keith Fiddler. The truth? No one knows.
But at The Hive, whenever a goal is scored that defies reason or decency, the chant still rises in the rafters:
“He’s got no morals, he’s got no shame — Fiddler’s done it once again!”
Position: Striker
Nationality: Kosovan
Era: FC24–FC25
Nicknames: The Beeg One, Maskmanovic, The Mandible of
Kosovo
Legacy: They say his jawline still haunts the away
dressing room.
They say he left The Hive… but the swarm never left him.
He came to The Hive like thunder before a storm — a hulking figure from Kosovo, forged in alleyway cages and mountain leagues. Bagsmanovic wasn’t flashy. He didn’t speak much. But he had that buzz. He scored with elbows, knees, and sometimes elegance — a true number 9 who didn’t care about glory, only goals.
In the FC24 era, Beeg Bagsmanovic quickly became a fan-favorite for his ruthless consistency. Never involved in training ground drama. Never complained. Never celebrated more than a raised fist and a nod to the badge.
But that summer changed everything.
While returning home to Drenas during the off-season, Beeg was involved in a horrific car accident. Rumors swirled — whispers that it wasn’t an accident, but an orchestrated hit by Serbian nationalists to take out a rising Kosovan star. Nothing was proven. No one was charged. But the scars spoke volumes.
When he returned to The Hive, he was unrecognizable. His face twisted, unhealed — a grotesque mask of trauma. The Bees could have cut him loose.
They didn’t.
Instead, the club struck a deal: “You keep scoring. We’ll make you whole.”
For months, he played behind a black carbon-fiber mask. A silent, brooding, bulletproof striker. Goals rained in. He scored with his head like it owed him money. The chants of “MASK-MA-NOVIC!” echoed in The Hive. Then came the surgery.
And what came after… was strange.
When the mask came off, he returned a changed man — literally. A face with proportions so ideal they bordered on unsettling. A jawline that could cleave granite. Cheekbones sharp enough to send defenders to A&E.
The fans were unsure. Had the surgery gone too far?
But his boots did the talking, and for a while, the goals returned. So long as the swarm thrived, no one questioned the golden-faced striker.
Then came the first FC25 playoff run. The Bees were unstoppable — 14 games undefeated. Dreams of immortality buzzed through the terraces. Then came match 15.
A needless tackle. A second yellow. A penalty. A loss.
Beeg Bagsmanovic, the man who came back from the dead, had stung his own hive.
The silence was louder than boos. The air soured. His jawline, once revered, now glinted with betrayal. The dressing room was split. Trust, broken.
By mutual agreement, the masked striker was released at the end of the playoffs.
Position: Central Midfielder
Nationality: German
Era: FC24-FC25
Nicknames: The Engine, Wagz, The Broken Metronome
Legacy: He was the fire under the wings of the Bees —
the pulse of early FC25. But every engine has its limit.
Wagner was no academy prince. No Bundesliga prodigy. He was discovered in the industrial leagues of Germany, where he played under floodlights thick with smoke and mud.
A Hayes board member, overseas on business, caught sight of him — a relentless central midfielder who played like every tackle was a confession and every pass a prayer.
He brought him to The Hive.
Wagner arrived young, raw, and full of thunder — a box-to-box dynamo who loved the hard yards. Fans adored his work rate. Teammates trusted his link-up play. He was the invisible glue.
For a time, he was the club’s unsung hero.
Then came Maximo Zanon.
His transfer raised eyebrows. A bold talent, flamboyant and smooth — the kind of player who made defenders dance and made headlines by accident.
But to Wagner, Zanon was more than a new signing. He was the past made flesh.
They’d played together before. Somewhere back in Europe. Rumours had swirled, never confirmed — that Wagner’s long-term partner had been unfaithful. That the name whispered in betrayal was Zanon’s.
And now he was here. In The Hive. Smiling.
At first, Wagner said nothing.
He trained harder. Ran further. Tackled like he was trying to bury the truth. But something changed. His mind wandered. His passes became erratic. His touch grew heavier. The spark dimmed.
In a match against a fierce rival, he misread a pass, and the Bees conceded a late equaliser. He stared at Zanon on the halfway line — not with rage, but with something colder.
Resignation.
Within a week, Wagner was gone. No press release. No farewell.
Just an empty locker and an unsigned letter left in the physio room.
Position: Left-Sided Attacker
Nationality: American
Era: FC24
Nicknames: The Curl King, Drizz, The Mic with Boots,
K.Dotless
Legacy: The dressing room still plays his mixtape. The
fans still hum his warm-up bars. And in the far corner of The Hive’s
tunnel, scrawled into the wall: “Don’t shoot straight when you can bend
fate.” – BBL Drizzy
No one’s quite sure where BBL Drizzy came from.
He showed up for preseason in the FC24 era with diamond studs, unreleased mixtapes, and a first touch like silk in a wind tunnel. His boots were always colour-matched to the playlist in his headphones — and his runs were so smooth they felt choreographed.
He never said too much, but when he did, it rhymed. And flowed. And usually ended with:
“That’s why I’m B-B-L, baby.”
No one asked what it stood for. Everyone just nodded.
Drizzy’s curlers became iconic.
He’d drift wide, open his body, and send the ball into the far corner like it had GPS coordinates and beef with the net. No power. Just pure sauce.
Commentators started calling them Drizzy Drops.
He wasn’t the loudest. He wasn’t the captain. But he was the vibe.
Papa Fresh once called him:
“The only man whose finesse I’d pass to.”
And that was high praise.
Then came the whispers.
“He’s Kendrick Lamar.” “BBL stands for Black Butterfly Legacy.” “He disappears during album drops.” “Watch him walk — that’s Pulitzer posture.” “He hit a trivela with a rhyme scheme.”
The club never addressed it. Drizzy just smiled whenever it came up and said:
“I ain’t from Compton, I’m from Curved Passes FC.”
He dropped bars in warm-ups. He once freestyled the pre-match speech. And during a penalty shootout, he rapped to the keeper instead of looking at the ball — and still scored.
Position: Left-Sided Attacker
Nationality: English
Era: FC24
Nicknames: MiniMoore, The Mirror Kid, Ego Sprint,
Wannabinho
Legacy: The only winger in Hive history to complete
more Instagram stories than crosses. And somewhere, deep in the Hive’s
equipment closet, sits a dusty pair of pink Vapors with “M⚡️M” etched on
the side.
Mikey Moore entered the scene with more followers than appearances. A young, pacey winger, he came out of the academy with slick boots, Instagram edits, and a self-declared prophecy that he would “bring the streets to The Hive.”
In truth?
He brought stepovers into nowhere. Shots into Row Z. And a whole lot of sighs from Wagner.
Michel Wagner, the heartbeat of the Bees’ midfield at the time, despised Moore.
“He doesn’t see space. He doesn’t see passes. He only sees his reflection.”
Wagner once muttered after training.
They clashed constantly. Moore would refuse passes, try to take on four defenders, and inevitably lose the ball. Wagner, ever the professional — until he wasn’t — made sure Moore felt every mistake.
One fan theory claims Wagner’s frustration with Moore was one of the first cracks in his mental decline, even before Zanon returned.
To his credit, Moore did score the odd screamer. Always against weaker opposition. Always celebrated like he’d won the World Cup.
His signature move? A curling shot after five unnecessary stepovers, arms outstretched, tongue out — despite being 4-0 up already.
He posted everything. Training clips, selfies, quote tweets with “they’ll see one day.”
They didn’t.
As FC25 rolled around, the Hive evolved. New talent arrived. Papa Fresh was ascending. Tokugawa was lurking. Drizzy was curling. And Moore? Gone.
No statement. No goodbye video. Just a quiet unfollow of the official club account.
He now plays semi-professionally, last spotted in a 7-a-side tournament in Basingstoke, still wearing a boot with “NEXT UP” printed on the side.
Position: Striker
Nationality: Japanese
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Burger Blade, Taga Washi, Flame-Grilled
Finisher, The Vanishing Vanman
Legacy: Some say if you stand at the van late at night,
you can still smell garlic mayo… and hear the faint echo of a trivela
shot off the fryer.
He didn’t come to England for football. He came for burgers.
A dreamer from Japan, Taga Wokki sought nothing more than to own a small, humble burger shack. Fate, however, had other plans.
He found himself manning the matchday burger van outside The Hive, flipping patties with surgical precision. His technique — soft hands, sharp wrists, impeccable timing — caught the eye of a curious board member watching from a boardroom window one rainy Saturday.
“Look at the way he flips that burger…” “…That’s a backheel waiting to happen.”
Within weeks, Taga Wokki was on the pitch.
It sounded insane. It was insane. But it worked.
Taga Wokki turned out to be a revelation — a small, sharp striker with eyes for the corners and feet like searing spatulas. The Hive fell in love.
He scored goals like he flipped burgers: fast, clean, a little greasy, but undeniably satisfying. A cult hero was born — chants rang out:
“One patty, one bun — Taga Wokki’s gonna run!”
He was never the loudest. But when he grinned — usually after a trivela nutmeg — it lit up the stands.
Age, like a slow-cooked brisket, crept up on him.
The sharpness dulled. The sprints slowed. The burgers were still delicious — but on the pitch, the bite was gone.
Fans, cruel in their love, began to turn. They called him Taga Washi. The burger blade… had gone blunt.
It hurt. He didn’t show it, but it did.
So he stepped away, returning to the van outside the Hive — joined now by former defender and sauce-connoisseur Ricardo Calafiori, selling meat and memories.
Then one morning — the van was empty. No smoke. No sizzle. No Wokki.
He was gone.
No goodbye. No trail. Just a silent grill and a single burger bun left on the counter, half-wrapped — still warm.
Some say Calafiori wanted the van to himself. Others claim the Yakuza, embarrassed by Tokugawa’s defection, took Wokki as bait. There are even theories that Wokki never existed at all, and was a culinary hallucination induced by overly rich burger sauce.
But one man doesn’t buy the lies.
Yoshi Tokugawa is hunting the truth — bun by bun, match by match.
Position: Striker
Nationality: English
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Velvet Blade, Miss Misery, The Ghost in
Heels
Legacy: In the Hive’s old locker room, scratched into
the underside of her bench: “This is my house. I paid for every
brick.”.
Before she wore the number nine, Jessica Neal walked different streets.
She was an escort, high-end but hardened, known on certain circuits for her sharp mind, sharper tongue, and disarming beauty. Her bookings were elite. Her survival instinct? Sharper than any striker’s run.
Her pimp? Papa Fresh.
Their relationship was twisted — abusive but magnetic. Fresh controlled her with fear, with charm, with promises. But Jessica had dreams beyond the alley and the after-hours.
She found football accidentally — a pick-up game in a backlot behind a club, where she scored five past hungover semi-pros in heels and eyeliner.
The rest was inevitability.
She joined the Bees at the beginning of FC25 — not yet a super team, but growing. Jessica brought something different — clinical in the box, elegant movement, a near-telepathic link-up with midfielders.
She wasn’t the strongest, or fastest — but she could smell chances before they were born. And when she scored, she didn’t celebrate — she just smiled, like she’d just gotten away with something.
The fans didn’t know what to make of her. Some adored her. Some called for her to be dropped — not for her football, but for her past.
But on the pitch, she did her job.
But the past… was never done with her.
Papa Fresh watched her rise. He watched her goals. And for a time, he let it happen. A proud pimp watching his prodigy dance.
But when her form dipped — when the goals dried up — he reminded her:
“You don’t leave me. You owe me every cheer they give you.”
The beatings started again. The whispers. The bruises no physio could explain. Until the board, unknowingly or not, brought Papa into the squad — and Jessica Neal was benched.
Some say she was relieved. Others say it broke her.
She never played for the Bees again.
What became of her?
No one knows.
Some say she left England entirely. Others say she’s still in the Hive — working behind the scenes, quietly pulling strings. There’s even a rumor she was seen the night Papa died — wearing black, sipping wine from a plastic cup, watching the villa from a balcony.
No proof. No confirmation.
Only a legend.
Position: Striker
Nationality: Jamaican
Era: FC25
Nicknames: Finesse Messiah, The Cornrow King, The Pimp
Who Scored, Saint Fresh
Legacy: Murals of him still hang inside the Hive tunnel
— eyes narrowed, cornrows flawless, finger to lips. They call it “The
Silence Before the Shot.”
Before the finesse, before the finesse… there was the filth.
Papa Fresh ran the backstreets. A Jamaican pimp with swagger so thick you could bottle it, and morals so twisted you’d get dizzy trying to untangle them. One of his most profitable escorts? A woman named Jessica Neal — who would one day become the first female forward in Bees history.
Their relationship was toxic, layered, undeniably magnetic. Papa was abusive, manipulative — but also… a fan.
He loved the Bees. So when Jessica made it onto the pitch — rising from alley to anthem — he let it slide.
But not for long.
When her form dipped, he reminded her who she really belonged to — with bruises and whispers and threats. Until the board, unknowingly, replaced her with him.
Papa Fresh was electric. His first touch was poetry. His finesse shots? Art museum material. He didn’t run — he glided. Like his boots were tuned to Marvin Gaye.
He wore cornrows tighter than a contract clause, and always had a sly grin like he knew something the defenders didn’t.
Fans adored him. The Hive was his. The Papa Era had begun.
He scored screamers, danced at corners, flirted with physios. Opposition hated him. Teammates feared but followed him.
Behind the swagger was a truth no one knew — not yet.
Charlie Randall, the team’s no-nonsense left back, had been more than a teammate. He was Papa’s secret everything. Their relationship was passionate, hidden, explosive. When it finally became public, most fans celebrated it.
But not everyone.
Then came the Ibiza tragedy.
A single sniper bullet — three bodies.
Papa Fresh Charlie Randall James Page (found in the closet, fate unknown, motives unknown)
It was the end of an era. The Cornrow King — gone.
Some blame Vitaly Pootin. Some say the past caught up with Papa — that the streets he escaped sent someone to collect. Others whisper Jessica Neal never really let go… and had connections of her own.
No proof. No arrests. Just grief.
Position: Striker
Nationality: Brazilian
Era: FC25
Nicknames: Assevedo, The False 9, The Burger Rebound,
Ghost of Wokki
Legacy: They say his name in sarcasm now. But deep down
— every Bees fan knows: you can’t build greatness without remembering
your flops.
He came in with promise. A young Brazilian striker, with flashy boots and an agent who sold dreams like they were buy-one-get-one-free. With Taga Wokki returning to the burger van, the Bees needed a new face of flair.
Enter: Lucas Acevedo.
He talked big. Danced at his unveiling. Claimed he would “bring Joga Bonito to the Hive.”
Instead… He brought missed sitters, poor positioning, and offside addictions.
It started with a groan. Then a sarcastic chant. And soon, the entire fanbase had renamed him:
“ASSEVEDO”
He didn’t help himself.
Scuffed shots. Mistimed runs. Open goals… missed like he was allergic to joy.
Even when he did score — once every geological era — he celebrated like he’d won the Ballon d’Or. Fans booed his own celebrations.
His final nail came in the shape of Maximo Zanon.
Where Acevedo floundered, Zanon flourished — surgical, suave, smug. The difference was immediate. Painful.
Lucas faded to the bench. Then the reserves. Then… just gone.
No one remembers the exit. No farewell video. Just a quiet announcement buried beneath a Zanon hat trick.
Position: Right Attacking Midfield
Nationality: Spanish
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Rowman, Caye the Canoe, Channel
Merchant, El Touch Pesado
Legacy: And in The Hive museum, right next to his boots
and kit, lies a worn wooden oar — signed by the entire squad.
Time was running out.
With Jonas Zuiverloon returning to Bromley Beavers just before the FC25 season kicked off, the Bees were suddenly left without a creative attacker. The board panicked. The coaching staff scrambled.
And one assistant manager made a call.
“I know a guy in Spain. Not a star, but a soldier.” “Can he get here by Friday?” “If he rows.”
That night, Caye Quintana packed a waterproof kit bag, stole a paddleboat from the Cádiz coast, and began his journey across the English Channel.
48 hours later — soaked, blistered, and smiling — he stepped into The Hive, signed his contract, and trained that afternoon.
He scored on debut. A curling strike from the edge of the box, cutting in from the right like a wave slicing into shore.
He ran to the sideline, dropped to one knee, and began miming a rowing motion.
The Hive erupted.
The fans instantly adored him.
“He rowed to us. We’ll row with him.”
Became the unofficial motto of his first few weeks.
On the pitch, Caye was silk — short passes, killer through balls, clever drifting into the half-space. He scanned the game like a chessboard and often found runners before they even knew they were moving.
But there was… one problem.
Whenever Caye tried to dribble at pace, his first touch went feral. Like the ball suddenly owed him money.
It would bounce ten yards off his boot, ruining golden chances, triggering audible groans, and sparking a cult fan phrase:
“It’s gone Full Caye.”
But no one stayed mad. Because five minutes later, he’d play a trivela through-ball between three defenders and make the whole stadium purr.
After a long run of incredible service — part of the Bees’ golden footballing spell — Caye Quintana quietly announced he’d be returning to Spain.
“My arms are tired,”
he joked in his farewell presser, > “…but my heart will always row with the Bees.”
He passed the torch to Yoshi Tokugawa, who took his place on the right. Different man. Different purpose. But Caye’s ghost still lingers in that half-space.
Position: Striker
Nationality: Russian
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Soviet Sniper, The Cold Finisher, The
Phantom of The Hive
Legacy: No one questions him. No one marks him too
tightly. No one… dares ask what “FP” means.
It was supposed to be a time of joy.
After a grueling playoff campaign, Papa Fresh and left-back Charlie Randall took a quiet honeymoon getaway to a villa in Ibiza — to celebrate love, loyalty, and victory. Unbeknownst to them, James Page was in the closet. Literally.
No one really knows why.
But what is known… is that a single sniper bullet ripped through the villa that night — killing all three men in one clean, merciless pass.
The gay heart of the squad — gone in one shot.
There was no warning. No suspects. But in whispered circles, one name emerged. A name spoken in fear.
Vitaly Pootin.
Days later, as if summoned by the violence, a new figure appeared at The Hive. No background check. No documentation. No one even remembered signing him.
He simply… existed.
Tall. Pale. Piercing blue eyes. Deadly left foot. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, it was with a slow, calculated venom.
The Bees needed a striker. He filled the hole — and some feared, the graves.
Whispers of his involvement in the Villa Massacre were never confirmed — but the three victims, all known to be lovers, raised eyebrows. Some say it was targeted. Others say he orchestrated it just to infiltrate the squad.
Either way, he scored goals. Finesse strikes from impossible angles. Fans loved him. The board looked the other way.
Then, the hunter became the hunted.
After a late training session, Pootin was attacked, blindsided in the car park. He never saw the face. Only pain, blood — and a mark left on the wall: “FP.”
What did it mean? Papa Fresh? Fresh Punishment? False Prophet? No one knows.
Now, Pootin plays with a full mask, metallic and featureless. His stare pierces through it. His shot? Still deadly.
But his mind? Shaken.
Position: Striker
Nationality: Italian
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Velvet Viper, Maxi, Il Peccato Rosa
(“The Pink Sin”), Wagner’s Reckoning
Legacy: Zanon plays with a chip on his shoulder, a
secret in his smirk, and always — always — with one eye on the net, and
one on your girlfriend.
He came in with sunglasses on indoors and an ankle tattoo of his own face. Maximo Zanon, the slick Italian forward with a jawline carved from arrogance and a smile that made defenders hesitate.
He was the replacement for Lucas Acevedo, and while some mourned the departure of Acevedo’s fire, Zanon brought something else: surgical flair.
In the box, he was poetry whispered at knife-point — slithering between defenders, finding finishes where physics said there were none.
“Tight space? That’s where I thrive,” he once said in a post-match interview, smirking — “Ask Wagner’s girl.”
Zanon’s arrival was the beginning of the end for Michel Wagner. The two had shared a club before. Shared a dressing room. And, if rumors are true… shared a woman.
Whispers turned into stares. Then silence. Then Wagner left — his heart, and maybe his pride, broken. Zanon didn’t address it publicly. He just posted a now-infamous story on his socials: 📸 A heart emoji… and a photo of a pink lighter with Wagner’s number scratched out.
Cold.
But even the diehard Wagner supporters were forced to admit: Zanon banged in goals.
And at the Hive, goals trump ghosts.
Late into a critical phase of the season, Zanon suffered a mysterious injury — not his fault, but poorly timed. He missed the playoffs, a dark patch for the Bees who lacked his edge in the box.
He recovered eventually, but came back a little rusty. Still good. Still dangerous. But sometimes irritated when the goals didn’t flow instantly. He’s known to get frustrated, even when the team wins — because for Zanon, if he didn’t score, it doesn’t count.
Still, he remains a trusted starter. A lethal option. A pink-haired devil with a vendetta against goalkeepers and maybe fidelity itself.
Position: Centre Back, Midfield
Nationality: Italian
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Sage of the Six-Yard Box, Professor
Pivot, Wisdom Teeth, The Eternal Engine
Legacy: Inscribed in the Hive’s sacred quote wall: “In
panic, I pass. In pressure, I pivot. In pain, I play. That is
Wisdom.”
He arrived without noise. No entourage. No hype. Just a tall, broad-shouldered Italian centre back of African descent, quietly tying his boots and asking for the tactics board.
Wisdom Amey wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t fast. But within ten minutes of training, the coaching staff said:
“That lad’s already read next week’s gameplan.”
His mind worked in rhythms, not chaos. He saw passing lanes before they opened. He slowed down build-up when others panicked. He played football like it was chess with blood pressure.
Then came The Shot.
Early into his Hayes career — still nominally a centre-back — Amey stepped up on a bouncing ball near the halfway line.
And hit it.
Straight through the air. No dip. No wobble. Just death.
Top corner. Net rippled. Fans went silent. Then roared.
“WISDOM FROM RANGE!” “THE PROPHET HAS SPOKEN!”
That moment locked him into the hearts of the Hive. From that day on, his name was no longer a question — it was a prophecy.
As the Bees evolved into contenders, Amey became their keystone.
Need a ball-playing centre back? Call Wisdom. Midfield anchor? Wisdom. Build-up maestro? Wisdom. Zanon and Pootin both missing? Fine, stick Wisdom up front — — and regret it instantly.
His stint as emergency striker is still mocked gently by fans. He missed two open goals and attempted a scorpion kick in a 0-0 draw.
But his engine? Never in doubt.
He runs everywhere. Always calm. Always connected. Never rushed.
A metronome in combat boots.
Through the chaos, Wisdom remains. Bagsmanovic came and went. Papa rose and fell. Tokugawa still haunts. But Wisdom? Still there.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t fight. But when he speaks, even the wind listens.
He’s not just a player anymore — he’s club culture incarnate. When he eventually leaves — if he ever does — it will be with a statue outside The Hive and a thousand stories behind him.
Position: Defensive Midfield
Nationality: English
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Guardian, The Interceptor, Mohawk Mamba,
Mr. Safety
Legacy: When the others fall, stray, betray, or vanish
— Safe Guard stays.Not for glory.Not for fame.But because someone’s got
to hold the line.
When James Page tragically perished in the now-infamous Ibiza Sniper Incident, the Hive was left shaken — both emotionally and tactically. Page was no angel, but he held the midfield like a vice. The Bees needed someone new.
Enter: Safe Guard.
He didn’t arrive with flash or noise. He simply slotted in — and nothing got past him.
Tactically, he became the anchor in the storm. While flair players like Papa Fresh, Tokugawa, and even Fiddler chased glory and memes, Safe Guard read the play like scripture. He knew where to be, when to poke a toe in, when to smother, when to hold.
Not the biggest — but nimble, sharp, efficient. He broke up counters like a bartender breaking up a bar brawl: calm, firm, and always a step ahead.
Fans dubbed him “The Firewall”. Opponents called him “The Wall with Eyes.”
But no player is perfect. And Safe Guard… cannot shoot.
His power shots have become legend — flying into Row Z, clearing the stadium roof, breaking phone screens in the crowd.
But the fans love it.
It’s part of the performance. When the Bees are 3-0 up, the crowd starts to chant:
“SHOOT, GUARD, SHOOT!”
And he obliges — lining up from 35 yards and launching a missile that almost always ends up in the car park. But he grins. He knows it’s theatre.
Despite his defensive nature, he’s got style. Started with a mohawk — crisp, sharp, iconic. Now cycles through phases: frosted tips, geometric fades, once even rocked a dyed lightning bolt.
But don’t let the hair fool you.
Safe Guard is trusted. By the board. By the squad. By the fans. He’s the man you want when you’re 1-0 up in the 89th minute. The man who doesn’t just guard space — he guards legacy.
Position: Right Attacking Midfield / Wide
Playmaker
Nationality: Japanese
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Trivela Ronin, Silk & Steel, The
Ghost with a Number
Legacy: He is the sword on the wing. The whisper at the
bar. The shadow in training who never jokes, but somehow always knows
exactly what you did last night.
He arrived at The Hive without fanfare — a ghost in pristine boots, dressed in muted tones, with a stare like sharpened steel. His name was Yoshi Tokugawa, and he bore no previous history in European football.
But behind the kits and the clean passes was a deeper truth: Tokugawa was once a senior member of the Yakuza, an enforcer turned lieutenant who vanished from the neon chaos of Shinjuku and Osaka’s underworld.
What pulled him across the world? A single message.
“They took Taga. You’re the only one we trust. Help us, please.”
The sender’s identity remains a secret — but the plea burned too close to Tokugawa’s honour-bound heart. He left his empire in the East. And stepped into the chaos of Hayes.
Under the cover of sport, he joined the Hayes Honeybees — posing as a late-blooming footballer. But make no mistake — every trivela pass, every cut inside, every sprint down the wing is part of a wider map — a trail of symbols, codes, and shadows that might lead him to the truth about Taga Wokki’s disappearance.
He plays in phases — moments of untouchable genius, when his trivela strikes curl like whispered promises into the net, followed by periods of eerie stillness, when his mind is elsewhere. Watching. Calculating. Tracing faces in the crowd.
The team respects him. Some fear him. No one truly knows him.
There’s tension in his every movement. He knows the Yakuza won’t ignore his absence forever.
He must find Wokki — before they find him.
Position: Left Winger
Nationality: English
Era: FC25
Nicknames: Trialist A, Teach Me How to Ronnie, Ronnie
Romance, The Fresh Buzz
Legacy: Dating the keeper. Dribbling the world. Growing
into greatness.
He arrived without a name. “Trialist A”, scrawled on the lineup sheet while Zanon was sidelined with injury.
The Hive faithful expected nothing. But then he touched the ball.
And it danced.
Small in stature, light on his feet, Ronnie Gillet turned defenders into memes with croquetas, stepovers, and chaos flicks. And when he scored on his second appearance — a low driven shot off the far post — he sealed his name into the stands:
🎶 “Teach me how to Ronnie! Teach me, teach me how to Ronnie!” 🎶
Ronnie’s start has been promising. Goals. Assists. Stepovers that sometimes lead nowhere — but look really good doing it.
But the coaching staff knows:
“He’s still learning The Hive.”
Sometimes he overdribbles. Sometimes he floats out of games. But every match, he brings energy. And fun. And swagger, without the darkness of a Papa Fresh or the venom of a Zanon.
He’s like BBL Drizzy’s Gen Z cousin — still finding his rhythm, but already vibing.
And then there’s Park. The Bees’ first female goalkeeper — South Korean, fierce, catlike reflexes, adored by fans.
Some say Ronnie noticed her during a post-training free-kick session. Some say she nutmegged him in a penalty drill. All we know: they’re official.
It’s the club’s first high-profile player-on-player romance since Papa and Charlie Randall — and the fans are eating it up.
Park doesn’t do interviews. Ronnie won’t shut up about her.
The relationship is low drama, high charm — a rare wholesome love story in a club soaked in scandal and mystery.
Position: Central Midfielder
Nationality: Serbian
Era: FC25
Nicknames: The Serbian Mirage, Trialist B, The Balkan
Bruiser, The One Who Will Return
Legacy: There is now an empty locker in The Hive,
untouched and unclaimed. On it: one word.
“Stijjle.”
There was no announcement. No footage. Just one matchday lineup where, beneath Safe Guard’s name, sat two words:
“Trialist B”
That player was Stijjle.
Broad-shouldered. Silent. Serbian.
No one knew who scouted him. No one knows where he came from. Only that he debuted — and immediately made the Hive feel like home.
Paired with Safe Guard, Stijjle played with raw instinct, crashing forward while Safe Guard held the line. He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t refined.
But he meant it.
He tackled like a car accident. Ran like he was chasing a traitor. And when he scored — a thumping header off a set piece — he celebrated by nodding once and walking back to halfway.
Fans chanted his name, not because they knew who he was — but because it felt wrong not to.
“STIJJLE! STIJJLE! STIJJLE!”
And then… he vanished.
No injury. No transfer. Just… gone.
Some say he was a mirage. A fever dream of the Hive’s golden midfield. Others say he’s on Serbian military duty. Or that Tokugawa sent him into deep cover. Or that he was never real.
But one thing is whispered now in the Hive tunnel:
“He’ll be back. When the Bees need him most.”
Every Bee tells a story — some glorious, some tragic, some still unfinished. The Hive is not a club. It’s a cathedral. A battlefield. A hive of memory.
“Let no storm stop the playmaker.” – Caye
“Page is watching.” – Safe Guard
“Don’t shoot straight when you can bend fate.” – BBL Drizzy
“He’ll be back.” – Whispered about Stijjle
The Hive never forgets.
End of Document