Two days after the match
It was a beautiful morning, and David had just woken up. He blinked a few tis, staring at the ceiling of his new apartnt. Around him, unpacked boxes sat stacked against the walls. Even though he was living his dream—playing for Manchester United—it didn’t feel quite as fulfilling as he’d imagined. The empty feeling crept up on him again, threatening to weigh him down, but he sucked it up, shaking his head. He had plans for today, and he wasn’t going to let his mood ruin them.
Swinging his legs over the bed, he grabbed the crutches leaning against the wall and sighed, once again reminded of his current predicant. His injured leg made even the smallest tasks feel monuntal. Wobbling slightly, he made his way to the kitchen, the emptiness of the space mirroring how he felt. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that either.
Spotting a box of Coco Pops on the counter, he smiled faintly. Breakfast was simple enough. He found a glass of milk in the fridge and poured himself a bowl, grinning slightly as he stirred it all together.
Taking his bowl to the table, he sat down and pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly as he ate. His notifications were sparse, just three ssages. One was a spam ssage, one from Jonathan, his agent, and the last one from his mom.
He opened his mom’s ssage first:"Good luck at your checkup today! Rember to tell what the doctor says. Love you, baby. Today will be a glorious day for you—go into the world and prosper."
David smiled warmly as he read it. No matter how far away he was, his mom always had a way of brightening his mood. But then his smile faltered as he noticed the postscript at the bottom of the ssage:"P.S. Rember to brush your teeth and take a bath before eating!"
He froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to his mouth, and stared down at his half-eaten bowl of cereal. A sheepish smile crept across his face.
"Well, perks of living alone," he muttered to himself. "What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her."
Chuckling, he was about to take another spoonful when his phone buzzed loudly on the table, startling him so much that he nearly dropped the spoon.
His heart leaped in panic. "No way..." he whispered to himself, glancing around the spacious apartnt, suddenly paranoid. "Did she find out?" His eyes darted to the corners of the room, searching for hidden caras.
Then, with a deep breath, he reached for the phone, his hands slightly shaky. Relief washed over him when he saw the screen—it was an unknown number, not his mom.
Curious, he answered the call. "Hello?" he said tentatively.
On the other end of the line, a friendly voice with a thick Indian accent greeted him. "Ahh, is this Mr. Jones?"
David hesitated, slightly wary. "Uh... yeah, who’s asking? What do you want?"
The man chuckled warmly. "Oh, no worries, sir. I am Prakesh. The club has assigned as your driver for today. I am outside your apartnt now to take you to the stadium."
David blinked in surprise, then imdiately felt bad for sounding rude. "Oh! Sorry about that. I’m coming—just give a mont!"
Prakesh laughed again, clearly unfazed. "No problem, sir. Take your ti. I will wait."
David ended the call and glanced at the half-eaten bowl of Coco Pops in front of him. Not wasting a second, he grabbed the bowl and tilted it back, downing the remaining cereal and milk in one go. He let out a satisfied "Mmmhh" as he placed the empty bowl back on the table, montarily ignoring the milk mustache on his face.
Grabbing his crutches, he began hobbling around the apartnt with surprising urgency. First, he headed to the bathroom. Bathing with a cast on his leg wasn’t exactly easy, but he had figured out a system. Propping his crutches against the wall, he carefully hopped onto a stool he’d placed inside the shower. He wrapped a plastic bag tightly around his cast, securing it with tape he kept on the counter for monts like this. Then, he turned on the water, the warm spray washing away the lingering morning grogginess.
Balancing as best as he could, he soaped up quickly, keeping his injured leg out of the way like it was so delicate treasure. By the ti he was done, his movents were swift and efficient, almost second nature after weeks of practice. David stepped out, dried himself quickly, and tossed the towel aside.
As he grabbed his crutches and began wobbling out of the bathroom, he froze mid-step, muttering, "Shit." He had completely forgotten to brush his teeth. Groaning, he hobbled back in, grabbed his toothbrush, and gave his teeth a hasty scrub. Less than a minute later, he rinsed, spat, and checked his reflection in the mirror. Holding a hand to his mouth, he breathed out to test his breath. With a small shrug and a self-assured nod, he muttered, "Yeah, it’s okay."
Satisfied, he hobbled into his bedroom, opened his wardrobe—and frowned. It was still mostly empty. Then his eyes landed on a sealed black nylon bag on the floor. Curious, he crouched down awkwardly, balancing on his good leg and crutches. Tearing the bag open, his eyes widened as he pulled out the contents.
It was his Manchester United training kit.
The jersey was bright red, with the club’s crest embroidered proudly on the chest. Bold black stripes ran along the shoulders, and the Adidas logo glead under the light. The matching shorts were black with red accents, and the socks were pristine white, still neatly folded.
David stood there, holding the jersey up with one hand, his other arm steadying himself on the crutches. For a mont, he didn’t move. His eyes traced every detail of the iconic shirt, and a swell of pride rose in his chest.
"I finally made it," he thought, his lips curling into a small, triumphant smile.
He stood there a little longer, soaking in the mont. It wasn’t just a jersey to him—it was a symbol of everything he had worked for. Injured leg or not, he was here. He was part of Manchester United, and nothing could take that away.
David crutched his way downstairs, carefully navigating the steps from his not-so-modest apartnt. As he reached the ground floor, he froze in place, his mouth slightly agape. Parked in front of his building was a sleek black Range Rover Sport, the morning sun glinting off its flawless paint job. The car looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line, its tinted windows giving it an aura of mystery and power.
"Damn, see this ride," David thought, his eyes wide as he took in the luxurious vehicle. "I really need to get my own one day."
The driver stepped out of the car, waving with a bright smile. It was Prakesh, the man he’d spoken to earlier. He was dressed sharply, with a clean white shirt and a black tie. His friendly deanor made David feel at ease imdiately.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones!" Prakesh greeted cheerfully, opening the passenger door for him. "I hope I didn’t wake you too early."
David chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, not at all. Thanks for coming. And please, just call David."
"As you wish, David," Prakesh replied, bowing slightly in mock formality.
David laughed and eased himself into the passenger seat, carefully maneuvering his crutches as he settled in. The car’s interior was just as impressive as the exterior—plush leather seats, a state-of-the-art touchscreen display, and that distinct new-car sll that made David grin.
As they pulled out onto the road, David noticed Prakesh occasionally glancing at him through the rearview mirror. At first, he ignored it, but after the third or fourth glance, he couldn’t help but ask, "Eh... is there sothing wrong?"
Prakesh’s eyes widened in alarm, and he shook his head quickly. "No, no, nothing wrong! It’s just..." He hesitated, then smiled. "I’m just a little shocked. You’re a player for Manchester United, aren’t you?"
David nodded, smiling. "Yeah, I am."
Prakesh’s eyebrows shot up. "And how old are you, if you don’t mind asking?"
David laughed, finding the man’s genuine curiosity amusing. "I’m 16."
"Sixteen?!" Prakesh exclaid, glancing at him again, this ti with a mixture of amazent and admiration. "Wow."
David laughed again, and soon Prakesh joined in. The car was filled with the sound of their shared amusent, breaking any lingering awkwardness between them.
"You must really be talented, kid," Prakesh said, his tone sincere.
David scratched the back of his head, grinning modestly. "I guess I’m alright."
"Well," Prakesh said, his tone shifting to one of playful seriousness, "piece of advice—don’t let it all get to your head. Fa, money, pressure... it can ss with people. Stay grounded, yeah?"
David smirked, waving his hand dismissively. "Don’t you worry about . I’m as humble as they co."
Prakesh gave him a knowing look, one eyebrow raised. "Humble, huh? I’ll take your word for it."
They both laughed again, the conversation making the drive feel light and easy. David looked out the window as the Range Rover cruised through the streets, his excitent growing with every mile.
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