A loud, drawn-out groan echoed through David Jones’ apartnt.
"Arrghhh..."
It wasn’t just the apartnt groaning—it was him. His entire body ached like he had just been thrown down a flight of stairs. A high-pitched ringing sound cut through the silence, its shrill tone rcilessly attacking his ears.
David clenched his eyes shut, refusing to open them. He didn’t need to. He already knew what it was—his alarm. And he hated it.
Still lying in his bean bag, he flailed an arm out blindly, searching for his phone. His fingers touched nothing but air. Frustrated but stubborn, he tried again, groping around without opening his eyes. His hand t the cold surface of the side table—but not his phone. He reached further—nothing. He groaned louder, his face twisting in irritation. His hand continued its aimless search until, finally, his fingers brushed against the vibrating device.
With an exhausted sigh, he turned off the alarm, a small smile of triumph crossing his lips. Victory.
Without another thought, he let his head fall back into the bean bag, savoring the temporary silence.
Five minutes later...
The phone started ringing again.
David’s eyes remained shut, but he felt sothing deep inside him shatter. His peace—destroyed. He wanted to scream. Or cry. Maybe both. His hand slowly clenched into a fist.
He hated himself.
Why had he set multiple alarms?
"...Okay, okay, I’m up," he groaned, his voice thick with exhaustion.
With great reluctance, he shifted his body and tried to sit up. Instantly, pain shot through his muscles.
"Bloody hell!" he cursed, his mother’s side showing in the way he spoke, his British accent sharpening the words.
Everything hurt.
Especially his legs. They felt like they weighed a ton. Every muscle scread at him, aching in places he didn’t even know could ache. He had pushed himself too hard in training yesterday, and now he was paying the price. His thighs burned, his calves throbbed, and even his lower back protested every tiny movent.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly turned onto his side, then onto his back, then onto his other side—searching for a position that didn’t make him want to curl up and die. He finally forced himself to sit up, only to squeeze his eyes shut again as another wave of soreness hit him.
"Damn it..." he muttered, leaning his head back against the bean bag.
His phone was still ringing.
He sighed heavily before cracking one eye open and looking at the device. The screen was facing down on the floor, shaking violently from the vibration.
David’s heart dropped.
He would have to bend down to pick it up.
"...I hate my life," he muttered.
After a long pause—spent gathering every ounce of willpower left in his sore, battered body—he finally bent forward, wincing as he grabbed the phone.
The mont he got it, he flopped back onto the bean bag with a heavy breath, staring at the screen through half-lidded eyes. His alarm had stopped. He had won. Again.
But his suffering was far from over.
With another deep sigh, he dragged himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as his sore legs struggled to support him.
"Okay, okay," he said under his breath, forcing a tired grin. He had managed to stand up despite everything. That had to count for sothing.
His eyes trailed downward, scanning his own body. He was still wearing yesterday’s training kit, socks included. He had collapsed onto the bean bag last night without even bothering to change.
Dragging his feet toward the bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
His hair was a ss.
"...I need to relock my hair," he thought, running a hand through the tangled strands.
His training shirt was wrinkled, his shorts slightly twisted, and his socks sagged loosely around his ankles. He looked like soone who had fought a war in his sleep and lost.
Sighing, he peeled off his clothes and tossed them aside before reaching for his phone. He scrolled through his playlist and selected Drake—the only artist he truly liked. As soon as the music started playing, he set the phone on the sink, letting the rhythm fill the bathroom.
The hot shower was heaven.
As the water ran down his body, easing his aching muscles, he felt so of the soreness lt away. He took his ti, letting the steam surround him, inhaling deeply as the heat worked its magic.
By the ti he stepped out, he still felt sore, but at least he wasn’t half-dead anymore. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he grabbed his phone and checked his ssages.
A text from Prakesh.
Prakesh:I’ll be there in 10 minutes.
David typed back a quick reply.
David:Okay, see you soon.
Realizing he had only a few minutes left, he hurried to the kitchen, opening the cupboard and pulling out a box of cereal he had read about online. It was supposed to be nutritious.
"...Let’s see how you taste," he muttered to himself.
Since he didn’t have ti to cook, and he wanted to stick to his diet—especially since he doubted he could work out today—this would have to do.
The first bite made him pause.
It was bitter.
His face twisted in disgust. He chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow.
While eating (or at least trying to), he scrolled through his phone, checking his ssages. His mom had texted. So had Zoey.
No one else.
As Drake’s music continued playing in the background, he quickly replied to both before switching to Twitter. Nothing big. No major updates. Just the usual.
Then—another text from Prakesh.
Prakesh:I’m here.
David sighed, standing up from the counter. He glanced at his cereal bowl. There was no way he was finishing that. He grabbed the bowl, dumped the remaining cereal into the sink, and ran so water over it before leaving the plate there. He could wash it later.
Grabbing his phone and bag, he left the apartnt, locking the door behind him.
As he walked toward the parking lot, his mind drifted back to yesterday. He had perford well—better than well. He had destroyed the training session. But despite that, sothing gnawed at him.
Coach Ten Hag had been cold toward him throughout.
That made him nervous.
Shaking his head, he took out his phone and ssaged Mohad, the new friend he had made.
David:Dude, what’s up? Are you at the stadium already? Is my na on the list? Did I make the cut?
No reply.
David groaned, rubbing his temple.
He needed a distraction.
His eyes flickered to Zoey’s na in his contacts. He smirked. The gar girl would definitely make a fuss if he didn’t call. Despite how chill she usually was, she still liked phone calls.
Tapping her number, he put the call on speaker.
Ahead, he spotted Prakesh’s car. He walked toward it, sliding into the passenger seat carefully—his muscles protesting every movent.
"Good morning, Prakesh," he greeted, his voice still laced with sleep.
"Good morning, David," Prakesh replied, starting the car.
At that mont, Zoey finally picked up.
Her voice ca through the speaker, hoarse, tired, and laced with irritation.
"...What?"
David grinned.
This was going to be fun.
David could tell instantly—Zoey had pulled an all-nighter. Probably gaming till dawn, eyes glued to her screen, fingers dancing over her phone like a pianist. He grinned. This was the perfect ti to ss with her. His soreness? His exhaustion? Gone. Irritating Zoey was his new mission.
Clearing his throat, he adopted the most annoyingly cheerful tone he could muster. "Hey Zoey! Good morning! How are you?" His voice was painfully bright, every word exaggerated just to get on her nerves.
A long groan ca from the other end of the call. Then, in a voice that sounded like she had just been dragged out of the underworld, she snapped, "Dude, are you for real? Why are you so loud?"
David bit back a laugh. "Ooooh, it’s because it’s such a beautiful day, don’t you think so, Zoey?" He made sure to drag out his words, keeping the sa obnoxious energy.
Another groan. Louder this ti. "If you do that again, I am cutting this call," she warned, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion.
David chuckled. "Okay, okay, fine. I’m done."
From the driver’s seat, Prakesh, eyes still on the road, chid in. "Good morning, Madam Zoey."
"Morning, Prakesh," Zoey mumbled. A beat of silence, then she continued, "So, you’re with Rakesh already? That ans you’re heading to the stadium. Did you get in the matchday squad?"
David scoffed. "How the fuck would I know? I’m literally on my way there now."
Zoey humd, processing. "Oh yeah."
David laughed. "Dude, why do you sound like you’re hungover? I bet you were just gaming all night."
"Yeah," she admitted without sha. "Been warming up my hands with Call of Duty Mobile. Got a tournant soon, so I have to practice."
"Ooooh, okay then. That’s cool," David said.
The conversation drifted, Prakesh occasionally joining in, before Zoey yawned. "Man, I need sleep. I’m tired. Later, Prakesh. Later, David. And good luck—not that you need it."
David smirked. "Okay then, I’ve arrived at the stadium anyway. Happy resting."
He ended the call and let out a slow exhale as he stepped out of the car.
There it was. Old Trafford. Standing tall, iconic, legendary. The re sight of it made his heart hamr against his ribs. He swallowed hard. This was it. Today could define his future.
Before he could take another step, he felt a firm tap on his shoulder. He turned—his breath catching slightly as he registered who it was.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
The man himself. Drenched in sweat, clearly fresh from an intense workout, standing there as if he had all the ti in the world.
"Hey, David, right?" Ronaldo said, his voice smooth, confident. "I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but they said you left early."
David could only nod, his brain struggling to function properly.
Ronaldo gave him a small nod before continuing, "I just wanted to say—you were insane out there, kid. The way you dribble, your confidence... you remind of my younger self."
David let out a stunned laugh. "Shit, man. That ans a lot."
"Alright," Ronaldo said, glancing toward the entrance. "See you in the tactics room. I’m heading there now."
David blinked. "Wait... I got in?"
Ronaldo shrugged. "Oh, about that? I don’t know." He smirked. "But I an... you should, right? Just go check. I haven’t gone there yet."
David’s mouth opened before his brain caught up. "Oh, then... how do you know if you were selected?"
The words left his lips before he could stop them, and the second he heard himself, he felt like smacking his forehead.
Ronaldo chuckled, clearly amused. "You’re funny, kid. Alright then, later."
David exhaled sharply, watching Ronaldo walk away before shaking his head at himself. Idiot.
With his nerves creeping back up, David forced himself to move. One step. Then another. He entered the stadium, his heart pounding. The air inside was different—cool but thick with tension.
As he made his way through the halls, his legs felt heavier with each step. The soreness from yesterday’s training still lingered, but it wasn’t just the physical ache slowing him down. It was the anticipation, the fear, the sheer weight of what he was about to find out.
He reached the locker room, pushing the door open.
Three players were already there, standing in front of a large bulletin board, eyes glued to the sheet of paper pinned to it. The squad list.
David swallowed hard.
He stepped forward, squeezing himself between two of them. His chest tightened, his ears ringing as his eyes scanned the page. Line by line. Na by na.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
Was his na there?
Reviews
All reviews (0)