Tabitha Jones adjusted her nurse's uniform as she ended the call with her son. Her hand lingered on the phone for a mont, her thoughts still with David. She barely noticed her husband, Isaac, stepping into the kitchen until he wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"So," Isaac asked casually, "how's he doing?"
Tabitha sighed, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You know your son. He says he's fine."
Isaac nodded, moving to pour himself a cup of tea. "Yeah, he always says that."
Her smile faltered as she turned to face him. "Why can't you call him, Isaac? The last ti, when he sent £10,000 to help us pay the bills and fix the roof, you didn't even bother to say thank you."
Isaac waved her concern away with a dismissive hand. "The kid's fine. He's a big boy now. Calling him... it'd just feel awkward."
Tabitha huffed, snatching her car keys off the counter. "Awkward? Isaac, he's our son!"
Isaac took a sip of his tea, unbothered by her exasperation. "And he's doing fine without us fussing over him."
Shaking her head, Tabitha left the house, heading toward the family's beat-up old car parked on the curb. The vehicle groaned in protest as she started the engine, a sound she'd grown all too used to. As she drove through the familiar streets of Southampton, her thoughts drifted to David's childhood.
She could see him as a six-year-old, his small fra darting around the patchy grass field near their ho. Even then, David's love for football was unmistakable. His laughter rang out as he chased the ball, his energy seemingly endless. He'd co ho with muddy knees and a bright smile, rambling about goals he scored or tricks he learned.
But one day, the phone call ca.
"Mrs. Jones? This is Coach Anderson. We need to talk about your son."
Tabitha's heart sank. She hurried to the academy, worry gnawing at her. When she arrived, she found David sitting on a bench, his small hands curled into fists. His knuckles were red and raw, and there was a faint bruise forming on his lip. The coach stood nearby, his expression tight.
"Your son... he's causing problems," Coach Anderson said, his tone laced with frustration. "He got into a fight with two other boys."
Tabitha's gaze shifted to the side, where two other children stood with their parents. The boys' ssy hair and scraped faces told the story of a scuffle. Embarrassed, Tabitha bowed deeply to the other parents, murmuring apologies, before grabbing David by the arm and leading him away.
In the car, her anger simred as she glanced at her son in the rearview mirror. "David Jones, what on earth were you thinking? Fighting?"
Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over as he sniffled. "Mum, they cheated! One of them tripped on purpose. I was about to score, and they stopped ! And the coach didn't say anything because that boy's his nephew!"
Tabitha's grip on the steering wheel tightened as she listened to his wails. The snot running from his nose, the redness of his cheeks—it all painted a picture of heartbreak and indignation. She realized in that mont what had happened: her son was a sore loser. He couldn't handle the sting of defeat, and his frustration boiled over into tantrums and fights.
But that wasn't the end of the mory.
The pattern repeated itself in different forms as David grew. After every loss, he would sulk, refuse to eat, and sotis even cry. It was exhausting, but Tabitha also noticed sothing else. After each episode, David would work harder. He'd spend extra hours practicing, replaying mistakes in his mind and trying to correct them. The tantrums were followed by determination, a drive to ensure the sa mistakes wouldn't happen again.
Back in the present, Tabitha's lips curved into a small smile 'atleast he doesn't cry again' she thought as she maneuvered the car into the hospital parking lot. Despite everything, David's tenacity had brought him far. Yes, he hated losing, but that sa hatred fueled his growth. She whispered a silent prayer for him as she stepped out of the car and walked toward her shift.
Across the country, in Derby, David stood alone in the stadium. The field was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the roar of fans he had experienced just the day before. A ball was tucked under his arm as he made his way to the exact spot where he'd taken the fateful freekick.
He placed the ball on the grass, the mory of the missed opportunity playing in his mind like a cruel highlight reel. The clang of the ball hitting the post echoed in his thoughts, accompanied by the disappointnt that followed.
"You win so, you lose so," he muttered under his breath. It was what everyone told him, and logically, he knew it was true. But accepting it was another matter entirely. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let everyone down—his team, the fans, his family and most importantly himself.
David stepped back, adjusting his stance. His mind flicked to the countless tis his mother had scolded him for sulking after a loss. Her words ca back to him now: "If you don't like losing, then work harder so you don't have to." He had taken that advice to heart.
His gaze hardened as he took a deep breath. He wasn't going to let one missed opportunity define him. This was just another challenge, another chance to grow. His resolve strengthened, he focused on the ball, envisioning the perfect curve, the precise placent.
With a surge of energy, he struck the ball. The sharp sound of his foot eting the leather echoed across the empty field as the ball soared toward the goal. The satisfying thunk as it hit the back of the net brought a small smile to his face.
David jogged to retrieve the ball, determination burning in his chest. He was going to keep practicing until the shot felt natural, until it beca muscle mory. The words rang in his mind once more: You win so, you lose so.
But for David Jones, losing wasn't just an outco. It was a reason to try harder, to aim higher, to be better. And while his head accepted that he wouldn't win every match, his heart refused to stop trying.
As he lined up for another shot, the stadium remained silent, but in his mind, he could already hear the roar of the crowd. This wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.
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