The alarm on Russell's phone buzzed quietly just before six. He opened his eyes before the second vibration came. He had not really been asleep. He had spent most of the night shifting in bed, trying to will himself to rest, but his mind refused to switch off. It was not nervousness in the way he used to feel it as a kid before school exams. This was sharper, more focused, and heavy in his chest.
He turned off the alarm and sat up. The room was still dark, but a faint grey light seeped in through the window, the kind of early morning glow that suggested the sun was thinking about rising but had not made up its mind yet. Russell's legs ached slightly from the day before. His neck was stiff. But none of that mattered. His mind had already moved past the discomfort. The ache was distant, almost irrelevant, like background noise in a room full of louder thoughts.
He got out of bed and stretched slowly. Everything today needed to be smooth. No overthinking, no hesitation, just the same movements he had done a hundred, maybe a thousand times in training. He told himself that again and again. Smooth. Clean. Sharp.
He moved to the bathroom. The cold water he splashed on his face stung for a second, waking him up in full. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth twice, and glanced at the mirror. His brown hair was slightly messy from sleep, so he flattened it down with wet hands. His face looked a little pale, but that was expected.
He changed into a clean hoodie and a pair of dark tracksuit bottoms. They were not flashy, just simple and functional. He had picked them the night before and placed them neatly by the foot of the bed. Comfort mattered more than style. He wanted to be comfortable. He wanted to focus.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. Not eerily so, just still, as if holding its breath along with him. He made his way to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at its contents for a second longer than necessary. He knew better than to eat too much. He settled on a slice of toast with a little peanut butter and a banana. Simple carbs, something light to keep him from feeling heavy during the session.
He poured a glass of water and sipped it slowly while standing at the counter. His fingers tapped the side of the glass without him realizing. His thoughts were calm on the surface, but below that, they moved quickly, circling the same worries over and over. What if the first touch did not stick? What if the pitch was too slick? What if the other boys were bigger, faster, or sharper?
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. Focus. Control what you can. Positioning. Awareness. Confidence on the ball. First touch. Always. Movement off the ball. Tempo. He had drilled all of these things into himself like breathing. He had done this before. He could do it again.
He finished the toast and placed the empty plate in the sink. The water from the tap was still running slightly, so he reached out and twisted it closed. A second later, he heard movement from the hallway. He turned and saw his father already standing there.
His father's arms were folded. He wore a black zip-up jacket, unzipped halfway, and a neutral expression on his face. The car keys dangled from one hand. He had that look again, the one that said he had been watching without needing to say anything.
"You ready?" his father asked.
Russell nodded. "Yeah."
His dad gave a small nod in return, then straightened up slightly, his posture stiffening.
"Good," he said. Then, without pause, his voice hardened, "Don't make any mistakes."
Russell blinked once.
"This isn't the kind of thing you get a second chance at," his father continued. "You've worked for this. You've earned this. But all it takes is one mistake. You let a ball run too far. You lose your man on a cross. You hesitate in front of goal. One moment, and it's gone."
Russell clenched his jaw, but stayed silent. He felt the familiar sensation of pressure, like someone was pressing down on his shoulders with both hands.
His father stepped forward. "They've probably already seen your videos. They probably already know your name. You've got talent. You're ahead of most. But that means nothing if you mess up when it matters."
Russell gave another nod, this one slower. His father's words were not shouts, but they carried weight. Each one felt like it was being placed on top of the last, brick after brick, until they built a wall he could barely see over.
"This isn't just for you," his father said, quieter now. "You know that."
Russell's chest tightened. He knew exactly what that meant. He looked down for a second, then back up. "Thanks," he said quietly.
His father did not respond. He turned and headed toward the front door. Russell grabbed his bag and followed.
Outside, the early morning air was crisp. Not freezing, but enough to make him tug his hoodie sleeves down further. The rain from yesterday had passed, leaving behind a damp freshness in the air. The car was already unlocked. Russell slid into the passenger seat and buckled in. His father started the engine without a word, and they pulled out of the driveway.
The streets were mostly empty. Streetlights still flickered here and there, and the world felt like it had not quite woken up yet. The drive was not long. They lived in Middlesbrough, and the training ground was only a short distance away. As they neared it, trees lined both sides of the road, and the fencing around the club's grounds came into view. The large club crest stood boldly on the gate, red and white, unmistakable.
Russell stared at it through the window. He had seen that crest more times than he could count, but today it felt different. Today, it felt like a test. Not of skill, but of identity.
His father pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Russell stepped out of the car with his bag slung over his shoulder. The wind tugged gently at his hoodie, but otherwise, the morning was quiet.
A man in a red jacket with the club badge approached them, clipboard in hand.
"Russell Hayes?" the man asked.
"Yes," Russell replied.
"Great, follow me."
Russell glanced at his father. They exchanged a brief look. No words. Just a nod from his dad, hands deep in his pockets. Russell nodded in return and followed the staff member through the gate.
The facility was immaculate. Every blade of grass looked deliberate, trimmed to perfection. The painted white lines on the pitch were fresh and bright. They walked down a short path lined with benches and arrived at a door with a sign that read, "Trialists, Changing Room Three."
"This is you," the staff member said. "Your name should be called for kit distribution soon. Good luck."
Russell gave a small thanks and stepped inside.
The room was already half-full. Boys of various heights and builds filled the space, some lacing boots, others chatting in low voices. Russell moved to an empty spot along the far wall and set his bag down. He scanned the room quickly. No familiar faces. A few looked older, more filled out. A few looked younger, still growing into their frames. All of them looked serious.
Minutes passed. More boys arrived. The room grew louder, but the atmosphere stayed focused. Just before eight, a man entered with a clipboard and began calling out names.
"Alright, lads," he said. "We're handing out training kits based on arrival time. Get changed quickly. We'll be watching everything today, including how you carry yourselves."
He began reading names. Russell waited. When his turn came, the man called out, "Russell Hayes, number seventeen."
Russell stood and walked over. He took the kit from the man, a clear plastic packet with a red and white top and matching shorts. The number seventeen was printed neatly on the back.
He returned to his spot and changed. The kit fit well. Light. Comfortable. His old clothes were folded back into his bag. He double-checked his laces, making sure they were snug but not too tight. His fingers paused on the number for a moment.
Number seventeen. No history behind it. No symbolism. But for today, it was his. He would wear it right.
More boys trickled in. The room was nearly full now. Some boys tried to start conversations, others kept to themselves. Russell stayed silent. Not because he was nervous, but because he needed the quiet. He was focusing, reviewing everything in his head.
He knew his strengths. Press-resistant. Direct. Quick feet. Good awareness. He might not be the flashiest or the fastest, but he was smart with the ball. He made things happen.
Just past eight, another staff member entered. He wore a black tracksuit and clapped once.
"Everyone who's changed and ready, come with me."
Russell stood. So did the others. One by one, they filed out into the morning light. The pitch stretched before them, pristine and waiting.
This was it.
Everything real started now.