Monday. PE day.
For most of Year 5, that meant joy — a break from spelling lists and fractions. But for Harry Brewer, it meant something else entirely: exposure.
He stood awkwardly on the frozen grass of the school's full-sized football pitch, the worn white lines barely visible in places, and the smaller-than-regulation goals looming like distant targets. His joggers hung loose, and his faded white polo shirt carried the ghost of a bleach stain. The red in his hair caught the weak morning sun like a flare — not that he wanted to stand out.
"Right, eyes up, people!" barked Mr. Hadley, clapping his hands in rhythm like a failed motivational speaker.
He was the school's part-time Maths teacher and self-declared PE specialist. Late forties, permanently sunburnt bald patch, slight belly bulge from too many takeaways and post-divorce lagers, and a whistle he wore like it was welded to his chest. He paced like a man still haunted by a dream of playing for Hull City — which he may or may not have trialled for in 1997, depending on which pub story you overheard.
"Let's have a quick debrief," he said, hands on hips and belly puffed out. "I want to remind you all just how unbelievably well we did last week in the East Yorkshire Schools Tournament."
He turned dramatically toward the group. "Little old Kelk Primary — Kelk! — taking on the big schools with proper kits and training pitches. Finishing second. That's history. That's grit. That's—"
"—a fluke," someone whispered, not so quietly.
"—discipline and heart!" Hadley bellowed, steamrolling over it. "Now, front and centre — Malik Khan and Liam Thomas!"
Malik stepped forward, just a little taller than most in Year 5, wearing a permanent smirk like he was ready for a picture—even if no one was looking. His family was of Middle Eastern descent, but Malik had grown up in England, blending in with the others at school. Girls liked him, and plenty of boys admired his blistering speed on the pitch — but most thought he was a bit full of himself, always acting like the star before the game even started.
Beside him, Liam was lean and steady, quiet but confident — the kind of kid who led without making a fuss.
"These two led us to glory," Mr. Hadley announced, clapping them on the back with almost too much enthusiasm. "Liam's midfield rock-solid leadership. Malik's electric pace down the wing."
Malik grinned wide. Liam gave a small, modest nod.
"They're captains today. We're doing match-play drills. Go on — pick your teams."
And so began the ritual everyone dreaded: The Picking.
"Callum."
"Olivia."
"Max."
Each name chipped away at Harry's nerves like tiny cracks in stone. He stared at the grass, willing himself invisible.
When the list was almost done, only three remained: Sienna — who'd broken her wrist and wasn't playing — Trevor "Meatballs" Martins, and Harry himself.
Malik smirked, looking at Harry. "So... you taking the ginger gnome or the juice gremlin?"
Liam didn't hesitate. "I'll take the ginger gnome."
Malik shrugged, amused. "Suit yourself. Meatballs it is."
Harry stepped forward, no cheer, no smile — just a strange silence that seemed to swallow the playground.
Trevor didn't seem bothered by the rejection. He took a long sip from his apple and blackcurrant juice box, then shuffled away from the group like he wanted to disappear.
Before the whistle blew, Mr. Hadley marched over, snatched the juice box, and sneered. "Trevor, no drinking during sport. You'll choke. Besides, a bit of running might do you more good than that sugary nonsense."
Trevor muttered, unbothered, "Can't I just watch then?"
Mr. Hadley shook his head, disgust clear on his face. "Waste of space."
Nearby kids snickered, shaking their heads.
Liam led his team to the left-hand side of the pitch — a full 11-a-side field, smaller goals for their age but big enough to feel proper.
"Right. Let's set up."
He knelt and began drawing positions into the dirt with a twig, narrating like a five-a-side Mourinho.
"Liam — centre midfield captain. Jake — right wing. Olivia — left wing. Callum — striker. Max — centre-back…"
He looked up at Harry like he was checking if the school still served meatloaf.
"Er… are you left or right footed?"
Harry cleared his throat. "Left."
"Right, cool. Left-back."
A quick nod. No smile.
"Just… try not to give the ball away too much. Look for someone else if you get it, yeah? And if someone runs at you… just, like… stand in their way."
Good advice — but it was clear Liam already had his highlight reel playing in his head.
The match kicked off after a lazy whistle from Mr. Hadley.
Jake charged forward straight from kickoff, skipping past Trevor like he wasn't even there and hammering a shot off the crossbar.
CLANG.
"Trevor! Do something!" Malik shouted from midfield.
Trevor glanced down at the spot where his juice carton used to be in his meaty-paw and grinned. "Couldn't stop him — they took away my superpowers. No juice, no moves."
A few kids nearby laughed. Malik shook his head. "Just play, man. You're making me look bad."
Harry found himself alone on the left, like an old lighthouse — distant, cold, and ignored. At first, he just moved side to side nervously. His legs felt stiff, his thoughts scrambled.
But then… something clicked.
The opposing right winger — a fast boy with wild hair and untied laces — tried to take him on.
First run: Harry hesitated. The boy darted by. Luckily, the pass was overhit.
Second run: same move — shoulder drop, inside cut.
Harry saw it coming.
He shifted half a second sooner. Just enough to guide the runner wider.
The ball was intercepted by Max.
Third time: the ball was played to the winger's feet, who tried to turn and sprint past Harry.
But Harry was ready.
He slid in expertly — a clean tackle — and won the ball.
The winger skidded, frustrated.
Harry took a quick touch past him and spotted Liam in the middle.
He passed.
Liam looked taken aback, surprised Harry had pulled it off, but gave a slight nod of approval.
Liam, charging from midfield, spotted the opportunity after receiving the ball from Harry.
With a sudden burst, Liam beat another midfielder and threaded a pass straight past Trevor — who was still daydreaming — to Callum up front. Followed by Malik flailed his hands like the sore loser he was, shouting at Trevor, who pretended not to hear and tapped his foot on the grass, using its unevenness as an excuse for missing the tackle.
Callum controlled, then calmly slotted the ball home.
A perfect counterattack — started by Harry's tackle and vision.
The rest of the game was tight.
Harry's positioning grew sharper; his anticipation of the winger's moves nearly flawless. Each time the winger tried to make a run, Harry was there — blocking, jockeying, forcing errors. The team took notice, exchanging glances and subtle nods.
Mr. Hadley's gaze lingered on Harry longer than anyone else, an unexpected look of approval crossing his usually stern face.
The whistle blew.
1-0.
Liam's team had won.
No cheers for Harry — but a quiet, simmering respect.
The start of something.