"Harry!!!"
His mum's voice cut through the morning air as he clattered down the stairs with a kit bag bouncing against his hip. The zipper had given up halfway, spilling shin pads and a spare shirt onto the steps.
Ellie snorted into her toast. "Smooth, little brother."
Sophie giggled behind her cereal bowl, milk dripping down her chin. "You look like a right muppet."
Harry shot them both a glare as he stumbled into the kitchen, still wrestling with his bag. The smell of burnt toast and instant tea filled the small room.
"Mr. Frank just called," Mum said, wiping her hands on her apron. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—a result of another late shift at the restaurant. "He said the academy bus leaves in thirty-five minutes. But you're not going anywhere on an empty stomach."
She pushed a plate toward him. Two pieces of buttered toast and a banana. Nothing fancy, but it was what they had.
"Mum, I'm fine—"
"Eat."
That tone meant business. Harry grabbed the toast and took a massive bite, washing it down with lukewarm tea. The clock on the wall ticked loudly.
"Slow down, you'll choke," Ellie said, but her voice was softer now. She reached over and fixed his collar, like a caring elder sister she was. "Can't have you looking like a tramp in front of the scouts."
"There won't be any scouts for now," Harry mumbled through his food.
"Not with that attitude," Sophie piped up. "When you're famous, I'm telling everyone you used to wet the bed."
"Sophie!"
"What? It's true!"
Harry finished eating and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Right, I'm off."
He made it two steps before Mum caught his arm.
"Come here."
She pulled him into a tight hug that smelled like washing powder and the grease from last night's shift. Her arms were thin but unnaturally strong, holding him like she didn't want to let go.
"Mum, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm 15." he grumbled, but he didn't pull away.
"You'll always be my little boy," she whispered against his hair. "Play your heart out during the tournament, yeah? Your dad would be so proud."
The words hit him in the chest. Eight years had gone by so fast already that it almost felt like a dream, but she still talked about Dad like he was watching from somewhere.
Ellie made kissing noises from the table. "Mummy's boy!"
"Shut it," Harry said, finally breaking free. His cheeks burned from embarrassment.
Sophie jumped up from her chair and gave him a proper punch on the arm. "Score some goals, yeah? Show those posh academy boys what Harry Whittaker of Salford, Greater Manchester can do."
"I will," he said, meaning it.
***
The morning air bit at his face as he jogged down the street. Terraced houses stretched in neat rows, washing lines hanging between them like flags. Their next door neighbour Mrs. Thompson was already out sweeping her step, and she gave him a wave.
"Off to conquer the world, Harry?"
"Something like that, Mrs. T!"
It'll take wenty-three minutes to get to Salford U18 training ground. His legs found their rhythm and the trainers slapped against wet pavement.
The youth training ground sat on the edge of Salford City like an afterthought. It looked nothing fancy—just a couple of pitches, a small clubhouse, and a car park that needed repaving. But it was academy standard nonetheless.
Harry arrived with two minutes to spare, chest heaving. The other lads were already gathered around their coach, Mr. Frank, twenty-five faces he'd known for months. Some were friendly, some not so much.
"Right then," Frank said, a clipboard in hand. His voice carried that familiar rasp from too many years shouting instructions. "Listen up boys, because I'm only saying this once."
The group pressed closer. Harry found a spot near the back, still catching his breath.
"The FA Youth Cup First Round Proper starts today," Frank continued. "For those of you who weren't paying attention last week, this is the big one. Over four hundred teams across the country. Every youth team from Sunday league sides to Premier League team's academy."
A few lads shifted nervously, knowing how important this tournament was for them. Especially how it was key to their development and exposing them to potential scouts in the later stages of the competition. And that was only if they could make it to the later rounds.
"Now, as a youth setup of a League Two club," Frank said. "That means we have an automatic qualification to start in the First Round Proper. And there are eighty teams left at this stage. Most of you will never get a chance like this again."
His eyes swept across the group, landing on Harry and a few other faces for just a moment.
"The format's simple. One match knockout system, winner advances to the next round. No second chances, no replays. You lose, you go home. We head into extra time and penalties if it's level after ninety minutes."
Harry's nerves were tingling due to nervousness. All that work, all those training sessions in the rain and mud, and it could end in one bad game.
"Fortunately, the big boys of the Premier League—your Manchester Uniteds, your Arsenals, your Liverpools—they don't enter until the Third Round Proper. Gives us a chance to make some noise before we face the real giants."
"Who are we playing first?" asked Danny Mills, their captain.
Frank smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "Blackpool Academy. Away. Their lads train full-time while most of you are still in school."
The silence stretched. Everyone knew what that meant. They were the underdogs. Again!
"But here's the thing," Frank said, his voice dropping lower. "Football's not played on paper. It's played on grass, with mud under your nails and rain in your eyes. And sometimes, just sometimes, the better team doesn't win."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"I've seen what you can do. I've watched you grow from boys kicking balls in the park to proper players. You've got heart, you've got fight, and you've got each other."
Harry felt something stir in his chest. Not confidence exactly, but something close to it.
"The bus leaves in ten minutes," Frank said. "Get your heads right, get your boots on, and remember—you're representing more than just yourselves today. You're representing every kid in Salford who dreams of something bigger."
The group began to disperse, voices rising as the lads started their usual pre-match banter. But Harry stayed where he was, staring at the muddy pitch beyond the clubhouse.
Four hundred teams. Eighty left in their round. And somewhere in the latter rounds, scouts will be looking for the next big thing.
His late dad's voice echoed in his memory, rough and warm: "Football's not about the size of the stadium, son. It's about the size of your heart."
Harry picked up his bag and jogged toward the bus. It was time to find out just how big his heart really was.