"Bloody hell, we're cursed!" The Arsenel fan's voice cracked as he stumbled past the pub window, his scarf dragging through a puddle. "Four goals to bloody one! Amad tearing us apart like we're Sunday league!"
More red shirts shuffled by in the Manchester rain, faces twisted with the kind of pain that only football could deliver. Their voices carried through the glass, raw with disappointment. Amad, the Reds' young winger, had been unplayable.
"How'd we let him destroy us like that?"
"Ten years of this torture?"
Demien Walter nursed his third pint and watched them go. At thirty-eight, he had seen enough heartbreak to recognise it in others. The familiar ache settled in his chest as the Old Traford floodlights cast long shadows across the wet streets.
His phone buzzed on the sticky table. A text from Marcus, his old Florentina teammate who had actually made it: a photo of seventeen-year-old Demien in the purple kit, arms raised after scoring his first professional goal. The message underneath read: "Just saw this old pic of us in the academy. Old times, man! Text me when you see this so we can all hang out. I'll call the remaining boys."
Demien's thumb hovered over the reply button, then he set the phone face down.
The bartender, a stocky man with kind eyes, wiped down glasses while the last few customers filtered out. "Rough night for the Gunners," he said, nodding toward the window.
"Rough decade," Demien muttered, taking another sip. The beer tasted flat, like everything else lately.
"You follow them?"
"United." The word came out heavier than he intended. "Been coming here after matches since I moved to Manchester."
"Moved for work?"
Demien nodded. Senior director of sports marketing at Pinnacle Agency. Corner office overlooking the city centre. Six-figure salary. Everything he had built after walking away from the game that had once been his world.
"What kind of work keeps you out this late celebrating?" The bartender's question carried genuine curiosity, not judgement.
"The kind that pays well but does not mean anything." Demien stared into his pint. "Marketing. Selling dreams to other people."
The older man kept cleaning, giving Demien space to think. Outside, the last of the crowd disappeared, leaving only the sound of rain against glass and the distant hum of traffic.
"Ever have regrets?" Demien asked suddenly.
The bartender paused. "About what?"
"Giving up on something that mattered." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Something you were good at. Something that could have been…"
"Special?"
"Yeah."
The man set down his towel and leaned against the bar. "My dad wanted me to take over his restaurant. Proper Italian place, been in the family for generations. I wanted to be a musician instead."
"What happened?"
"Life." He shrugged. "Got married, had kids, needed steady money. The restaurant closed five years ago anyway. Dad never forgave me for not trying."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. The pub felt warm and safe, a bubble against the cold Manchester night.
Demien stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "You know what is funny? I watch these matches every week. Torture myself with it."
"Bit of a masochist, are we?" The bartender wiped down the same glass for the third time.
"Something like that." Demien's words came out a little slurred. "Used to play, you know. Not Sunday league. Proper football."
"Yeah? What level?"
"Florentina." The word tasted bitter. "Academy, then the first team. Debut at seventeen."
The bartender's hands paused. "Bloody hell. That is serious."
"Was." Demien drained his pint. "Scored on my debut. Some defender decided my knee looked breakable a few minutes later. He was right."
"Christ. That is…"
"Ancient history." Demien fumbled for his wallet, coins spilling across the bar. "Now I run campaigns that put airline logos on club shirts and tell boardrooms why a stadium naming deal will transform their brand."
The bartender helped gather the scattered change. "Good money in that, I would imagine."
"Great money. Corner office. Company car. All the things that do not matter when you are lying in bed wondering what if." Demien's voice thinned. "You ever have something that defined you just disappear?"
The older man counted out the coins. "Lost my hearing in one ear during my time in the army. Could not be a sound engineer anymore."
"But you found something else."
"Found this place. Not the same, but…" He shrugged. "Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not."
Demien stood unsteadily, legs heavier than they should be. "That is the problem. It moved forward without me."
As he headed for the door, the bartender called after him.
"Mate."
Demien turned, hand on the handle.
"If you could do it again… would you?"
The question hung in the air between them. His grip tightened on the cold metal, his knuckles going white.
He swallowed, tasting regret and cheap beer. "Every bloody time."
The rain had gotten heavier by the time he stepped outside. Demien pulled his coat tighter and headed toward the taxi rank by the car park, his phone buzzing in his pocket. Probably Marcus sending another old photo, another reminder of what might have been.
But when he glanced at the screen, it was not Marcus. It was an email, the same kind that had been landing for three months. The subject line read: "Test the Ultimate XI app."
He had flagged earlier ones as spam, but the sender kept changing addresses and slipping into his inbox. Usually he deleted them without thinking, but tonight, with the bartender's question echoing in his head and alcohol making him reckless, he stopped under the awning and let the rain run off the brim of his coat.
Maybe I should just check it out, he thought.
His thumb tapped the blue link before he could change his mind. The screen flickered, showing a loading circle and clean text that read: "Opening Ultimate XI System."
A car engine revved somewhere behind him, but Demien kept walking, watching the loading bar creep forward. The interface looked professional, almost like something his marketing team would design.
He stepped off the kerb while the circle spun. The screen was taking its time, but something about it felt different. Important.
The horn blasted as he reached the road.
Tyres hissed on wet tarmac. He looked up. A silver hatchback skidded through the rain, the bumper catching his hip. Metal screamed. His phone flew from his hand and skidded across the asphalt, screen glowing against the dark.
Pain burst through his back as the world tilted. The sky spun overhead, rain falling into his eyes as he hit the pavement hard.
Shoes pounded against wet ground. A woman screamed. Car doors slammed as engines cut out.
"Jesus Christ, did you see that?"
"Someone call 999!"
"Is he breathing?"
Hands grabbed at his shoulders, his arms. A coat dropped over his chest as someone knelt beside him, their voice shaking.
"Hey, can you hear me? Do not try to move."
More voices joined in, talking over each other in the way crowds do when tragedy strikes close.
"I saw the whole thing—"
"Where is the ambulance?"
"His phone is all smashed up."
The taste of copper filled his mouth. Something warm ran down the side of his face, mixing with the cold rain. His left arm would not respond when he tried to move it, only fire ran through his shoulder.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Blue lights flashed across the wet street, painting everything in urgent colour.
Demien's world began to shrink. The voices turned muffled, like he was underwater. The pain in his back spread into numbness. Each breath took more effort than the last.
He turned his head toward the fallen phone that glowed on the asphalt beside him. Through spider-web cracks across the screen, the loading circle had stopped. The white background cleared, and new text appeared in simple black letters.
The screen showed a single line that made his heart skip despite everything.
"Hello, Demien."
A/N:Hi, everyone. This is my new novel and I hope you enjoy it. If you like what you read, please Add to Library, drop a review or comment, and support with Power Stones. Your support helps visibility and keeps chapters coming. Follow me on this journey to create a banger.