The roar of the crowd pressed down like a living wave. Westbridge Academy's youth stadium wasn't the grand coliseum of a Premier League weekend, but for the boys who played here, it might as well have been. Scouts filled the stands, journalists scribbled notes, and the weight of futures hung in the humid night air.
Marcus Hale stood at the edge of the penalty box, sweat streaking down his forehead, every nerve alive. He was seventeen, dark hair sticking to his brow, boots caked in mud, but to the crowd he already looked like tomorrow's star.
The ball zipped toward him in the dying seconds of the match, one chance, one heartbeat. He didn't hesitate. A feint to the right sent the defender lunging, and Marcus spun left, striking cleanly with the inside of his boot. The ball curled past the outstretched keeper and into the net.
The whistle followed instantly.
The stadium erupted. Teammates swarmed him, tugging at his shirt, screaming his name. Marcus Hale, the prodigy destined for a senior debut before he was even eighteen.
But not everyone on the pitch celebrated.
On the bench, Kael Veyron sat motionless. His jaw clenched as the others leapt to their feet. Black hair falling across his face, Kael's eyes stayed fixed on Marcus, burning with something sharp and ugly. Kael had been Westbridge's star once, before Marcus arrived. Tonight, he was benched, again, and the bitterness tasted like ash in his throat.
From the sidelines, Coach Davor watched with the heavy pride of a man who had seen rare talent bloom before. Tall, broad-shouldered, with years of football etched into the creases of his face, he clapped slowly, eyes on Marcus. He saw a future captain, maybe even a legend. In moments like this, even he dared to dream.
The match ended in triumph. The academy boys left the pitch in laughter and chants, their breathless voices echoing long after the stadium emptied.
That night, Marcus sat in his room, replaying the goal on his phone, grinning despite the exhaustion. He should have been thinking about his debut for the senior team, maybe even interviews in the morning. Instead, a new email notification blinked on his laptop.
The subject line froze him in place:
"URGENT: Notice of Immediate Suspension – Westbridge Academy."
His smile died.
Hands trembling, Marcus clicked.
"Dear Mr. Hale,
This is to inform you that, effective immediately, you are suspended from all Westbridge Academy training and matches due to a violation of the Premier League Youth Anti-Doping Policy.
Attached is video evidence that confirms the breach.
Pending investigation, your place within the Academy has been terminated.
Regards,
Westbridge Academy Disciplinary Committee"
"No…" Marcus whispered. His throat went dry. He clicked on the attachment.
The video was grainy but clear enough: the academy locker room. His locker. Someone pulled out a small vial, capped and labelled with a banned substance. Only the damning final frame was there: Marcus Hale's name printed across the locker door.
Marcus's gut twisted. "That's not mine. That's not mine!" He played it again, desperate to spot the trick, the splice, anything. But the video was seamless. Flawless.
His phone buzzed. A message.
Kael Veyron: "u will never know."
Marcus's heart dropped into his stomach.
"No… no, it can't be." His chest tightened. His hands shook as he dialed a number, the only one that mattered.
"Coach! Coach Davor, please, tell me you saw this. It's a lie, I swear to you, I didn't do anything!" His voice cracked, tears threatening.
On the other end, a pause stretched. Then Davor's weary voice, low, almost ashamed:
"Marcus… it was found in your locker. The committee reviewed the evidence. The decision's been made."
Marcus slammed his fist against the desk. "But I didn't do it! You know me, you know me!"
Davor exhaled, as though the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders. "The good thing is, Marcus, there's no proof of direct use. So they won't ban you from football. If there had been… you'd be facing prison time." His words faltered. "I'm sorry, son. The academy's cut you off."
And then the line went dead.
Marcus sat frozen, phone slipping from his hand. The silence in his room was suffocating, broken only by the faint buzz of his laptop screen, his own name glowing alongside words like doping, suspension, cheat.
The prodigy of Westbridge, destroyed in a single night.
He couldn't stay inside. Not with the walls closing in, not with those words echoing. He threw on a hoodie, shoved his trainers on, and stumbled out into the cold night.
The streets of Westbridge were quiet, mist curling around dim streetlamps. Marcus walked aimlessly, shoulders hunched, tears stinging his eyes. Every step felt heavier. His future, his dream, everything he had built, it was gone.
He turned down a narrow street, and that's when he saw it: the wreckage of a car crash earlier that evening, police tape still fluttering. A shop window nearby had been shattered in the impact. Glass shards littered the pavement, glittering under the streetlight.
Marcus staggered closer. His reflection stared back at him from the jagged surface, fractured, distorted. He barely recognized himself.
A cheat. A liar. A failure.
"No!" His voice cracked with rage. "I'm not that!"
He grabbed the football he still carried in his bag and hurled it with every ounce of strength. It slammed into the broken glass with a sharp crash, and the shards rained down in a thousand glittering pieces.
In that fleeting second, each fragment caught a different reflection of him. One shard showed him as a striker, powerful and ruthless. Another, as a playmaker commanding the pitch. Others showed him broken, fallen, forgotten.
And then, one reflection moved.
Marcus blinked, heart hammering. In the shattered glass, a version of himself stepped forward, eyes burning with something fierce. The figure reached out from the shard, toward him.
Before Marcus could react, it surged into him.
A rush of energy. A shiver through his bones. The world tilted, fractured, then snapped back together.
Marcus stumbled, clutching his chest, gasping for air. The shards lay still on the ground, silent once more. But he knew, deep down, something inside him had changed.
The night around him seemed sharper, heavier, alive.
And Marcus Hale, once the prodigy, now the fallen, stood at the edge of something he couldn't yet understand.
To be continued…