Chapter 2: Monday Morning
The alarm rang at 4:45 a.m. The harsh sound buzzing felt like it was echoing inside Lucas's head.
He didn't move right away. He lay in the dark listening to the steady sound of rain hitting the window.
His body felt stiff and poorly put together, like it hadn't been assembled correctly. His thighs were tense, and when he moved his left foot, a sharp, familiar pain shot up from his ankle.
At twenty-five, he already had to bargain with his own joints just to get out of bed.
He sat up slowly and reached for the white athletic tape on his bedside table. In the faint light from a streetlamp through the blinds, he went through his routine.
Three wraps around the heel, two across the arch, then a figure-eight to secure the ankle. It was only a short-term solution to a lasting problem, and today it wasn't just for the Sunday league.
He pulled himself up and stood carefully before taking a step. He walked to the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror.
The man looking back at him had dark circles under his eyes, but he still looked good, even in the early morning light. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath.
He pulled on his hi-vis warehouse vest and headed downstairs.
The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and coffee. His father, Roberto was already there, hunched over reading a newspaper.
His mother, Elena packed a lunchbox with the practiced precision of someone who had done it every day for thirty years.
The business card sat on the counter, right next to the fruit bowl. Peter Hirst's name seemed to shine under the fluorescent light.
"You're still going, then?" Roberto asked without looking up. His voice was rough, worn down by years on construction sites and cold mornings.
"You know I have to, Dad," Lucas said quietly, reaching for the kettle.
"It's a long way to East London just to be told no again," his father said quietly. He finally looked up from the paper. "I know you haven't given up. I don't think you ever could."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But all those trials, all those rejections… it hurts to watch. Every time you come back like that, I feel it too, son."
Lucas didn't answer. He just picked up his mug, letting his hands wrap around the warmth.
He knew he had disappointed them. At twenty-five, he should be helping the family, but he was still chasing a dream, even after all those rejections.
"Roberto, let him eat," Elena snapped, though her eyes were worried as they rested on Lucas. She stepped forward and adjusted the collar of his hi-vis vest. "You have your shift first. Don't be late for the warehouse. They won't give you another warning."
"I know, Ma."
"And Lucas…" She hesitated, her hand resting on his shoulder. "If it doesn't… if they don't say what you want… just come home. We're having feijoada tonight. Your favorite."
The unspoken words hung between them, 'Don't let them break your heart again.'
Lucas nodded and put his mug down. The warmth had faded but the heaviness in his chest stayed. He grabbed his bag and paused at the door.
His parents watched him go.
Outside, the cold morning air hit him. He started walking to the bus stop, knowing he had to keep moving, no matter how hard it felt.
At the distribution center, the shift passed in a blur. He lifted heavy crates and dodged the constant beeping of reversing forklifts. His body moved on autopilot, but his mind was somewhere else. Every time he lifted a crate, his taped ankle throbbed.
'Don't snap. Just give me four hours on the trial. That's all I need.'
He stared at the clock anxiously. When it finally hit 11:00 a.m., he didn't go to the breakroom. He went to his locker, changed his work boots for old trainers and grabbed his kit bag.
The bus ride to Leyton took over an hour. As it rattled through the grey streets of East London, Lucas stared at his reflection in the window.
He looked exactly like what he was, a tired warehouse worker carrying a bag full of dreams he should have left behind years ago.
He got off the bus three stops early and walked the rest of the way.
The training ground wasn't too fancy, state-of-the-art complex like the ones he'd seen on TV. There were no glass gyms or perfectly kept fields.
Instead, he stood in front of iron gates tucked behind a row of terraced houses.
The sign above the entrance was faded, the red paint peeling at the edges: Leyton Orient FC: Training Ground.
Through the bars, he could see the pitches. They were green but scarred with brown mud from the November rain.
A few players in mismatched training gear were already out there, their shouts cutting through the sound of distant sirens. The facilities looked old and worn, but honest.
This was a club on the edge, fighting for every inch in the lower tier of professional football.
Lucas held the straps of his bag so tight his knuckles went white. His heart was pounding..
'This is it, probably the last chance I could get, I can't mess it up.'
He took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs, and pushed the gate.
Lucas didn't hesitate. He stepped onto the pitch, mud already sticking to his shoes, and walked toward the changing rooms.
Would the forgotten player finally prove his worth, or would he remain just another nobody?