51 Prodigy

Somewhere within the city of Manchester.

Only the lights of a television illuminated the dark yet spacious apartment. The sound of it was loud too, enough to grace the whole apartment with the three commentators' and the fans' voices.

Wearing a matching Sheffield Blades scarf and bonnet was an old couple, sitting side by side on a light brown sofa. The couple was looking at the young lad that had just been subbed in with great interest.

"That lad doesn't look the slightest bit like a football player." The old lady, whose curly white hair was tied neatly in a bun, said slowly. "I hope our team didn't just promote him for entertainment, or you know, for marketing purposes."

"Well, maybe he'll surprise our old bones, my dear." The old man pushed up his aviator glasses as he laughed. "Look at the bright side! What if he's also a prodigy? Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"That's the face of a heartbreaker! How can that be the face of a wonderkid!" The old woman joked as her calloused fingers pointed at the sight of the youngster.

The ding of a digital door lock made the couple look to the doorway, and as the door opened, the sight of a young woman that seemed to be in her late teens with fiery red hair, and wearing a beige knee-length dress that accentuated her dazzling features, appeared.

Upon closing the door, her smile that was enough to make anyone's day appeared on her young and vibrant face. She rushed to kiss the couple on their cheeks, before proceeding to linger her gaze at the television screen.

"Hoho darling, our team's in the lead! Fuck them Rotherham scum!" The old man thought that his granddaughter was looking at the scores. He didn't realize that the young lass already has a red blush on her rosy cheeks.

"Grandpa…" The lady tried his best to hide the growing blush on her cheeks. "Who's… that unfamiliar player?" She pointed at the man still being focused on by the camera, and talked about by the commentators. "He… seems to be around my age…"

The grandmother caught the hint of shyness on her voice, so she looked at her face that was illuminated only by the television light. "That's a debutant from the junior team. Why are you blushing, young lady? Don't tell me…"

"Grandma!" She touched her face and cried out before dashing upstairs in embarrassment.

"Seems like our young Serra is getting older now, dear…" The old man squeezed his wife's hands as he put his attention back to the game that was about to resume.

***

Blaise looked to the sky as the ball was finally kicked off. He promised himself that he won't leave any regrets on the table for his first game.

Not just for himself, but also for the people he left behind... his young Blaine, and his beloved Serra…

Sheffield went on the attack quickly, as they tried to reestablish the advantage they gained from the first half and perhaps even more using this revamped central midfield.

Potts was at the pivot as the anchor defensive mid, Hastings roamed end to end as the box to box mid, Atkinson took the advanced playmaker role as Hastings' partner, while Alain Prosser moved forward as the attacking midfielder.

This two veteran, two teenager combination is something that Steve Bronson liked a lot for his short-term future core. Prosser forward because of his ridiculous attacking awareness, Atkinson for the playmaking abilities that they drool over, Hastings' dynamic end to end capabilities, and his old friend Potts' stalwart defense and toughness.

Potts sprayed a pass quick from the middle of the field to the roaming Hastings. Hastings pulled it back to Prosser, after seeing all his forward options closed off for now.

The youngster showed off his standout grace on the ball, something that has been a major talking point of a lot of analysts right now. He skipped past one, and two, carving up the defense with just his dribbling brilliance alone.

Right as he reached the corner of the penalty area, a Birmingham defender's last ditch tackle blindsided him, sending the ball reeling out for a corner kick.

"That's why he's a highly valued teenager. That skill on the ball is way beyond his years. What a fantastic dribbler he is." Martin Jones said on the live broadcast.

The senior team's designated corner kick taker was Trent Hastings. So, even if Blaise Atkinson wanted to take control of set pieces here, the one who'll take it would be the one that the manager designated. He has to earn the right.

Blaise was lurking in and out of the edge of the penalty box for loose balls without much presence when Trent Hastings sent the ball flying in from the left corner. He'd dive into the fray if need be.

The players inside the box jumped at once, but it was old man Potts that got his head to it, forcing the ball on its way to the back of the net.

Saved!

The keeper bungled the ball, tapping the goal posts and barely keeping it out for a repeat corner.

It was just the 50th minute, but Birmingham still sent all their players to the box except their lone forward, in a desperate attempt to stop the home side from doubling their lead.

The home fans were singing their hymns as Trent Hastings sent the second corner kick into the crowded box. They held their breath as the ball drew an arc in the air, fast and low. Most of the more than fifteen people inside jumped in concert, gunning for their chance of either heading it out to safety, or heading it into the back of the net.

It's not a head that got their first, but the keeper's glove. He punched it out with authority, hoping that it was enough to end this prolonged spell.

"The keeper's punched it out to safety…" Ian Hawk narrated.

"No, hold it! Not yet!" Eddie Thompson yelled, after seeing where the ball was going.

"It's the new boy!" Martin Jones said in bated breath.

Blaise Atkinson was ready to chase after the ball if there's a chance to recycle possession and restart the attack. He actually didn't expect that the keeper's punch would give the ball right to his waiting lap.

The heads in the box turned back, looking at where the ball went.

Blaise cocked his feet back, waiting for the optimal time to swing it forward and slam the ball with it. He didn't have the chance to scan his general vicinity when he thought that the ball was in its sweet spot inches above the ground.

'I know you're watching somewhere, this is for you, Serra.'

Before most of the players in the box could react, Atkinson slammed the descending ball with the outside of his right boot with power.

"Atkinson!"

"Oh!"

"Wha—"