The Mysterious man II

The bell above the grocery store door jingled softly, announcing the entrance of the man. The cool air from outside trailed in behind him, stirring the faint scent of detergent and produce. David Jones, standing behind the counter, barely spared the man a glance. His mind was elsewhere, lingering on the game from the previous day. The lingering frustration of what had happened—or hadn't happened—on the pitch sat heavy on his chest.

The man walked with deliberate steps, his boots echoing faintly on the tiled floor. David noticed the figure approaching the counter but kept stacking cans, pretending not to care. When the man stopped in front of him, David finally looked up. His eyes locked with a face mostly obscured by a cap and scarf.

"Are you David Jones?" the man asked, his voice even, but with a faint trace of something unplaceable—curiosity, perhaps.

David straightened. "Yeah. Do you need something?"

The man's lips quirked upward slightly beneath his scarf, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "No," he said, his tone light yet oddly piercing. "I wanted to ask you something."

David's brows furrowed, his posture stiffening slightly. He wasn't sure what this stranger wanted, but he wasn't about to let his guard down. "What is it?"

The man shifted, leaning slightly against the counter. "I saw you playing yesterday," he said, his voice casual, though his words felt heavy. "You're talented. Clearly so. Why did the team kick you out?"

David blinked, startled by the directness of the question. For a moment, he considered brushing it off, but his pride reared its head. His lips curled into a smirk, though his tone was sharp when he answered.

"They were shit," he said, without hesitation. "Couldn't handle the fact that I'm clearly better than them."

The man tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly in surprise, but he didn't interrupt. David noticed the reaction but felt no inclination to soften his words.

"They don't want to admit it, but that's the truth," David continued. "I know football's a team game, but sometimes, if you're clearly the best, you've got to take charge. If I saw someone better than me, I'd step aside, no problem. But let's face it, that's not what's happening out there."

The man's lips twitched again, though whether it was amusement or something else, David couldn't tell. He leaned closer, resting his forearms on the counter.

"You think you're better than all of them?"

David shrugged, his confidence unshaken. "I know I am."

"And yet," the man said, his voice thoughtful, "football is an eleven-man game. One man can't win it alone."

David's eyes flickered, his expression shifting slightly. He crossed his arms, leaning back. "Of course I know that," he said, his tone defensive but honest. "I'm not stupid. I know it's a team game. But you weren't there. You didn't see how they played. They're not footballers. They disgrace the name."

The man's expression didn't change, though there was a glint of something in his eyes. "And you think you can fix that by doing everything yourself?"

David paused, his guard slipping further. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting the man's again. "I don't want to do everything myself," he said quietly. "But what am I supposed to do when no one else seems to care? When they don't even try? They lose and just... shrug it off. Like it doesn't matter."

The man nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. David found himself continuing, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

"I can't stand that," David said, his voice rising slightly with emotion. "I can't stand losing and acting like it's okay. It's not okay. If you're out there, you give everything. Every time. That's what football's about."

The man opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the bell above the door jingled again. David's father, Isaac Jones, stepped inside, carrying a crate of vegetables. He paused when he saw his son talking animatedly to the stranger, his brows furrowing in suspicion.

Isaac placed the crate down near the door, watching the pair with a mix of curiosity and wariness. As he approached the counter, the man turned slightly, acknowledging him with a nod. David, too engrossed in the conversation, didn't notice his father's presence until he was almost at the counter.

"Dad," David said, his posture straightening as he realized they weren't alone anymore.

Isaac's eyes flicked between his son and the stranger, his suspicion deepening. "Who's this?" he asked, his tone careful but firm.

David hesitated, his excitement over the conversation suddenly giving way to a realization—he didn't actually know who the man was. He glanced at the stranger, his brows knitting together.

"That's a good point," David said, his tone suddenly cautious. "Who are you?"

The man let out a soft laugh, straightening from his position against the counter. He extended a hand toward Isaac, his movements deliberate and calm.

"Sir," he said, his voice suddenly louder, carrying a surprising authority. "I want to sign your son to my team."

The words hung in the air, leaving both David and Isaac momentarily stunned.