End of the dream

A lone figure stood dejectedly on the field, his gaze fixed on the scoreboard glowing in the evening light: 4–3. The numbers seemed to mock him, each blink of the display hammering home the bitter reality. Around him, the opposing team erupted in jubilant celebration, their cheers filling the stadium as they hugged and shouted.

David Jones, no older than 15, stood frozen. He had poured every ounce of himself into this match, knowing full well it might be his last. Southampton Youth Academy had already made their decision; he was to leave the team. "Disharmony," they called it. But David knew the truth: it wasn't his skill that failed him. He'd scored twice today, assisted another, and ran himself ragged in the process. Yet, that wasn't enough.

His teammates passed by without a word, their shoulders brushing against his as they headed to the locker room. Not a glance in his direction, not a pat on the back. Just cold indifference.

"Nice job, Jones. Real team player," one of them muttered under his breath, a sarcastic edge to his tone.

David didn't respond. He didn't trust his voice not to break.

The mood in the locker room was jubilant for some, bitter for others, but none of it included David. He quietly changed out of his kit, his movements methodical. Around him, the jabs and sneers kept coming.

"Maybe if he wasn't such a hothead, the club wouldn't have told him to pack it in," one boy said loud enough for David to hear.

"Yeah, but at least he thinks he's the star, right?" another chimed in with a laugh.

David kept his head down, shoving his boots into his bag. He didn't let them see how much their words stung. Not today.

As the laughter and chatter faded, David zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. No one looked at him as he walked out the door. He was already forgotten.

The ride back to his rented apartment was a quiet one. David sat at the back of the bus, his face turned toward the window as the scenery blurred past. His mind replayed the game over and over: the goals he scored, the assist he delivered, the moment the final whistle blew. None of it mattered now.

The driver gave him a small nod as he stepped off the bus, but David barely noticed. The weight of the world seemed to press down on his young shoulders.

David opened the door to the small apartment he shared with his family. The familiar scent of his mother's cooking lingered in the air, a faint comfort. His mom, Tabitha, greeted him with her usual warm smile.

"David! How was the game?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

David froze. He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. His chest tightened, and his vision blurred as tears welled up.

"Oh, honey," Tabitha said softly, stepping closer.

Before she could reach him, the dam broke. David dropped his bag and crumpled into a chair, his shoulders shaking as the tears came.

Tabitha knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around her son. "It's okay, baby. It's okay," she whispered, though her own voice wavered.

David didn't speak. He couldn't. The exhaustion, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of failure—it all came crashing down at once.

After what felt like hours, David finally fell asleep in his bed, still wearing his clothes. The weight of the day had drained him completely.

Sometime later, he stirred to the muffled sound of his parents arguing in the living room. He remained still, his heart sinking as he listened.

"He's just a boy, Isaac," Tabitha said, her voice filled with emotion. "He needs our support now more than ever."

"I know that!" Isaac replied, frustration clear in his tone. "But what's the plan, Tabitha? Football was everything to him. What does he do now? What do we do now?"

"You always do this. You doubt him!"

"I'm being realistic! Do you think he can just waltz into another academy after being labeled a troublemaker? It's not that simple!"

David pulled the blanket over his head, his chest tightening with every word. His parents' voices grew softer, but the weight of their conversation lingered.

Elsewhere, a man sat in a dimly lit office, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of his desk. His sharp eyes were fixed on the screen of his phone, the glow illuminating his face.

He finally pressed a number and brought the phone to his ear.

"I think I've found what we need," the man said, his voice low and deliberate.

"Today, during the youth match. The boy has raw talent, but there's more to him. A fire. A drive," he continued, recalling the determined figure on the pitch.

The voice on the other end replied, but the man's expression didn't change.

With that, he ended the call, a small smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

And so, the pieces began to move, setting the stage for a journey that would challenge everything David thought he knew—about football, about himself, and about the world he was about to step into.