Disbelief

David woke up two days after signing his contract with Derby County, the reality of his new life still sinking in. The previous day had been spent sightseeing with his mom, Tabitha, enjoying the city and making memories before she had to return home to help his dad at their family shop. David had suggested that with his new salary, they could all quit and move to Derby to live near him, but his mom had laughed, patting his cheek and insisting the money should be saved for his future. "You'll thank me later," she said.

David couldn't convince them to let him drop out of school either. "Football's important, but education isn't negotiable," his dad had declared, and David knew better than to argue. Thankfully, the club had arranged online tutoring for him starting next week, but for now, he had his first training session to focus on.

Excitement coursed through him as he pulled on the training gear the club provided: a sleek black and white jersey emblazoned with the Derby County logo, matching shorts, and socks. The material was light and breathable, designed for peak athletic performance. He checked his reflection in the mirror, adjusting the jersey—he looked like he belonged.

David decided to jog to the stadium, taking in the crisp morning air. When he reached the gates, a burly security guard stepped forward, blocking his path. "Sorry, no fans allowed," the guard said firmly. "The team's got closed-door training today."

David blinked, momentarily confused, then realized the misunderstanding. He held up his hands, grinning. "I'm not a fan—I'm a player! Signed two days ago."

The guard raised an eyebrow, his skeptical expression practically screaming, This kid?. "Yeah, right," he said, crossing his arms.

"No, really!" David insisted, digging into his pocket for the ID card Phillip Cockerill, the club's sporting director, had given him. He held it out triumphantly. The guard squinted at the card, then at David, then back at the card. Finally, he stepped aside, mumbling, "Well, good luck, kid. You'll need it."

David laughed, giving him a thumbs-up. "Thanks."

As he walked into the stadium, his heart raced. This was it—his dream was coming to life. The sheer size of the arena still left him in awe, even after the brief tour Wayne Rooney had given him. He glanced around, trying to recall the route to the locker room. Unfortunately, everything looked the same, and he soon found himself wandering down a corridor that led… straight to the cafeteria.

David's stomach growled, and he took it as a sign. "God works in mysterious ways," he muttered, grabbing a tray. "Hello? Anyone here?" he called out.

"Hold your horses, dear. I'm coming," a voice replied. A moment later, an older woman emerged from the kitchen. She was the quintessential British grandmother: gray hair in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose, and an apron dusted with flour. She paused when she saw him, tilting her head. "The youth team training here today?" she asked, clearly puzzled.

David grinned. "No, ma'am. First team. I just signed on."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You? First team? Are they starting a daycare now?" she teased, but there was kindness in her tone.

"Very funny," David said, flashing his brightest smile. "Can I get something light to eat? Training starts soon."

"Light, you say?" she murmured, reaching for his tray. Moments later, she placed a plate in front of him: scrambled eggs, a slice of whole-grain toast, and a small bowl of fruit. "That should keep you running without weighing you down."

"Thank you, ma'am," David said, digging in. The food was simple but delicious, and he polished off the plate in record time.

As he returned the tray, he asked, "Could you point me to the locker room?"

The woman's eyes narrowed playfully. "Now, young man, you're not supposed to be sneaking around the first team's facilities."

David laughed. "I'm not sneaking. I'm part of the first team. Honest." He pulled out his ID card again, holding it up like a golden ticket.

She squinted at the card, then at him. "Well, I'll be…" she muttered, shaking her head. "They're letting babies play football now. What's next, toddlers in goal?"

David couldn't help but laugh. "Guess I'll have to prove I'm not a baby, then."

She smiled, pointing him in the right direction. "Go on, then, superstar. Don't keep them waiting."

When David finally stood outside the locker room, a surge of nerves hit him. He took a deep breath, his hand on the door handle. This was it—the beginning of everything. With a determined smile, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.