Chapter 4 - 5v5 Game
The sun beat down hard against the training ground, the smell of sweat and ambition hanging thick in the air.
Nathan wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and stared up at the field in front of him.
Leeds United's Under-18s team moved with a different energy—sharper, faster, meaner. Every pass zipped through the grass like a bullet. Every tackle came in bone-rattling hard.
Thud!
A midfielder clattered into one of the newer recruits, sending him sprawling. No apology. No hesitation. Play on.
Nathan swallowed hard, tightening the straps on his boots.
This is it, he thought, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. This is the real proving ground.
And he wasn't the only one feeling it.
Across the pitch, first-team coach Michael Grayson stood with his arms folded, sunglasses hiding his eyes. But Nathan could feel the weight of his gaze.
Cold. Calculating. Measuring.
Boom. Nathan's heart hammered once against his ribs.
He couldn't help but steal glances at the coach between drills. Grayson never moved. Never spoke. He just watched, still as a wolf waiting for weakness.
Nathan tightened his jaw. He didn't know what Grayson thought of him. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
No use worrying.
He jogged back into position for the next drill.
The first ten minutes were brutal.
A small possession game. 5v5. Tight space. No time to think.
Nathan's touch was a half-step slow.
Tch.
A pass zipped toward him—Crack!—and bounced awkwardly off his shin. A U18s defender picked it off easily and turned upfield.
"Wake up, Perry!" someone barked.
He gritted his teeth, chest burning.
Mistakes weren't just mistakes here. They were blood in the water.
The session rolled on, relentless. Crossing drills. Finishing drills. Pressing exercises.
Nathan stumbled. Adjusted. Fought.
Every error etched itself into his mind like a brand, but so did every flash of brilliance. A one-touch layoff under pressure. A slaloming run through two defenders. A curling shot that rattled the post—Boom!—and drew a rare grunt of approval from the U18s coach.
Slowly, painfully, he found the rhythm.
It wasn't perfection.
But it was progress.
Water break.
Nathan bent over, gasping for air, sweat dripping from his brow like rain.
"Not bad for a kid," a voice drawled beside him.
Nathan looked up to see James Rowe—tall, lean, with an easy smirk and captain's armband cutting across his bicep.
James was the heart of the U18s. He ran the midfield like a king ruling his territory.
"Thanks," Nathan said, voice hoarse.
James gave him a once-over. "You keep your head down, you might survive."
Nathan chuckled weakly. "That the best offer I'm getting?"
James grinned, teeth flashing. "For now."
He jogged back toward the center circle, leaving Nathan with a strange feeling twisting in his chest.
It wasn't hostility. It wasn't friendship, either.
It was acknowledgment.
Step by step, Nathan thought, wiping his mouth. I'll earn it.
The scrimmage match that followed was even more vicious.
Two sides. Full pitch. Full contact.
From the first whistle, it was war.
Nathan found himself isolated on the right wing, pressed hard by an experienced left-back who shoved, kicked, and snarled with every challenge.
Crash!
One particularly heavy tackle sent Nathan sprawling into the grass, breath knocked clean out of him.
He lay there for a second, staring up at the blinding sky.
Get up. Now.
He rolled to his knees, staggered to his feet, and forced himself back into the game.
Minutes later, the chance came.
A long ball floated over the top. Nathan read it instinctively still faintly echoing in his mind—and ghosted between two defenders.
The ball dropped—Thud!—and without thinking, he volleyed it with the outside of his boot.
The ball arced, kissed the underside of the crossbar—Boom!—and slammed into the net.
Goal.
The sidelines erupted into a scatter of shouts and claps.
Nathan stood there, chest heaving, feeling the fire coursing through him.
He turned—and found Michael Grayson watching him.
Still unmoving. Still unreadable.
But somehow, even through the mirrored shades, Nathan could feel it.
Interest.
He saw that.
The scrimmage ended shortly after. The players trudged off the pitch, some laughing, some cursing. Nathan just kept walking, mind blank, body vibrating with exhausted adrenaline.
He was unstrapping his boots on the bench when a shadow loomed over him.
"Oi. Perry," a gruff voice said.
Nathan looked up. It was Coach Ellis—the assistant to Grayson. Older, with a thick Yorkshire accent and a permanent scowl etched into his face.
"Grayson wants you training with the first team tomorrow," Ellis said, scratching his stubble. "Seven sharp. Don't be late."
Nathan blinked.
For a moment, he thought he misheard.
"The first team?" he repeated, voice barely a whisper.
Ellis grunted. "You deaf? Yeah, the first team. Make sure you bring your lungs. You're gonna need 'em."
He slapped Nathan's shoulder—Whap!
—and walked off.
Nathan sat there for a second, dazed.
The first team.
The men he'd grown up watching on TV. The ones with Premier League contracts. International caps. World-class talent.
Haaah...!
He exhaled sharply, heart jackhammering inside his chest.
This was it.
The real beginning.
Not just another training session.
Not just another promotion.