The group of boys stepped onto the pitch behind the coaching staff, the soft buzz of morning still hanging in the air like an invisible mist. Russell's boots pressed into the trimmed grass with each step, each footfall reminding him that this was no longer just a dream but something unfolding in real time. His new kit, number seventeen printed neatly across the back, fit snug against his frame. It wasn't the kind of snug that made him feel restricted, but rather the kind that made him feel wrapped, like he belonged in it, like it had been waiting for him. His mind didn't focus on how it looked, though. It focused on how it felt. Light. Mobile. Ready. The kind of kit that made you feel fast even when you were standing still.
There were about twenty-five of them, maybe a few more, all with different builds, heights, and expressions. They were led to the main training pitch by two staff members in red jackets, who walked briskly, without saying much. One of them stopped near the centre circle and turned to face the group, his expression calm but unreadable.
"Alright," he said with a voice that cut through the quiet morning, "stand here. You'll be addressed shortly."
Russell stood a little off-centre, arms loosely at his sides, his eyes flicking around the pitch like they were scanning a chessboard. Several other boys were already stretching, legs wide, toes pointed, hands on hips. Others whispered in small clusters, their voices low but tense. A few looked anxious, bouncing on their heels, unable to stand still. Russell didn't feel like speaking. Not yet. He felt the nerves crawling under his skin, but he had learned how to cage them, to keep them from leaking out into his movements. This wasn't the time to make friends. This was the time to earn another day.
A few minutes later, four men walked out from the direction of the training offices. Their jackets bore the Middlesbrough crest proudly on the left breast. One of them, the shortest of the group, had a clipboard in hand and walked with purposeful steps. The tallest, a man in his early forties with greying black hair and a stride that demanded attention, stood out immediately. The other coaches and staff gave him space as he approached, a silent acknowledgment of authority.
"That's the academy manager," someone whispered behind Russell, just loud enough for the words to register.
The man stepped forward. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He didn't soften the moment with small talk. He simply looked around the group slowly, his eyes sharp and steady, like he was measuring the weight of the silence more than the boys themselves.
"You're here because you showed something," he began, voice steady and deep, each word dropping into the quiet like a stone into water. "Not everyone gets here. So congratulations on that."
The group stood silently. No one dared to move. Even the boys who had been bouncing in place a minute ago seemed frozen now.
"But this isn't a place for panic," he continued. "If any of you are standing here afraid, afraid to make a mistake, afraid to be seen, afraid of pressure, then you should ask yourself how you'll ever play in front of ten thousand fans. How you'll deal with scouts, managers, cameras, contracts. This trial is your chance to prove you can handle it."
Russell stood still, his heartbeat picking up. Not from fear, but from focus. The words didn't intimidate him. If anything, they made things feel clearer. There was no space for hesitation today, no cushion to fall back on. This wasn't about being lucky. This was about being ready.
"You've got ninety minutes, give or take," the man added. "We'll see what you can do. There are no second chances. So if you want to be here tomorrow, show me. Not talk. Not hype. Show me."
He stepped back and nodded to one of the staff without another word.
The session began.
The players were split into groups, not by position, but at random. Russell ended up in Group B, along with six other boys. A few gave brief glances of acknowledgment, others stayed locked in their own heads. The first part of the session was straightforward, warm-ups, stretches, mobility routines, things Russell had done countless times, but never with stakes this high. Everything moved quickly. There was no standing around, no long pauses, no room to relax.
Then the coaches shifted them into rondo circles. Three attackers on the outside, two defenders in the middle, tight-space passing drills designed to test your sharpness under pressure. Russell took his spot with two others. The ball moved quickly, sharp and clean. At first, the rhythm was slow, as everyone tried to settle in and find their touch, but it picked up within minutes.
Russell kept his touches short and sharp. He didn't overdo anything. No fancy flicks or unnecessary turns. Just clean one-twos, angled body shape, quick check-aways to keep his options open. He let the ball do the work. The coaches didn't say anything directly to him, but he caught one of them jotting something down after he switched play with a disguised outside-foot pass that threaded between two defenders.
As the rondos rotated, Russell watched the others. One boy, tall with a heavy build, struggled to keep the pace and looked a step behind. Another, short and quick-footed, had great acceleration but seemed reckless, often forcing passes that weren't there. A few others looked solid, just like him, competent but not spectacular. He didn't judge them harshly. He just observed. Quietly measured them. In football, knowing who you are playing with mattered almost as much as knowing how to play.
He wasn't the best player on the field. He knew that. But he wasn't below anyone either. Every time the ball came to him, he made the right decision. He wanted more touches. He wanted them to see that he could think under pressure, move intelligently, make space where there wasn't any.
The coaches moved them into a first-touch circuit next. One-touch, two-touch, ball-control variations under pressure. Russell's touches were tight, low to the ground, always on his toes. His movements were automatic. The kind of habits that came from hours and hours of repetition in lonely parks and empty backyards. He didn't celebrate after clean sequences. He just reset and waited for the next ball.
Keep the standard up, he told himself. Don't fade. It was easy to shine early, harder to maintain it.
The session moved quickly. Sweat started to gather under his shirt, and the sting in his legs from yesterday's training session began to return. He blocked it out. He was locked in now. Focused on the moment, on making every minute count. Every rep felt like it carried meaning, and he refused to let one slip away without intent.
After about forty-five minutes, one of the coaches blew a whistle and called the entire group to the sideline.
"Short break," he said. "Drink water. Reset. Next part starts in ten."
Russell stepped back, grabbed his water bottle, and walked a few steps away from the others. He found a small patch of shade beside a goalpost and sat. The sun was higher now, peeking through the soft clouds. The warmth didn't relax him. It just added to the intensity of the day. His shirt clung slightly to his back, and he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he drank.
Around him, the boys were starting to talk. Some grouped up naturally, maybe old teammates, maybe kids who'd met before through previous trials or tournaments. A few laughed, tossing comments around about the drills. Others stretched or lightly jogged to stay loose, unwilling to let their bodies cool down.
Russell stayed where he was. He wasn't sure if he wanted to speak. His mind was still running through the first half of the session, analyzing every decision. Had he done enough? Had he stood out? Had he played it too safe? He tried to shake the thoughts off. Overthinking now wouldn't help.
A shadow fell over him.
He looked up.
A boy stood there, lean frame, blond hair cropped neatly, eyes sharp but curious. His expression wasn't smug. Just open.
"You're number seventeen, right?" the boy asked, voice casual, but not empty.
Russell nodded. "Yeah."
The boy dropped into a squat in front of him, resting his arms over his knees like he had done this a hundred times.
"I'm Alexis. Alexis Butcher."
Russell gave a short nod. "Russell."
"Nice first half," Alexis said. "You've got a good touch."
"Thanks," Russell replied, surprised for a second. He hadn't expected anyone to say anything to him, let alone compliment him.
"I saw that outside-foot switch pass you did during the rondos," Alexis continued. "Clean."
Russell shrugged lightly. "Just trying to keep it simple."
Alexis nodded, then looked around the pitch. "Not bad out here. Decent group. Couple of ball hogs, though. You can already tell who's just trying to be flashy."
Russell smiled faintly. "Yeah. I noticed."
"You local?" Alexis asked.
"Middlesbrough. You?"
"Leeds. My dad drove me down last night. We stayed over in a motel."
Russell gave another short nod. Alexis didn't seem nervous. Just calm. Like someone who belonged here but didn't need to prove it to anyone else.
"Bit of pressure, huh?" Alexis said, tilting his head slightly. "I mean, the academy manager's speech, no second chances and all that."
Russell paused for a second before replying. "Doesn't matter. We've only got one shot either way."
Alexis laughed softly. "Fair point."
They sat in silence for a few seconds, sipping water, both watching the rest of the boys. The hum of quiet conversation around them filled the space, but between the two of them, it felt balanced.
"I don't usually talk much during trials," Russell said after a while.
"That's alright," Alexis said. "Neither do I. Just figured you looked like someone I might be on the pitch with again someday."
Russell looked at him properly then. Alexis wasn't joking. He wasn't fishing for anything either. Just telling the truth. Russell didn't respond right away, but the words stayed in his head.
The whistle blew again.
Both boys stood up, brushing grass from their legs.
"See you in the next part," Alexis said before jogging off to rejoin the group.
Russell stood a moment longer. Then turned and walked back too, his mind quiet now. Focused. Settled.
The next part was coming.
And he was ready.