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Chapter 15 – Call-Up
London, May 2003 – Arsenal Academy
—
The medal's weight felt absurd when I walked in the door. The house was quiet, steamed from supper, and Mum was waiting—folding tea towels by the stove, eyes locked on that medal like it was glowing.
"Well?" she asked, breath just above a whisper, because she already knew.
I dropped my bag with a grin. "Six."
Her hand froze halfway to the kettle. "Six?"
"Couple times," I hedged, but her look wouldn't let it stand.
"Couple?" she pressed.
"Fine," I admitted. "Six in a final, Mum."
She laughed, and it gutted me with pride. She hugged me tighter than I remember. "Six in a cup final… You did that." She swiped a tear away and turned back to cooking.
I followed her lead, grabbed a plate, ate silently next to her, and tucked into the comfort of home after the storm of that game. I slept like the world ended.
—
Next, the next wasn't better—it was better in a different way. Bendtner had the lads at his mate's place in Islington. Music that vibrated the walls. Beer everywhere. The mood was crazy and fun.
Lads, the lads were shouting the moment I stepped in. A drink was shoved into my hand, someone, and I lifted our glass. Bendtner shoved past.
"Your medal still shiny?"
"More than that feel it." The laugh I gave landed right.
The smiles and elbow nudges counted more than any shot I'd taken.
Labouring halfway into the night, someone argued about the Champions League final.
"United," one lad said.
"Yeah right," I cut in. "Milan. I've seen them. You'll see them win."
A chorus of jokes challenged me. A couple of girls leaned close, heard me. One smirked. "Cocky."
"Proven cocky?" I offered. She chuckled, nodded.
I slipped away before it got slurred, the echo of my name still bouncing through the room. Leave them wanting more.
—
Training the next morning felt different. My head pounded but I was out first—always first. Hoyte stumbled in, mascaraed in regret.
"You don't look hungover," he said, half-jealous.
"Never am," I replied, tying my laces.
The session was punishment. Drills ran on repeat. Every pass, every sprint, I felt the eyes—judging, waiting. Then Leonard called my number at the theater.
I nearly sprinted. Inside, Wenger stood. Still. Watching.
"Jeremy Lynch."
"Yes, boss."
Leonard grinned. "Six in the final."
Wenger pulled on the collar of his coat. "I watched. You're not average."
[Ding!]
> "No humility, no discounts. Say what you know, then prove it."
I squared up. "I'm ready—whatever comes."
He studied me. The smallest nod. "Join the first-team training. No matches yet—until you prove you're ready."
Relief erupted. The academy coach patted me on the shoulder. "Big step, lad."
Walking out, the system whispered:
> "They opened the door. Now walk in and take everything you need."
—
That night, I told Mum everything. Her hand shook a bit, snuck under my chin.
"First team?" She sounded breathless.
"Training. Later, matches."
She stared for a moment, mouth slightly open, then hugged me. "Every tear, every drop of belief… worth it."
I let her hold it. No jokes. Just her pride and the next stage waiting.
Alone in bed, re-running the words—"first team training"—felt like a punch and a spark.
> "Tomorrow's a battlefield. But you're not just playing. You're starting something."
I grinned in the dark. "Game on."
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