The Next Big Thing
Chapter 135: First training with the team II

Chapter 135: First training with the team II

Walking into the iconic stadium, a place known to millions and beloved by just as many, was a young man who carried an undeniable energy in his steps. There was something almost infectious about the way he moved, a light bounce in his stride, a barely contained excitement radiating from him. Despite the crisp morning air biting at his skin, David hardly seemed to notice. The cold was inconsequential to him today—his focus was elsewhere. His eyes were locked on the grand structure ahead, the colossal arena that had been the setting for so many legendary moments. And now, it was about to become his stage.

Manchester’s infamous cold was no longer a challenge to him. After weeks in the city, his body had acclimatized to the relentless chill. Compared to Southampton, where he had spent most of his youth, this place was far colder, but after months at Derby, he had already adjusted. The transition had been smooth—both Manchester and Derby shared similar weather patterns, though the sheer frequency of rain in Manchester was something else entirely. According to Zoey, things were only going to get worse. October, November, and December were notorious for bringing near-constant downpours, but David wasn’t fazed. He had already played in the rain countless times before, and besides, apart from training and matches, he had little reason to be outside. It wasn’t as though there were many opportunities for that anyway, not with COVID-19 still raging on and restricting movement.

Stepping into the stadium, he was immediately greeted by one of the security guards stationed at the entrance. The man, who had once mistaken him for an overenthusiastic fan and denied him entry on his first visit, had since warmed up to him. Over time, the two had built an unexpected camaraderie, and today, for the first time, David noticed something different—the guard was smiling.

"What’s got you grinning this early?" David asked, raising a curious brow.

The guard, still grinning, shot the question right back at him. "Same as you—why are you smiling?"

David chuckled. "Because the season is about to start! New season, new players, new everything. I can’t wait!" His excitement was palpable as he added, "And also, I came in really early today. Thought I’d impress the coach, you know? Maybe he sees me training this early and thinks, ’Wow, this guy was the first player to show up—he’s serious about his future.’" He laughed at his own plan, proud that his arrangement with Prakesh, his ever-reliable driver, had allowed him to arrive at the stadium by 5 a.m. This had to make him the first player here. There was no way anyone else had arrived earlier.

Or so he thought.

"Oooh, I hate to break it to you, kid," the guard said with a teasing glint in his eyes, "but you’re not the first one here. Someone came in about twenty minutes ago."

David blinked, surprised. 5:30 in the morning? Who on earth had arrived this early? Training wasn’t scheduled to start until 8 a.m. Who was so eager that they’d shown up even before him?

"Who is it?" David asked, curiosity piqued.

The guard merely chuckled, his smile widening. "The reason I’m smiling."

David didn’t push further. Instead, he walked into the stadium, his mind racing with possibilities. Who could it be? A veteran player? A new signing? Someone as eager as he was? The thought only added to the excitement coursing through his veins.

As he moved through the familiar halls, the stadium seemed busier than he had anticipated for such an early hour, but it wasn’t quite as crowded as he had imagined it would be. Still, there was an undeniable energy in the air. A new season was beginning, and everyone—players, staff, and even the stadium workers—could feel it.

Walking into the locker room, David paused. The place was pristine, untouched. The jerseys had already been neatly placed in front of each locker, waiting for their owners. For a moment, he hesitated. The guard had said someone had arrived before him, but standing there, staring at the orderly room, it didn’t seem like anyone had been here yet.

That thought, however, quickly vanished from his mind. Because right then, something else caught his attention.

His heart pounded. His breath hitched.

For the first time since he had stepped into the stadium, a wave of raw emotion crashed over him. He had been so focused on the excitement of getting here that he hadn’t taken a moment to let it sink in. But now, standing in front of the rows of jerseys, seeing the red, white, and black kits lined up like a soldier’s formation, the weight of reality finally hit him.

He was here.

This was it.

He scanned the jerseys, his eyes moving over them in search of one in particular. Then, as though drawn by an invisible force, his feet carried him forward. His steps were slow, almost reverent, as he moved toward the back right corner of the locker room.

And then he saw it.

The Manchester United 2020/21 jersey hung there, its red fabric standing out brilliantly under the dim lighting of the room. The club crest, stitched with precision, the Adidas logo perfectly positioned, the subtle design details—it was everything he had imagined and more.

But it wasn’t the jersey itself that shook him.

It was the name on it.

Jones.

And just below that—19.

His number. His name.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold air or the sheer gravity of the moment. He reached out, fingers grazing the fabric lightly, as though afraid it might vanish if he touched it too hard. This was real. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some fantasy he had concocted as a child while kicking a ball around in the streets of Southampton. This was reality. He was a Manchester United player.

He had made it.

His chest swelled with emotion. There was pride, overwhelming joy, and an undeniable sense of fulfillment. He had worked so hard for this. Every drop of sweat, every muscle ache, every moment of self-doubt—it had all led to this. And now, here he was, standing in front of his own jersey, his own name printed on the back, ready to begin a new Chapter.

David’s entire heart was pounding, a steady rhythm of anticipation and exhilaration.

And as he took a deep breath, he muttered under his breath, his voice filled with quiet determination:

"Let’s go," David muttered under his breath as he reached out, fingers just inches away from his jersey, ready to touch the fabric, to feel the weight of his dreams materialized right before him. But just as his fingertips were about to graze the shirt, a sharp voice rang out from behind him, cutting through the silence like a blade.

"Don’t touch that!"

The sudden outburst made David jolt, his heart skipping a beat as he spun around, eyes scanning the room for the source of the yell. Standing a few feet away was a young guy, probably around 18 or 19, with sharp features, deep-set dark eyes, and tanned skin. His black hair was styled neatly, and his strong jawline was accentuated by the way he frowned. Everything about him—from the way he stood to the intensity in his gaze—screamed Middle Eastern heritage.

David quickly tried to defend himself, raising his hands slightly in surrender. "I’m part of the team. That’s my jersey," he said, his voice laced with confusion.

What came next, however, took him completely off guard.

"I fucking know who you are—David Jones, right? One of the new signings? But why the fuck are you touching the jerseys?" the guy snapped, his voice dripping with exasperation.

David barely had time to process the absurdity of the reaction before the guy stormed past him, heading straight for the jerseys as if they were sacred relics. His eyes widened in horror as he stopped in front of a particular jersey, his fingers hovering over it like he was inspecting a priceless artifact.

"Ooo, habibi, I hope he didn’t touch you," the guy muttered, his voice soft and reverent as he stared at the shirt with an intensity that made David feel like he had just committed a crime.

David simply stood there, dumbfounded, watching the strange kid talk to a fucking jersey. He had encountered passionate football fans before, but this? This was something else.

Finally, the guy turned back to him, offering an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that, mate. I get a bit... intense when it comes to equipment," he said, letting out a small laugh.

David just gave him a slow, confused nod, still trying to process what the fuck he had just witnessed.

But before he could even open his mouth to respond, the guy continued. "Plus, the PR team hasn’t come in yet to take pictures of all this, so technically, we’re not even supposed to be in here yet."

David’s eyebrows shot up. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, they come in early to make everything look all nice and proper before the players arrive. You know, branding, marketing, pictures all that shit. So, technically, you and I are already breaking the rules by just standing here."

David’s eyes widened slightly. "Wait, then why are you here?"

"Me?" The guy smirked. "I work here, duh."

Before David could question that statement, the guy suddenly tilted his head, his expression turning curious. "Why are you here so early anyway? Let me guess, you’re one of those ’first-to-training’ type of guys? Always trying to impress the coach, right?" He grinned knowingly before shaking his head. "Well, clearly you are, or you wouldn’t be standing here right now."

Then, as if catching himself, he suddenly covered his mouth with both hands. "Shit, I talk too much, don’t I? I tend to do that when I’m nervous. Not that you make me nervous—no, no, it’s just the whole situation, you know? The new season, new faces, the fact that—"

David raised a hand, cutting him off before he spiraled further.

"Dude, slow the fuck down," David said, laughing a little as he rubbed his temple.

The guy dropped his hands and grinned sheepishly. "Right, right. My bad. I’m Mohamed..." He trailed off, saying his last name, which confirmed his Middle Eastern background.

David still wasn’t sure what to make of him, but before he could say anything, Mohamed kept talking.

"I’m an equipment manager for Manchester United," he announced, standing a little taller.

David raised an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious. Equipment manager? This dude?

Mohamed must have noticed the look because he suddenly threw his arms up. "What? You don’t think I can be an equipment manager?" he accused dramatically.

"I didn’t say that," David replied, caught off guard by the outburst.

"That’s rich coming from you," Mohamed huffed. "You’re younger than me, and you’re a fucking player. What nerve do you have to judge me?"

David opened his mouth to clarify, but Mohamed kept going.

"Okay, okay! I can’t take your scrutiny anymore!" He groaned, shaking his head. "What are you, a human lie detector? Fine, you got me. I’m not an equipment manager... yet. I’m a kit boy. But mark my words, I’ll be running this shit soon."

David just stared at him for a moment before breaking into laughter. "You are weird as fuck."

Mohamed grinned. "I know."

Still chuckling, David extended his hand. "David Jones. Nice to meet you, kit boy."

Mohamed took his hand and shook it. "Mohamed," he repeated. "Nice to meet you, too, player boy."

Not even three minutes later, David found himself walking through the stadium with Mohamed, who insisted he needed to take him somewhere to get measured for gear. As they walked, David suddenly heard something—a rhythmic, steady sound coming from one of the rooms they passed. It wasn’t loud, but it was distinct enough to catch his attention.

He frowned, his curiosity piqued. "What was that?"

Mohamed barely glanced up before replying nonchalantly. "Oh, that? That’s the weight room."

David nodded but noticed how Mohamed’s expression suddenly shifted. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and a sly grin spread across his face.

"You wanna see something?"

David hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Yeah."

Mohamed immediately motioned for him to follow, but as they got closer, he began walking more quietly, almost tiptoeing.

David, noticing this, frowned. "Why the fuck are we sneaking around? We both have access."

Mohamed just pressed a finger to his lips. "Shhh."

David rolled his eyes. ’Of course, I get shushed by the fucking talkative one,’ he thought.

Then, just as they reached the window, Mohamed whispered excitedly, "Look."

David peered through the glass window, and the moment his eyes landed on what was inside, his breath hitched.

All the rumors, all the stories, all the endless discussions he had seen online and in interviews—it was all real. Every single word.

There, in the weight room, drenched in sweat, muscles tensed with exertion, was none other than Cristiano Ronaldo.

David froze.

His mind raced.

He had heard the countless reports of Ronaldo’s insane work ethic—how he was always the first one in and the last one out. How he trained with an obsession that separated him from everyone else. He had believed some of it, dismissed some as PR stunts.

But seeing it firsthand? Seeing the legend himself grinding before sunrise, long before the official training session even began?

It hit differently.

And just as David was processing this, a deep, commanding voice thundered from behind them.

"You two. Turn around."

David’s body stiffened instantly.

I want to apologize for not posting yesterday—I was very sick and exhausted. I’m feeling a little better today, so I hope you enjoy this Chapter. It might not be my best, but I didn’t want another day to pass without posting.

Also, a special shoutout to the two GOATs who made my day during these tough times—the next Messi and Ronaldo rivalry: MizuKen and DotGov! MizuKen with a brace and DotGov with a fantastic solo goal—both of you sent me golden tickets, and I truly appreciate it. This was spectacular. Thank you both so much!