The Next Big Thing
Chapter 162: Police station

Chapter 162: Police station

"I know my rights!" shouted a voice, cutting through the otherwise still air. The shout was the kind you’d expect to hear from someone who had watched one too many crime movies. The kid’s voice was high-pitched and sharp, but there was a raw, almost desperate energy to it, like a cornered animal. "You can’t do this! You’re breaking the law!" The words rang out, filled with an intensity that could make any hardened criminal take a second look.

The two police officers sitting behind the desk, sipping their lukewarm coffee, looked at each other as if they were hearing something from another dimension. The station was eerily quiet except for the incessant shouting, like some dramatic courtroom scene playing out in real life. One officer, Brain, who had just finished his lunch and was probably still digesting his sandwich, twitched. His eyes narrowed. "I’m going to call my lawyer!" the voice continued, the boy’s bravado only growing with every word. "I’m going to sue you all for this!"

Brain, the older of the two officers, could no longer hold it in. He slammed his coffee mug down onto the desk with a little too much force. His eyebrows shot up, his eyes twitching as if they had a mind of their own. He stood up abruptly, spinning to face the rowdy teenager.

"Can you shut the hell up?!" Brain yelled, his voice a mix of irritation and sheer disbelief. His hands, still shaking from the outburst, clenched into fists.

The other officer, who went by the name Phil, simply rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, clearly unfazed by the ruckus. He rubbed his temples slowly, as if preparing for a long day ahead. "Brain, just leave the kid alone. He’s not worth it." His voice was calm, almost too calm, like someone who had dealt with way too many teenagers thinking they were invincible.

Brain, however, was not in the mood for peace. He grumbled under his breath, turning back to the computer screen where a Who Wants To Be a Millionaire episode was playing. His eyes narrowed, and a muffled curse slipped out. "Lord, the kid won’t just shut up. Freakin’ annoying brat," he muttered, slumping back into his chair. His gaze flickered to the screen as Jeremy Clarkson’s voice boomed through the speakers. "That’s the third time he’s said that! Who does he think he is?!"

Phil didn’t respond, his eyes glued to the TV. He muttered something about Clarkson being the only real host on TV, clearly not bothered by the noise coming from the holding cells.

At the back of the room, David sat, feeling the weight of the situation press down on him. His face was a mix of frustration and something deeper—hurt. He had been sitting there for what felt like forever, the sting of his situation still fresh. He watched the back of Brain’s head, seething quietly as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap.

"Brain, right? Don’t worry," David muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the police officers’ banter. "I won’t forget you."

The sound of the shouting boy continued in the background, but David’s focus was now entirely on the officers in front of him. The constant back and forth between them was like a sick joke. Is this what happens when you get arrested? he thought. Just waiting to be acknowledged, even if only for a moment, but no. The officers—totally tuned out, absorbed in their own world—didn’t give a single damn. David felt his chest tighten as the weight of being ignored settled over him.

David wasn’t the only one caught in the web of this unfortunate arrest. The other person arrested alongside him, Jadon Sancho, wasn’t handling the situation much better. When they arrived at the station, the police had asked them to make a call to their contacts. Sancho, ever the smooth talker, leaned into the desk, flashing that charming smile he was famous for.

"I’m Jadon Sancho. You know Manchester United, right?" Sancho said, his voice dripping with sweetness, like he was negotiating a sponsorship deal rather than sitting in a police station. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with an almost practiced calmness. "I think there’s been a mistake here, you know? I’m a professional athlete. A very important one, in fact," he continued, turning on the charm like it was a light switch.

The officers behind the counter exchanged an amused glance, clearly unphased by the stardom surrounding Sancho. "Yeah, sure. Manchester United, right," one of them said, barely looking up. "Doesn’t matter. You’re still getting booked."

The other officer, a younger guy named Dave, began scrolling through Sancho’s file on the computer. "Car accident, obstruction of a hospital, breaking COVID-19 regulations... You better call your parents, kid. You’re gonna be here a while."

Sancho’s face twitched. "Who are you calling a kid?" he retorted, his voice raising an octave. "I’m Jadon Sancho, for crying out loud!" He slammed his hand on the desk, frustration seeping through his normally calm exterior. "I’m not some boy you can just treat like this! I’ll—"

The officers exchanged another glance, one that said it all. "Yeah, he’s not ready for this," said one, shaking his head. "Let’s get him inside. Maybe after a few hours, he’ll calm down and be ready to make that phone call." The older officer nodded, and before Sancho could protest any further, they began dragging him away, his protests fading into the background.

David, from where he sat, couldn’t help but feel a sense of disbelief. He knew it was going to be a rough night, but this? This was a whole new level of absurdity. As Sancho was dragged inside the holding cell, David shouted, "Hey! You can’t do that! He’s a football player!" His voice echoed in the station, but the cops just laughed.

"Who even cares about football?" one of the officers sneered, giving a mock football kick. "Not everyone’s a fan, kid."

David’s shout fell on deaf ears as Sancho was finally taken out of view. He felt a knot form in his stomach, the same one that had been slowly tightening as the minutes passed. He hadn’t even realized it was possible to feel this powerless—his own heart beating louder than any of the police officers’ words.

Trying to ignore the fear creeping up on him, David took a deep breath and tried his agent’s number. Jonathan. The man who had helped him sign his Manchester deal. He hadn’t spoken to Jonathan in what felt like forever—ever since the deal had gone through. The phone rang once... twice... seven times, each one making David’s heart sink deeper into his chest. No answer.

Annoyance started bubbling up in David’s throat, his patience thinning. The officer standing nearby noticed his frustration and scoffed. "He’s not picking up? Maybe you should try again... and if you don’t, we’ll take you inside, too."

David hesitated, his mind racing. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the same holding cell as Sancho, but he had to admit he didn’t know what else to do. His parents? They weren’t much of an option either. He barely kept in touch with anyone from home. The thought of calling them was just... sickening.

Just as David was about to try the phone once more, the officer, who had been eyeing him for a while, walked over. "How old are you, kid?" he asked, his voice gruff but oddly nonchalant.

"Sixteen," David replied quietly, his heart sinking further into his chest.

The officer paused, almost surprised by the answer. Then, as if deciding something in his head, he hissed and walked off, muttering under his breath, "Stay here. Get his parents’ number. Don’t let him leave." With that, he left the room.

David let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was almost as if the officer’s words had been a signal for his mind to shut off everything except the growing sense of isolation.

So, here David was—sitting quietly in the corner, watching the TV screen as Clarkson talked about some ridiculous car adventure. The police officers ignored him, engrossed in their show. As much as he wanted to scream and lash out, he couldn’t. He was stuck in this waiting game, just like Sancho. And somewhere deep inside, he hated how much he felt like a kid who had no control.

But one thing was for sure: Brain and his partner, Phil? They wouldn’t forget him either.

A few minutes later...

"I’m telling you, the answer is Beckham," David said, his voice echoing from the back of the station like a kid who had just discovered Google for the first time.

Up front, the two officers didn’t even turn to look at him.

"We might not like football," Bill muttered, eyes fixed on the TV screen. "But we for sure know Beckham. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that man having a haircut, let alone one named after him."

Phil, squinting at the screen like the answer was hidden in the pixels, said, "Nah. It should be Zidane, right? I mean—he’s bald, so he wouldn’t be the obvious answer... which makes him the obvious answer... which actually makes him the right answer." He blinked, clearly proud of himself.

David paused. Then slowly leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "What?"

Phil looked smug.

"No seriously—what are you talking about? That doesn’t even make any sense!" David said, staring at him like he had just confessed to believing in flat Earth.

"Listen," David continued, "the answer is Beckham. The man had a haircut named after him. People literally walked into salons asking for ’The Beckham.’ That’s cultural impact, baby!"

Bill raised an eyebrow. Phil looked personally offended.

"How do you guys not even like football? Are you sure you’re even British?" David asked, throwing his hands up.

Phil gasped—like a Victorian lady whose teacup had been insulted. "Wow. How far we’ve come. A light-skin yout questioning my nationality. UK—God bless!" he said sarcastically, clutching his invisible pearls.

"You racist man," David shot back instantly, deadpan.

"Can you two shut up!?" Bill finally snapped. "They’re about to reveal the answer!"

Everyone turned to the TV in synchronized silence.

The host’s booming voice echoed:"Which of these footballers is known for having a haircut named after him?"A) Zinedine ZidaneB) David BeckhamC) KakaD) Ruud Gullit

Bill and Phil leaned forward like it was the World Cup Final. David crossed his arms, smirking like a man who knew the ending of the movie before the opening credits finished.

The host continued, voice full of drama. "If you get this right, you’re walking away with £32,000—a step closer to that million... and the answer... to the question..."

There was a pause.

David, growing impatient, muttered, "Just say the answer already, old man."

"Hey—quiet," Bill shushed him, holding up a hand like he was Moses receiving divine football trivia.

The host finally declared, "And you were correct! The answer is—B, David Beckham! Congratulations, you’ve just reached £32,000! We’ll be right back after the break!"

David shot up like a spring. "I told you! I told you it was Beckham!" he shouted, all swagger now, grinning like he just won the Champions League.

He laughed, pointing at them both. "Y’all trying to act smart? Zidane doesn’t even have hair, dude!" His laughter echoed like an alarm they couldn’t turn off.

Phil clenched his jaw so tight it looked like his teeth were planning a jailbreak. "Who even said you could come up here!? Go sit your arse back at the back!"

"Don’t be a sore loser, mate," David replied with a shrug, still laughing, clearly enjoying himself too much. "Man’s mad ’cause he got cooked on national television he wasn’t even on."

"Youuu—!" Phil started, practically vibrating with frustration.

But just before he could finish, a loud ringing cut through the noise.

Riiing. Riiing.

Bill raised a hand. "Shh! Quiet, quiet," he barked, snatching up the phone and putting it on speaker.

The voice on the other end was rushed, urgent, and more than a little panicked.

"Bill? Phil?" It was their captain, sounding like he had just found a snake in his bathtub. "They’re on their way back—you know who! Those boys—you know who they are. Make sure they’re cleaned up, sorted out. I want those kids out front, neat and untouched. Nothing—and I mean NOTHING—should go wrong. They’re VIPs. Treat them like you’re guarding the Queen. Actually, better."

The phone clicked off.

There was a long pause.

David leaned back in his chair, arms folded, face smug.

He grinned, muttering under his breath, "Cavalry has arrived. Finally."