The Next Big Thing
Chapter 169: A day before the match

Chapter 169: A day before the match

"Arrrgh," David groaned, a low, pained sound escaping his lips as he shifted slightly in bed. His left foot throbbed with a dull soreness that hadn’t been there yesterday—or at least not this bad. He reached down and rubbed it gently, rotating the ankle with practiced care. As he did, the memory of the moment came back—how, in the heat of the chaos, he’d used that same leg to kick the car door open.

Now, there was a pulsing ache running from the arch up to his shin. Nothing broken. Just sore. He grimaced and slowly lowered the foot to the floor, pressing down with caution. The sting that followed wasn’t unbearable, just a reminder—sharp enough to make him wince, soft enough to convince himself he could manage.

Tomorrow was match day. Just light training today, followed by a tactical session and lineup briefings. But even light training couldn’t hide an injury. And with the starting XI still undecided, David knew he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now. Not when he’d fought so hard to be taken seriously.

He told himself the pain was temporary. Mind over matter. Just another test on the long road to glory. He’d seen players limp for their countries, shed blood for their crests, and rise from the ground like titans fueled not by strength, but by purpose. Football wasn’t just a game—it was war dressed in jerseys, dreams draped in sweat. He wasn’t just a boy fighting for a spot; he was a soldier fighting for his name, his team, his pride. His future

So he decided not to tell anyone.

Maybe after training, he could slip away and get a massage. What were they called again—physios? Yeah. The club physios could help loosen things up if it got worse. Or maybe he’d just rely on the one person who always seemed to know how to fix him.

Mohamed.

His best friend. His teammate. His unofficial masseuse ever since they bunked together at the academy and Mo had discovered that his hands worked magic on tight calves and stiff shoulders. David smiled at the memory of their banter, of Mo grumbling like an old man while expertly kneading sore muscles.

Still grinning faintly, he reached for his phone lying beside his pillow. The screen lit up in the early morning gloom as he scrolled through his contacts. Mohamed’s name popped up—saved under "Mo."

They hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s chaos. After everything went down and David had left the hospital, there hadn’t been time. No texts. No calls. But that was about to change.

He hit the call button.

The dial tone rang once.

Twice.

Then a soft click.

"Hey man—" David began, his voice casual, relieved. But he never got to finish the sentence.

Because what he heard next stopped him cold.

Laughter. High-pitched, overlapping voices. Girls. Not just one. Several. Their voices chirping over one another in rapid-fire Arabic, the kind of messy chatter that could only happen among sisters or cousins fighting over something trivial and treasured.

"Ukht, ukht! My phone—why did you pick it?" came one sharp voice, indignant and annoyed.

"It was Jumana! Don’t shout at me! Take your phone," another shot back, followed by what sounded like the clattering of something being tossed.

David blinked, holding the phone a little away from his ear as the chaos on the other end unfolded. There was shuffling now, a muffled rustle like a phone being fumbled across pillows or bedsheets. Maybe someone dropping it. He could hear the mic brushing against fabric, then more footsteps. Voices overlapping, rising, falling...

He could practically feel the room shaking—no, vibrating—with movement and motion, like—

After a while, David finally heard a voice—calmer, clearer—cutting through the noise like a familiar melody.

"David? David, hey!" Mohamed’s voice came, slightly breathless.

"Hey, man," David replied, his tone hesitant, still slightly thrown off by the chaos he had just overheard.

"Sorry about the confusion and all that noise," Mohamed said, sounding embarrassed. "It’s my sisters."

In the background, David could still hear them bickering, their words overlapping like waves crashing against each other.

"Can you guys please shut up?" Mohamed suddenly shouted, clearly trying to wrestle back some control of his environment. But the noise persisted. David could hear the rustling of movement, objects being dragged or thrown, then more complaints.

"You girls are too troublesome," Mohamed grumbled. "Why did you even come if you were just going to argue the whole time?"

David could hear the exasperation in his friend’s voice and pictured him surrounded by sisters all talking at once, tugging pillows, and throwing sarcastic remarks like confetti. Yet beneath all that noise, David could sense the comfort of home, of family, of love expressed in chaos.

"Sorry, man," Mohamed said again, this time speaking directly into the phone. "They came to visit when they heard about the accident... even though they’ve just been talking and shouting since," he added, the last part clearly meant more for them than for David.

David, still recovering from the initial shock of the call’s noisy start, finally said, "Nothing, nothing. I really just called to check up on you. How’s everything over there?"

"Oh, thanks, man. Everything’s good, really," Mohamed replied. "After today, I should be able to leave. As for Prakesh... I fear he’ll be here a few more days."

Just then, another voice came through—familiar, cheerful, and unmistakably Prakesh’s.

"Ah! Ah! David—is that you?" the Indian man called out enthusiastically.

David smiled instantly, warmth blooming in his chest. "It’s me, Prakesh. How’s your body doing?" he asked, already knowing the kind of answer he’d get.

"I’m fine, I’m fine," Prakesh said quickly. "I told the nurses I was already doing well, but they insisted I stay a few more days."

David chuckled, already picturing the man arguing his case with a nurse who wouldn’t budge. Then Prakesh added, apologetically, "I’m sorry I couldn’t come pick you up today."

"No, it’s fine, it’s fine," David said at once, still smiling. "I even needed the workout."

The stadium was just about twenty minutes away from his place—nothing strenuous under normal circumstances. Before getting acquainted with Prakesh, he used to jog there every day without thinking twice. But ever since Prakesh had started giving him rides, he’d gotten comfortable. Today might have been the perfect excuse to stretch his legs... or it would have been, if not for the lingering pain in his left foot.

David’s gaze drifted down to it, and he winced as the soreness flared again. Today would’ve been perfect, he thought silently. But instead of voicing the pain, he said cheerfully, "Really, Prakesh—it’s fine."

But the older man wasn’t done apologizing.

"It’s not your fault," David said again, this time laughing. "It was just an unfortunate accident."

Trying to change the subject, he asked, "About your car—have you gotten it back?"

"Oh yes, yes. I was able to get my neighbour to help me collect it," Prakesh said. "It’s fine now, just needs some bodywork."

"That’s great then, that’s good," David said with a nod, genuinely relieved.

"Okay, David—that’s it. We’re fine. Thanks for checking up on us," Mohamed’s voice came again.

"No problem, man. You guys just take care. After I’m done with training, I’ll come visit you guys again," David replied sincerely.

"Okay then, man, just—" Mohamed began to say, before suddenly yelling off the phone, "Ukht! Why are you playing with that?! Please act your age!"

More shouts erupted in the background, loud and chaotic as ever.

David just laughed quietly to himself and ended the call, still smiling as he set the phone down.

"That’s good," he thought, leaning back against the headboard. It warmed him to see they were doing well—especially Mohamed, surrounded by family, arguing and laughing and being loud in the way only siblings could.

His thoughts drifted, and before long, they settled on his own family—especially his mother. He missed her. They used to talk every day without fail. But lately... things had changed. Life had gotten busy. Now they barely spoke once every three to five days. He felt a small pang of guilt and longing.

So he called her.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

But no one picked up.

She’s probably busy at the hospital, David thought, frowning a little. No way she’s still asleep at this hour.

Sighing, he lowered the phone and stared at the screen for a moment. His finger hovered over another contact—his father.

He hesitated.

Then let his hand fall.

"Nah," he muttered aloud, shaking his head. He wasn’t ready to go there.

He stood up, putting weight on his left leg—and winced. The pain still flared, but he gritted his teeth and took another step. After a few seconds, he adjusted to it.

After his call with Mohamed, David went through the motions of his morning—his body moving out of habit even as his mind wandered. He showered, letting the warm water ease some of the stiffness in his sore leg. Then he ate a quick breakfast: a bowl of cereal, slices of apple and banana. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough to get him going.

He pulled on his tracksuit, laced up his running shoes, and slipped his headphones on. The world outside dulled to a soft hum, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of his playlist. As he stepped outside into the fresh morning air, he hit call on Zoey’s name.

telling her all that had happened. He calmed her down after her screams and shouting, even having to switch to a one-way video call just to prove he was okay.

"Okay Zoey, I’m in front of the stadium now. Let me call you back later," David said, breathing a little faster than usual, thanks to the jog.

"Okay, just make sure you take care of yourself. If you feel anyhow, stop whatever it is and get looked at. Remember, you have a massive future ahead of you—don’t ruin it by being in a rush," Zoey replied, her voice still tinged with concern.

"Yeah, I know, I know," David said, hurrying her now. "Bye, Zoey, and good luck with your tournament later."

"Argghh, don’t remind me," she groaned. "It’s like the lockdown started and now there’s a tournament every single week."

He chuckled softly as she continued, "Okay then, David. Just take care of yourself."

"Byeee," he said, ending the call.

Then, standing in front of the stadium, David looked up at it. His heart was beating fast. He couldn’t lie to himself—after what had happened yesterday, he was afraid. The pain might have dulled, but the memory of the accident hadn’t. It lingered in the back of his mind like a shadow that refused to go away.

And now, with Jadon Sancho added to the squad, another player was going to get demoted to the reserves.

What if it’s me?

The thought clawed at him. He had a very, very big heart, yes—but even big hearts could be shaken. For a second, he stood still, uncertainty sinking its teeth into him. He wasn’t just fighting for a place anymore—he was fighting for survival in a team full of stars. And he was still just the boy who got hit by a car yesterday.

But then he took a deep breath.

Be brave, David. Be brave.

He reminded himself of how far he’d come—of the boy who left home at fifteen chasing a dream, who trained in the rain while others slept, who rose at dawn every day with a purpose in his chest.

Fear was real. But so was courage.

And courage, he knew, wasn’t about not being afraid. It was about stepping forward even when you were.

So with a final glance at the towering stadium in front of him, David whispered under his breath, "Let’s go," and began walking toward the door. Not because the fear had vanished—but because he chose not to let it stop him.

Every step was heavy, but every step was his.

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