The Next Big Thing
Chapter 174: Manchester United Vs Crystal Palace

Chapter 174: Manchester United Vs Crystal Palace

"Hurry, hurry, the game will soon start!"

Beneath the roaring crowd and bright lights of Old Trafford, tucked away in a narrow, dimly lit corridor just behind the players’ tunnel, was a small utility room—rarely used, half-forgotten, its door creaking on its hinges. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting flickering shadows across the walls lined with cleaning supplies, spare training bibs, and unused gear. This was the spot. The secret meeting place. And in the center of it all knelt Mohamed, his hands pressed against David’s left calf, his brows furrowed with concern.

"David, this is reckless," Mohamed said, his voice rushed, tight. "Wouldn’t it be better to just tell the coach your leg is hurting? Say you can’t play?"

Mohamed had been at home just minutes before, finally enjoying some peace after chasing his sisters out of his room. He’d set up his snacks, leaned back with his laptop, ready to watch his best friend play for Crystal Palace against Manchester United. He was already yelling at the TV, cursing the commentators for underestimating David—when his phone buzzed. Urgently. It was David.

The voice on the other end had been strained, breathless. Desperate. "Mo, I need you to come. Now. Stadium. Please."

Mohamed hadn’t hesitated. Not even to grab his shoes properly. He ignored his sisters yelling at him to stay, pushed out the door, and practically ran the whole way. Because he knew David. Proud, independent David. If he was calling like this—asking for help—then it had to be serious.

And it was. Now, kneeling in front of him, Mohamed stared down at the leg.

David’s left shin was swollen, the area around the ankle red and inflamed. Veins popped slightly under the surface, and the skin was tight with pressure. Even just touching it made David flinch. The sort of pain you couldn’t just walk off—not on matchday. Not at this level.

David sat on a folded-up kit bag, trying to stretch and rotate the leg.

"Come on, dude," he said, attempting a chuckle. "It’s just a little soreness. Nothing I can’t handle."

He laughed—awkwardly. The kind of laugh meant to downplay what everyone could see was serious.

Then—"Ouch."

A sharp wince split his face as he shifted his weight.

"Yeah, nothing," Mohamed muttered, sarcasm lacing his tone as he looked up at him. "Right. Nothing at all."

He stood, brushing his hands off on his tracksuit.

"That’s it. I’m telling the coach. You can’t play on that leg."

He turned toward the door, already walking. But behind him, he heard the panic rise in David’s voice.

"Wait, wait! Moe, come on!"

Mohamed paused, turning slowly. David had stood, albeit on one foot, his hand reaching out to stop him.

"What?" Mohamed asked, crossing his arms.

"You want to tell the coach? Seriously?" David said, eyes wide, voice pleading.

Mohamed didn’t answer at first. He just stared at him. Then finally, he sighed.

"David, I know you want to play. I get it. But don’t kill yourself over it. You’re talented—hella talented. You’re just sixteen. You’ve got years ahead of you, man. There are going to be other games, other chances. Don’t push yourself till you break."

David didn’t respond immediately. He just looked down at his leg. Then back up. His expression wasn’t one of pride anymore. It was something else—deeper.

"That’s the thing," he said quietly. "I don’t have other chances. This might be my last."

Mohamed blinked, caught off guard.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice low.

David leaned back, letting his shoulders touch the damp wall behind him. He exhaled.

"If I don’t play today... I might never get another shot. Ever."

Mohamed furrowed his brows.

"Relax, man. It’s not that deep. You’ve got loads of time. Just—" He stopped mid-sentence.

The realization hit him like a punch.

"The accident," he whispered.

David said nothing, just nodded slowly.

"You told us everything was fine," Mohamed said, his tone now hard with frustration. "You said the meeting went okay."

David shrugged, his face somber.

"It didn’t. Not really."

Mohamed began to pace the room, running his hands through his short curls.

"Shit. Shit, man."

He turned back to David.

"What did they say?"

David exhaled. "I don’t know the details, okay? Just yesterday, the coach called me in. Sat me down and said it straight—this is it. My one and only chance to prove myself. I either show up today, or I get moved down. Or worse—cut."

Mohamed fell silent. His chest was heavy.

"I’m sorry, man," he said quietly.

David smiled faintly, that same goofy grin he always used to lighten the mood.

"It’s nothing. At least I’ve got this one shot, right? One chance to go out there and score a few. Make them see I belong here. Make it impossible to drop me."

He straightened up, trying to stretch his back and put weight on the leg. It wobbled slightly, but he didn’t show it.

Mohamed wasn’t convinced.

"Yeah, but... what about your leg?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the swollen ankle again.

David waved it off.

"It’s fine now. Honest. Your massage worked miracles. Feels great."

Mohamed raised a brow.

"Miracles?"

David grinned. "Okay, okay, maybe not miracles. But manageable. I can run on it. I’ll be fine."

Mohamed remained hesitant, his mouth twisted in a mix of concern and disbelief.

"I need to go," David said, checking his phone. "Kickoff’s in twenty. I’ve gotta warm up. You should head back too."

"No," Mohamed said instantly. "I’m staying."

David gave him a knowing look.

"Didn’t you say your boss would kill you if he caught you here despite you telling him you got sick?"

Mohamed groaned. He was, after all, a kit boy not wanting to be known that he was part of the accident he had lied that he was feeling under the weather. His job was already hanging by a thread.

"I’ll take the risk," he said.

David laughed and shoved him gently toward the door.

"I’m good, man. Seriously. Go. I’ll see you after the match."

Mohamed hesitated one last time. Then, finally, he turned.

From behind, David called, "Hey!"

Mohamed looked back.

David was standing now, his face a mix of nerves and fire. He raised a hand and gave a little wave, like they were kids again.

Mohamed smiled. Soft. Genuine.

And then he left.

The door creaked shut behind him.

David sat alone in the changing room, the air around him still and heavy. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow on the concrete walls. His shirt clung to his chest—half sweat, half nerves. Somewhere down the corridor, the distant hum of staff voices echoed, low and muffled like a dream. The kind of dream you wake from breathless.

He looked down at his leg again. Mohamed’s massage had dulled the pain, but it was still there—a slow, burning throb like something alive under the skin. He tightened the strap of his shin guard anyway, gritting his teeth as the edge of the guard pressed into the tender muscle.

"Just 90 minutes," he muttered to himself, trying to summon courage. "Just hold up for 90 minutes."

He stood and faced the mirror. The boy staring back looked like him but didn’t feel like him. His jaw was tight, lips dry, eyes unreadable. Beneath the layers of ambition and adrenaline, he was scared—terrified, even. Not of the opponents. Not of the game. But of what might be waiting on the other side of that tunnel.

Failure.

If this didn’t go well, he’d be done. Not benched. Not rotated. Done. As in, thank you for your services, goodbye and good luck in the lower leagues.

His hands trembled slightly as he picked up his jersey. The number on the back felt heavier than usual. He pulled it on like armor, then grabbed his boots and knelt to lace them, one eye on the clock.

Kick-off in twelve minutes.

He whispered a quiet prayer, but it wasn’t neat or polished. It was messy and desperate, more feeling than words. More pleading than praising.

When the knock came at the door—three sharp taps followed by, "David, you’re up"—he flinched.

"Coming," he replied, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

He stood and walked toward the hallway. The tunnel loomed ahead—long, dimly lit, quiet. No fans. No roaring crowd. Just the cold, echoing silence that had become normal during the COVID-19 era. The only sounds were the creak of his boots on the tiled floor and the dull thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

This was Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams. And yet tonight, it felt like a cathedral after a funeral—reverent, hollow, sacred in a sad kind of way.

David paused before stepping onto the pitch. He looked around. No chants. No boos. No electricity in the air. Just silence. The kind that makes you aware of how loud your thoughts are.

What if I mess up?

What if I make the wrong run?

What if the pain flares up mid-sprint and I go down in front of the cameras?

What if this is it—my last real shot—and I blow it?

He swallowed hard. For a moment, he felt like a kid again, that 7-year-old boy juggling oranges in his backyard, dreaming of days like this. But back then, the stakes weren’t so high. Back then, there were no coaches, no contracts, no careers hanging in the balance. Just dreams. Pure and simple.

But this wasn’t a dream anymore. This was survival.

He finally stepped onto the pitch.

No crowd meant no noise. No noise meant no hiding. Every touch would echo. Every mistake would feel louder. As the rest of his teammates jogged past him to warm up, he walked slowly across the turf, drinking it in—the lines, the feel of the grass, the way the stadium lights made the pitch glow like a stage. It was beautiful. And terrifying.

He closed his eyes for a second. Took a long, deep breath.

"I belong here," he told himself softly. "No matter what happens... I belong here."

Then he opened his eyes and jogged to join the others.