The Next Big Thing
Chapter 175: Watching

Chapter 175: Watching

"Damn, he really made it, didn’t he?"

Chloe heard the voice beside her and turned slightly to see her twin brother, Jason. He was sitting on the low coach, his eyes locked on the TV screen with an intensity that made him look almost statuesque. The usual mischievous spark was absent; instead, his brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips pressed into a thin, solemn line. He hadn’t moved his gaze for a solid minute, completely absorbed.

Chloe glanced at him for a moment, studying her twin’s unusual seriousness. Jason’s hair was tousled from an earlier jog around the room, strands sticking to his forehead, and his athletic frame leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as if bracing for something. His whole posture spoke of someone bracing for impact — thoughtful, heavy-hearted.

She looked back to the screen, anticipation bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

Even before she glanced up, she knew exactly what Jason meant. The unmistakable walkout had begun.

One by one, the players emerged from the tunnel, the bright floodlights illuminating the immaculate green of the pitch beneath the grey, overcast sky. It was eerily silent — no roars, no cheers, just the faint echo of their cleats on the turf and the soft murmur of their breath in the cold air.

Then Chloe’s eyes caught him. Number 19.

David.

He looked younger than the rest of the squad — leaner, less filled out, the kind of rawness only a rising star carried. His face was fresh, a little more boy than man, but his eyes held something far older. Something weighty.

Chloe’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t been watching him for long — just a little over a year now — ever since that day she tuned in to watch her brother play and noticed him instead. Since then, she’d followed every match, every training clip, every triumph and stumble. And now, seeing him walk out there — the boy who had left the neighborhood club to chase a dream — felt almost surreal.

Jason broke the silence again, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the fragile atmosphere. "Seeing him now... starting for Manchester United... maybe I overreacted a bit when he left."

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Chloe’s gaze. "Lord knows if United came for me, I’d probably leave too."

Jason’s voice grew quieter as he reflected, almost to himself, "Looking back, I was... immature. Jealous. I didn’t want to admit it then. Maybe I should call him. Or text. I don’t know."

Chloe couldn’t resist. She smirked and teased, her tone sharp but playful, "Now you know you were stupid. Big-time."

Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. His attention, like hers, was pulled back to the screen.

But Chloe barely heard him after that. Her eyes never left David.

David was standing there, on the pitch, preparing for the start of the game. But something was off.

This wasn’t the David she knew — the one who always greeted the camera with a confident smile, the quick smirk after a brilliant pass, the playful shrug when asked about his goals. No, this David was different.

His face was serious — almost unreadable. His jaw clenched tightly. The sparkle in his eyes seemed dimmed, replaced by a shadow of worry that Chloe recognized all too well.

She studied his body language carefully. His shoulders were stiff, pulled back in a way that spoke not of confidence but of someone carrying a heavy burden. His arms hung rigidly by his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if trying to control some internal chaos.

She remembered those same signs from her old teammates — the subtle tension that preceded a difficult game, the nervous energy that couldn’t be put into words but showed in every twitch and breath.

Her eyes widened as the realization settled in, sharp and undeniable.

David was... wound tight.

The noise around her — Jason’s voice, the commentators’ chatter, the faint clatter of the remote in her hand — all faded to a distant hum, irrelevant to the moment.

Then the camera zoomed in, focusing closely on David’s face.

She saw it clearly now: the tension in his brow, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the slight scrunch of his nose like he was holding back more than just nerves. He shifted his weight slightly to one side, as if trying to find balance in a world that was suddenly off-kilter.

Chloe’s breath caught.

Her heart clenched.

A silent question formed on her lips, barely audible:

What’s wrong?

The camera began to pull back slowly, widening the frame.

David stood alone in the middle of the pitch, dwarfed by the empty stands — rows and rows of vacant seats that stretched up like silent witnesses. The floodlights cast long, lonely shadows across the turf.

The scene was hauntingly beautiful.

A young man on the brink of greatness, swallowed by the vastness of a stadium devoid of its usual roar, carrying more than just the weight of a jersey on his back.

Chloe’s eyes never left him as she whispered again, softer this time, more like a prayer, "What’s wrong..."

The camera’s slow retreat mirrored the hollow space between David and the world around him — a visual echo of the isolation he must be feeling.

Jason finally cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

"Yeah... he made it." His voice was quieter now, almost reverent.

Chloe nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

The moment was bigger than just a game.

It was about dreams. Sacrifice. Fear. And the invisible battles fought behind every confident stride.

And for David, tonight was more than a debut.

It was a test of his soul.

It wasn’t just Chloe watching him.

It wasn’t just her heart that beat a little faster with every frame David appeared in.

It was the hearts of those who had shaped him. Those who had held the weight of his dreams in their hands at one point or another. Those who had seen the fire in him before the world even knew his name.

A soft hum buzzed from the old television screen in Wayne Rooney’s office, tucked inside the modest walls of Pride Park Stadium.

The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting a sterile glow over the room littered with whiteboards, tactics sheets, and empty takeaway coffee cups — signs of a man who hadn’t left in hours. The late summer night was cool, but Rooney hadn’t bothered with a jacket. He sat in a simple chair behind his desk, a hand resting thoughtfully against his stubbled cheek, eyes fixed not on strategies or future matchups.

But on the screen.

Manchester United. Old Trafford. And there — walking across that iconic pitch in the number 19 shirt — was David.

Rooney leaned forward slightly, his elbows now on the desk. The lines around his eyes were deeper now — not just from age, but from burden. Derby County had opened the season with a bitter loss and followed it up with a draw that felt more like a defeat. Questions swirled. Pressure mounted. And Wayne, once the fearless striker with an entire nation on his back, was now the man on the sidelines, grasping at hope with calloused hands.

And yet, for a moment — just a moment — all of that disappeared.

Because there, beneath the lights of the Theatre of Dreams, was one of his favorite players. One of the few who had reminded him why football wasn’t just a job, or a war, or a paycheck.

It was heart.

He remembered David’s first week in training at Derby. Young. Quiet. Eyes always alert. A left foot that curved the ball like it was guided by strings. A heart full of steel.

Rooney remembered the day he’d given David his first start. The way the lad had looked at him, not with fear, but with reverence — and a spark that made Rooney believe the kid was born for more.

And then the day David told him he was leaving.

That Manchester United had called.

Rooney hadn’t let it go without a fight.

He’d pushed back — not because he didn’t understand, but because parting with David wasn’t easy. Losing him had cut deep. But in the end, he relented. Some calls in life, you just don’t silence.

Now, watching David stand among giants, Rooney felt the old ache return, not of loss, but of pride.

The camera panned to David’s face — the young man stood still on the pitch, absorbing it all, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes distant.

Rooney could see it.

The nerves. The weight. The pressure of making it in a world that devoured the unsure.

But even with all that, he still looked ready.

Wayne smiled faintly, his fingers curling into a fist on the desk. He wasn’t just proud — he was rooting with everything inside him. It wasn’t about tactics or stats or media interviews now. This was personal.

He leaned back in the creaky chair, eyes still glued to the boy on the screen.

"Go, David," he murmured, barely audible, a fatherly softness in his voice.

His hand moved to his chest for a second, pressing against his heart.

"This is your time."

Just a few streets away from the stadium, parked inconspicuously near the back of an empty lot, sat a black car. The windows were slightly fogged up, the windshield smeared from where a tired hand had wiped it earlier.

Inside, in the driver’s seat, sat Mohamed.

The air was still. The only light in the car came from his phone, propped up on the dashboard, the soft glow illuminating his face — a face riddled with unease.

The match had just kicked off. But Mohamed wasn’t watching with excitement or pride.

He was watching with dread.

He had told David he would leave.

David had insisted he didn’t need anyone. That he was fine. That this was his moment, and he had to face it alone.

So Mohamed left — but he didn’t go far. He stayed in the parking lot, watching the match from a distance, too worried to leave completely.

He thought back to the day David had come to meet them in the hospital after the accident. His leg should have already been hurting then, but David still walked over to them, determined not to show any weakness.

And so, he stayed. Not in the stadium. Not in the stands. But just outside. Close enough that, if anything went wrong, he could be there in minutes.

He stared at the screen. David was moving. Carefully. Nothing alarming. Yet.

But Mohamed watched his gait like a hawk, searching for the tiniest wince, the smallest limp, anything that hinted at strain.

His fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel.

He remembered David’s words from earlier today.

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

He rubbed his face with both hands, then leaned forward, elbows on the wheel, forehead resting against his knuckles. He was usually calm, centered — the guy who always had the right words.

Not tonight.

He looked back at the screen. David was there, standing tall, composed, unreadable.

Mohamed’s heart ached.

And now he was here.

But David was in there.

Alone.

Mohamed’s eyes glistened, though he blinked it away, jaw clenched in frustration and helpless love.

"Take care of yourself, you fool," he muttered, voice thick, barely holding steady.

And then, in the quiet hum of the idling engine, he went back to watching, his heart waging a silent war with hope and fear.

Two scenes. Two hearts.

Different distances, different roles.

But the same prayer:

Let him make it. Let him be okay.

Let this be the beginning of something beautiful.

The automatic doors of the hospital slid open with a soft whoosh as Isaac stepped inside. The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Despite the bustling activity, a peculiar quietness filled the lobby — the heavy stillness of a place always on edge, its walls holding the weight of worry and hope.

Isaac’s eyes scanned the reception desk, where a tired nurse was busy typing into her computer. Her face was masked, and her eyes barely glanced up.

"Tabitha Jones?" Isaac asked gently, trying not to disturb the rhythm of the busy ward.

The nurse’s fingers hesitated on the keyboard.

"Visitors aren’t allowed at the moment," she replied without looking up, her voice low and tired, tinged with the exhaustion that had settled into every corner of the hospital since COVID began. "Strict protocols... please keep your distance..."

Isaac nodded, understanding. He waited patiently.

Then, her eyes caught sight of him—really caught sight—and her demeanor softened, even behind the mask.

"Oo, Isaac, it’s you," she said with a faint smile in her voice, a rare break in the tension. "Let me see what I can do. Your wife is busy now,..."

Isaac felt the nurse’s eyes on him as she spoke again, "She’ll be available for you soon. Just wait here."

He turned slowly and walked toward the waiting room, the sound of his footsteps echoing lightly against the cold tiles. He rubbed his hands together — a nervous habit, a way to chase away the invisible chill settling in his bones.

Settling into a hard plastic chair, Isaac glanced around. Other families waited, some masked, some quiet. The flicker of a TV caught his eye.

Curious, he looked up.

The screen was tuned to a live football match.

The camera zoomed in on a familiar figure — David.

Isaac’s breath hitched. His eyes softened, heart swelling in that quiet way only a parent’s can.

"Son," he whispered, voice barely audible, filled with a mixture of pride, hope, and an unspoken prayer.