The Next Big Thing
Chapter 89: Millwall’s Destruction

Chapter 89: Millwall’s Destruction

David Jones stood on the right side of the pitch, ready as the referee blew the whistle. His body shifted slightly, his eyes locked on the ball as the Millwall players passed it around. He tracked every movement, watching closely as the ball was passed backward.

Jogging forward a little, David noticed something—the defender with the ball seemed unsure, looking around as if he didn’t know who to pass to. It was a mistake he had seen players make during training. David’s eyes stayed on him, and then he made his move, bursting forward with his speed.

Jake Cooper, Millwall’s center-back, had just received the ball. Whether it was because he hadn’t played in months or because the quietness of the stadium felt strange, something was off. Normally, the crowd’s noise would drown out everything, but now he could clearly hear Shaun Hutchinson, his captain, shouting.

"Pass! Pass! Pass fast!" Shaun screamed, frantically waving his hands. Jake, confused, turned to look behind him as Shaun gestured. He didn’t see anything at first. Then it hit him—literally. Jake lost his balance and fell to the ground. As he turned his head, all he saw was the bold golden number 30 with the name Jones above it.

David, who had slid in to take advantage of Jake’s hesitation, didn’t slow down. The ball was now at his feet, and he kept running forward. He glanced to his left and saw a defender charging toward him. Ahead, the goalkeeper was rushing out to close the gap. Both were coming at him fast.

David grinned. With the ball on his right foot, he rolled it forward slowly, drawing them in. At the last moment, he pushed the ball backward between the defender’s legs and spun around with a sharp 360-degree turn, leaving them colliding into each other.

The thud was loud as the two players crashed together, falling to the ground in a heap. The defender groaned in frustration, slapping the grass as he scrambled to get up, while the goalkeeper angrily shouted, "What the hell are you doing?!" But it was too late.

Now free, David sprinted toward the open goal. As he approached the front of the post, he slowed, extending his leg with precise determination. All the frustration of the past few months surged within him—the fight with his dad, the breaking of his friendship with Jason, and the alienation from his teammates.

With all that emotion bubbling up, he stretched his leg further and unleashed a powerful strike. The ball soared into the net, spinning wildly before finally settling into the back of the goal.

Derby leads 0-1 (David jones scores)

"Goal! Goal! Goal! The Manchester-bound 16-year-old has just scored 80 seconds into the game, and what skill that was!" shouted Baron from the commentator’s box. "He pushed the ball between Shaun’s legs, turned sharply, and let him collide with Bartosz. What was that? What can we even call that move?"

The goal had come as such a shock that Baron had forgotten to speak the entire time it happened.

"Ooh, how I feel sorry for anyone relying on a radio to follow this match because that was something else—and that finish!" he added, laughing. Unaware that his words would later get him sanctioned, he continued, still laughing, "That finish was personal. It was clear he meant that!"

Baron chuckled again. "But hearing about this kid, that seems to be how he plays. This is the second time he’s scored that type of goal."

"Ladies and gentlemen, David Jones, everyone! A round of applause!" he said with a smile, his voice full of admiration for the young talent.

David walked back to his position, his face calm but his heart racing. He glanced over at the keeper, who angrily kicked the ball away from the net in frustration as another ball was rolled in to restart the game.

As he walked, he heard someone shouting his name. Turning, he saw Wayne, his mentor, grinning and calling out, "David! That was amazing!"

Wayne rushed toward him, draping an arm over his shoulder. "Keep up the good work, kid," he said, his smile wide.

David smiled back, but his grin faltered slightly as he glanced at his teammates. Their expressions were cold, impassive. Some didn’t even bother to hide their displeasure at seeing him score. Their looks weren’t much different from the defeated Millwall players.

Wayne noticed the tension and gave David a reassuring pat on the back. "Don’t worry about it, kid. Just play your game. That’s all that matters."

With those words, David nodded, his focus returning to the pitch as the game resumed. for this game this was just the start

As the game unfolded, David’s every movement was calculated, his focus razor-sharp. He dribbled the ball with a natural fluidity that made it look easy, weaving past defenders and keeping the ball close to his feet, even as the Millwall players started getting rough.

David stood in the middle of the pitch, hands resting on his knees as he took a quick breath. The scoreboard showed the 24th minute. So far, the match had been a one-man show—his show. He smirked to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The Millwall players had gotten rough, shoving and hacking at him with every chance they got. But David didn’t care. If anything, their frustration only fueled him. He played the same way he always did—with precision, flair, and an unshakable determination to make them look like amateurs.

He had already been fouled six times, and two Millwall players were on yellow cards because of him. He wasn’t done. Each time they tried to stop him, his resolve grew stronger. He wanted to see them beneath him—literally, as he dribbled past them with ease, leaving them scrambling to keep up.

As the ball rolled toward him, David moved into position, his eyes scanning the field. A midfielder charged at him, but David waited until the last second before rolling the ball to his right with the outside of his boot. The Millwall player lunged, but David flicked the ball between his legs and spun around him in one smooth motion.

"They’re not giving him an inch out there," the commentator remarked. "Millwall are coming in hard, with Hutchinson, Murray and Cooper pressuring him every time he gets near the ball."

He shifted the ball to his left foot, drawing the defender in. He feinted to the right, a quick flick of his foot, and the Millwall player lunged, but David was already gone. He used his acceleration, a burst of speed that left the defender grasping at air.

Too slow," David muttered to himself, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt the rhythm of the game pulsing through him, the ball responding to his every movement as if it were an extension of his body. He weaved past another defender, his control flawless—until a heavy tackle sent him sprawling just outside the box. The referee’s whistle pierced the air, awarding a free kick.

David dusted himself off, ignoring the pain in his legs, and placed the ball down with a determined glare. He took a few measured steps back, visualizing the perfect shot. As the referee signaled, David exhaled and struck the ball with power. It soared high—too high—sailing over the crossbar.

"Damn it!" David shouted, the frustration evident in his voice. His free kick game was still far from where he wanted it to be, and the miss gnawed at him as he jogged back into position.

This match felt different. His teammates, for once since the news of his transfer broke out, weren’t pulling their usual stunts of ignoring him or cutting him out of play. Maybe it was because Wayne Rooney had a word with them before the game, but David liked to think otherwise.

No, this wasn’t about Rooney. It was about him.

David smirked, glancing around the pitch. They weren’t passing because they were told to—they were passing because they could finally see it. They could see how good he really was.

Out here, he wasn’t just another 16-year-old in a jersey. He dictated the game, controlled the tempo, made the ball do what he wanted. And as the adrenaline surged through his veins, David was already setting his sights on a second goal. He wasn’t done yet—not even close.

"What a skill, David Jones has had some great touches today, but Millwall’s defense is tightening up," the commentator observed, his tone rising with the intensity of the match.

Then, the game turned chaotic as Millwall earned a corner kick. The ball whipped into the box, but Jake Cooper and one of the defenders misjudged their timing, missing a crucial header. The ball sailed through the air and landed safely in the hands of Ben Hamer.

"Oh, what a miss by Millwall! That was a golden opportunity!" the commentator cried.

Jake cursed under his breath, his frustration bubbling to the surface as he watched Hamer run forward, pulling the ball back with all the strength in his arm.

Hamer’s arm swung forward, and the ball sailed downfield. Jake saw the ball, but as he started running toward it, he felt a gust of wind rush past him. He locked eyes with the jersey number he dreaded—the one that had embarrassed him before. David Jones was ahead, and the defender’s anger grew.

"Ooh, Jake Cooper just missed the chance to equalize," the commentator said, his voice tinged with disbelief. "But What’s Ben Hamer doing?" he muttered. "No one’s there—wait, is that David Jones?!"

The commentator’s voice picked up speed as he saw David running at full throttle. "Oh no, David Jones is chasing the ball! He’s leaving Jake Cooper in the dust!"

David’s legs pumped as he sprinted toward the ball, his eyes flicking upward to track it hanging high in the air. He glanced behind, spotting Jake Cooper chasing after him, his face tight with determination.

Turning his focus forward, David noticed Millwall’s left-back, Murray Wallace, who hadn’t gone forward for the corner. Murray—one of the defenders already on a yellow card for fouling him earlier—was closing in fast.

David stole a quick look to his side, spotting his teammates Martyn and Tom making their runs. It was a three-on-one situation, but his focus snapped back to the ball, still descending.

He felt a flash of admiration for how far Ben Hamer had thrown it, but now wasn’t the time for awe. Murray was getting closer, his intent clear, and David’s mind raced for a solution.

Murray was strong in the air, and David knew it. His instincts kicked in, and as they reached the drop point, Murray leaped high to clear the ball. But David didn’t jump. Instead, he positioned himself, subtly backing into Murray just enough to disrupt his balance. Murray lost control midair, flailing and shouting as he landed awkwardly.

David didn’t even glance back. He was laser-focused on the ball, which was now within reach. With a deft touch, he brought it under control, his foot caressing it like second nature. The players gasps barely registered as David surged forward, ignoring the protests from Murray and his teammates.

The goalkeeper had already rushed out, closing the angle. David locked eyes with him, his mind sharp and calm. He feinted a shot, and the keeper dove, desperate to smother the ball. With a quick flick, David chipped the ball high over the keeper, watching it arc beautifully through the air.

The keeper scrambled, twisting mid-dive, but it was too late. The ball soared over his outstretched hands. David didn’t slow, skirting past the sprawled keeper, his eyes locked on the ball as it descended toward the open net.

It could have rolled in by itself, but that wasn’t David’s style. As the ball came down, he stretched his left leg and struck it with a fierce volley, the sound of the connection sharp and satisfying. The ball rocketed into the back of the net, leaving no doubt.

Goal.

Derby extends 2-0(David jones scores again)