The Next Big Thing
Chapter 92: Planning and result

Chapter 92: Planning and result

David was on the ground, his arm clutching his left leg as he screamed in agony. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was as though his entire body was on fire, but his leg seemed to be the epicenter of the pain. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold it in, but the sharp, searing ache was overpowering.

"Hey!" someone shouted, followed by another voice asking, "What’s wrong?"

"Are you okay?" another voice joined in, but David could barely register any of it. His entire focus was on his leg—the overwhelming pain that had his vision flickering in and out.

"Where is the medical team?" a voice rang out. But David’s thoughts were a haze, punctuated only by the unrelenting agony in his leg.

The sound of a stretcher being hurriedly wheeled toward him mixed with the voices of his teammates and staff calling out to him. But David could only lie there, body trembling as the medical team arrived.

"And there we have it! The medical team is carrying the young star, David Jones, off the pitch on a stretcher. What a sad sight! He was absolutely dominating this game, and we can only wish him a speedy recovery. Talents like his shouldn’t have to stay away from the pitch for long.

On another note, Shaun, the Millwall captain and center-back, has received a straight red card—adding to his earlier yellow—for that reckless tackle on David Jones."

Meanwhile, in the players’ tunnel, David was being carried away by a physio who was already assessing the damage. "Hey, where does it hurt?" the physio asked, trying to get more information.

David shot him an angry glare and snapped, "Where do you think it hurts?" The frustration in his voice was clear, despite the agony.

The doctor exchanged a glance with the physio, before lowering his voice. "Do you think it could be an ACL tear?"

David’s mind went completely blank. The words "ACL tear" echoed in his ears, but the pain in his leg made it hard to process. "What ACL?" he muttered weakly, barely able to comprehend the severity of the situation.

"Shh, just hang in there, David. We’re going to get you to the clinic," the physio said, his tone trying to offer some comfort, though David barely heard him.

At the stadium’s clinic, the physios wasted no time in assessing David’s injury. Wayne Rooney, David’s coach, arrived soon after, looking as tense as ever. His presence seemed to bring a slight sense of reassurance, but it was clear he was just as worried about the young star as the rest of the team.

The physios had already conducted a Lachman test, but uncertainty lingered. "We’re not sure if it’s just a sprain or something more serious," one of them explained, voice laced with hesitation. "We’ll need to get him to the hospital for further tests."

Wayne looked frustrated, his brow furrowed. "Why are we waiting? We should get moving now."

He stepped closer to David, crouching beside him, concern etched across his face. "Hey, kid, how’s everything?"

David didn’t respond. His face was calm, almost eerily so, but there was a distant look in his eyes. The painkillers had kicked in, dulling the sharp pain but leaving him in a fog. He could barely process Wayne’s words.

Wayne sighed and ruffled his hair in frustration. "I’m sure everything will be fine, don’t worry. I’ll follow you to the hospital, alright?"

David looked at him for a long moment, his eyes steady despite the haze of pain. "No, Gaffer, don’t worry about me. You should play the match. The team needs you. Please, make sure you win."

Wayne tried to protest, his voice filled with worry. "David, I—"

David cut him off, his voice low but firm. "Don’t worry about me. Like the team said earlier, I’m not Derby County’s problem anymore. It’s probably just a sprain or something. Don’t worry, I’m fine."

The physios returned, signaling that the car was ready to take David to the hospital. David looked at Wayne one last time, his eyes unwavering despite the situation. "Don’t worry about me, Gaffer. I’m fine."

Wayne stood there for a moment, speechless, watching David being carried away. His thoughts were clearly racing, but he was unable to find the words to say anything.

Meanwhile, Jonathan had been watching the match from his apartment, his gaze glued to the screen as David dominated the game. A smug smile crept across his face as he watched the young star perform, his mind already running through the sponsorship deals he had secured. They weren’t the big-name brands, but they paid well. With a player like David, he could easily negotiate bigger, more lucrative contracts.

But then, everything changed in an instant. His client—his prized cash cow—was on the ground, clutching his leg and screaming in pain. The sight was like a gut punch to Jonathan, and his mind immediately went into crisis mode.

"No, no, no, no!" he muttered under his breath, watching as they rushed to carry David off the pitch.

"Fuck!" he shouted, throwing the remote in frustration. It shattered against the wall with a satisfying crash, the sound echoing through his apartment.

"I told him! I fucking told him not to play this stupid match! He didn’t even need it!" Jonathan fumed, pacing around his apartment, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

"Shut up, Jonathan. Think. Think," he muttered to himself, trying to force himself to calm down. "This isn’t the time for this."

But frustration continued to build. "The contract’s not even signed yet," he said to himself, his mind racing. Then, it hit him. "Wait, that’s it."

Jonathan’s eyes lit up as he pieced it together. He didn’t need David—at least, not for this. He could secure the deal with David’s parents, at least one of them. With Ole obsessed with David’s potential, he knew Manchester United would still be eager to go through with the deal.

A grin spread across Jonathan’s face as he muttered to himself, "Damn, I’m brilliant." He truly believed he was the only one who could turn this situation around and still make it work for him.

Meanwhile, Isaac and Tabitha, sitting in their Southampton apartment, were watching the match intently. The game had been thrilling, filled with excitement, but everything changed in an instant when David went down. The moment he collapsed, clutching his leg, Tabitha felt her heart stop. The scream of pain that followed was gut-wrenching.

Tabitha stood frozen in shock, eyes glued to the screen. She couldn’t process what she was seeing. Isaac, however, was already on his feet, pacing.

"Where are you going?" Tabitha asked, her voice strained, as Isaac grabbed his car keys.

Isaac shot her a look, his voice tight with urgency. "What kind of question is that? Didn’t you see our son? He’s injured. I’m going to him."

Tabitha shook her head, still in disbelief. "Are you insane? They’re in southeast London! It’s COVID time—do you think we can just drive there?"

Isaac snapped, his voice rising. "Unless it’s essential, we can’t drive, right? Well, our son being hurt is definitely more than essential!" He motioned toward the door. "The drive’s at most two hours—it’s better than sitting here doing nothing."

Tabitha paused, her mind racing, then sighed. "Hold on, I’m coming."

She rushed to grab her purse, trying to stay calm. Isaac was already by the door, impatient. "I’m waiting, woman!"

"I’m coming! I’m coming!" she shouted as she stuffed items into her bag. Just as Isaac reached for the door handle, the phone rang, making her jump.

Thinking it might be the hospital, she quickly snatched it up. The unknown number flashed on the screen, and she handed it to Isaac, who urged her to answer. "Quick, it could be the hospital."

Tabitha hesitated, then answered the call. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end sent a chill down her spine. "Is this Mrs. David?"

Tabitha’s eyes widened as she recognized the voice. "Is that... Jonathan?" she whispered, her stomach sinking as the agent’s tone instantly registered.

Isaac’s expression darkened as he saw the shock in her eyes. "Put it on speaker," he ordered, suspicion lacing his voice.

Tabitha complied, and the phone crackled as Jonathan’s voice came through clearly.

"Mrs. David, this is Jonathan, David’s agent. I need to discuss something important with you."

Isaac’s face went cold as he turned his attention to the phone. "What’s going on, Jonathan?"

Meanwhile, in the hospital, David sat in a room with his leg bandaged and wrapped up, eyes glued to the match between Millwall and his team. He screamed, "Goaaaaallll!" as Wayne Rooney fired a beautiful outside shot, his power over finesse taking center stage. David missed the first goal, but this one was a beauty — a thunderous strike that left him shaking with excitement.

As the goal replayed, David couldn’t help but think, If it were me, I’d have tried to curl it to the top post. I probably could’ve scored it that way, but damn, nothing beats the thrill of a powerful shot like that.

David had always loved when players unleashed shots with power, like Roberto Carlos. He respected finesse, but there was something about raw power in a strike that thrilled him. He had a strong shot himself, but never quite reached that level of ferocity.

Lost in his thoughts, the door opened, and a doctor stepped inside. "David Jones?" he asked.

"Hey, doc," David replied, still catching his breath from the game.

The doctor glanced at the test results before speaking. "Your MRI test just came back, and we found out you have..."

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