The pitch had mostly cleared. Kids peeled off toward the changing rooms or waited by the gate for lifts home. Cleats scuffed the concrete, water bottles hissed open, and the low winter sun dipped behind the clouds like it had seen enough.
Harry sat on the grass, legs stretched out, lungs still pulling hard at the air. His chest burned, but the storm inside had settled — replaced by something steadier.
A quiet certainty.
That hadn't been luck.
Across the field, Malik was still on one knee, fists clenched in the grass. His head hung low, eyes locked on the turf like it had betrayed him.
Liam crouched beside him. "Mate… it happens."
"No, it doesn't," Malik muttered. "Not to me."
"You just came up against someone who figured you out. Doesn't mean it's over."
Malik didn't answer. His pride had taken a hit — not in front of strangers, but in front of friends. That stung worse.
Liam nudged him. "You're still class. But even the best get outplayed. The difference is what you do next."
Malik let out a long breath, finally lifting his head. His eyes found Harry across the pitch.
They didn't glare.
They studied.
Measured.
Respected.
Harry stood, brushing the grass from his joggers, just as Mr. Hadley approached — his whistle bobbing on his chest like it was finally catching its breath too.
"Well," Hadley said, scribbling into his notebook. "That's… not what I expected."
Harry blinked, unsure if he should apologise.
"Don't look like that," Hadley added, snapping the notebook shut. "You played out of your skin today. Calm, clever, disciplined. You didn't just defend — you read the game."
Harry looked down, a flush creeping up his neck.
"I was going to wait 'til Friday to announce the squad," Hadley said. "But I've seen enough."
He clapped a firm hand on Harry's shoulder.
"You're in. Effective immediately."
Harry's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. Trial game's a trial. You passed. Training starts tomorrow."
A grin crept across Harry's face before he could stop it.
Hadley paused — as if weighing the next words. "I'll be having a word with your folks tonight. You've got something, Harry. Not just grit. Potential. And that needs room to grow."
Harry's smile faltered.
That evening
The Morleys sat in their usual spots: Keith in his sunken armchair, scratching his scalp, and Janet at the table in her gardening fleece, peeling potatoes like they'd personally offended her.
Mr. Hadley stood near the door, muddy shoes dotting the tile.
"I know he's not yours," he said, arms folded. "But you're his guardians. You should know — Harry just showed me something rare."
Keith didn't look up. "What, he mow the pitch?"
"No. He shut down our best player — Malik. Fastest, flashiest kid we've got — and Harry made him look ordinary."
Janet snorted. "He's nine. Football's just running and shouting."
Hadley smiled tightly. "Most kids, yeah. But Harry didn't just run. He read. He anticipated. You don't teach that in drills."
Keith sat forward. "You saying he's got talent?"
"I'm saying he's got instincts. Football sense. If you let him chase this — if you back him — there's a chance he could go far. Maybe academy trials one day."
Janet scoffed. "And we're supposed to what — drive him to fancy pitches and buy him shiny boots now?"
"No," Hadley said. "Just let him train. Let him believe it's possible. He's not asking for miracles — just space to grow."
Keith scratched his chin. "We give him a roof, don't we? He's fed. Has structure. All this dreaming'll just set him up to fail."
Hadley's voice dropped. "Not all hard work happens with shovels. Some of it happens on a muddy pitch. With heart. With purpose. You've got a boy upstairs who finally feels like he matters — even if only for ninety minutes."
Janet's peeling sped up.
"We're not raising daydreamers."
Hadley turned toward the door. "Maybe you're not," he said softly. "But I am."
And he left.
Upstairs
Harry sat by the attic window. The cracked frame let in a sliver of cold. Outside, the field lay empty — nothing but frost and fading light.
He didn't know what Mr. Hadley had said.
He didn't know if anything would change.
But he knew what he'd felt on the pitch.
Like he belonged.
And that, for now — was enough.