The school day passed in a blur of half-heard lessons and constant clock-watching. By the time the final bell rang, Harry was already halfway through stuffing his jumper into his bag.
He changed quickly in the boys' toilets — oversized shorts hanging awkwardly off his bony frame, scuffed trainers worn thin from years of yard work, and his school shirt now doubling as a football kit.
Outside, the air was cool but clear, the afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the field.
The team was already gathered near the centre circle. From a distance, they looked like something out of a brochure — polished boots, matching kits from last term's tournament, loud voices echoing across the grass.
Harry walked slowly toward them, bag slung over one shoulder, trying to ignore the ripple of turned heads as he approached.
He recognised them all. Classmates, schoolmates — boys he'd seen every day but never really spoken to. Never quite close enough to join in, never distant enough to disappear. The gap between him and them had always been more than space. It was silence. Awkwardness. Difference.
Now, he was stepping into their circle.
The whispers started almost immediately.
"Is that what he's wearing?" someone muttered.
"He looks like he got dressed in a bin."
A loud scoff came from the goal.
Lewis Palmer — tall, freckled, mouth always running — stood with his gloves tucked into his waistband.
"You having a laugh, Hadley?" he called across the pitch. "We signing tramps now? What's next, farm animals in midfield?"
A few of the boys snorted, unsure whether to laugh or not.
Mr Hadley didn't even look up from his clipboard.
But Liam turned sharply. "Shut it, Lewis."
Even Malik chimed in — shockingly. "He's better than you. You're meant to be part of the team. Act like it."
Lewis blinked, caught off guard — especially by Malik, whose ego rarely made space for anyone else.
"Alright, alright," Lewis grumbled. "Just saying."
"No one asked," Liam snapped.
Harry tried to ignore the heat rushing to his ears.
Mr Hadley finally looked up, raising his whistle. "That's enough. If you've got time to chat, you've got time to run. But first — quick announcement."
The boys half-turned as Hadley nodded toward Harry.
"This is Harry Brewer. Some of you saw him in the trial. Some didn't. Doesn't matter — he made the squad. Only one from the trials, in fact."
A few glances were exchanged. Alfie Kerr looked down, jaw tight.
"Where he plays? That's still being decided. For now, he'll rotate. Fill in where needed. You want your spot? Earn it."
There were a few nods. Alfie let out a quiet breath.
"Right," Hadley barked. "Warm-up laps. Two times round the pitch. Move!"
The boys scattered into a jog.
Harry kept to the back at first, unsure if he was even meant to be there. But as they looped the far goalpost, Liam slowed and dropped beside him.
"Don't worry about them," he said. "They'll come round."
Harry nodded. "Thanks."
Malik passed them with a muttered, "Stop being nice and keep up," but there was no bite to it.
After warm-up, Hadley split them into two groups for drills. One worked tight passing triangles near halfway — quick one-twos around cones. The other ran shuttle sprints along the edge of the box.
Harry was dropped into the passing drill with Liam, Malik, and Tommy Lake. The pressure hit immediately. Their movements were sharp. They'd clearly done this a hundred times.
His first touch was heavy.
Second — too slow.
But by the third, something clicked. His rhythm settled. His touch softened. The ball zipped between them like a thread being stitched — foot to foot, fast and clean.
Liam gave a slight nod.
Malik, despite himself, smirked. "Alright then. Farmer's got feet."
Even Hadley noticed.
"Nice tempo, Brewer. That's how we move it."
The drills rotated. Next: control. High balls from Hadley's throws — bring it down, pass it back.
A few fumbled. Ethan Barlow misjudged his. Alfie's rolled under his foot.
Harry caught his cleanly on his chest, let it drop, passed it back without thinking.
Hadley's whistle chirped. "Yes. Exactly like that."
By the time drills finished, Harry's shirt clung to his back with sweat.
But he was smiling.
It wasn't just that he'd held his own.
It was that the others had seen it.
Lewis hadn't said another word. He stood off to the side, muttering quietly to Jordan Pike.
Even Alfie, who'd watched Harry like a threat all session, gave a small nod before jogging off to fetch the bibs.
For the first time in his life, Harry felt it —
Not just playing the game.
But belonging in it.