The last train moving from Middlesbrough had gone twenty minutes ago. William knew this because he couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly checking his phone, not because he wanted to be on the train, rather fiddling with his phone gave himself sothing to focus on and if he had sothing to focus on then he wouldn’t be able to think about the diabolical stinker of a day that he was having, the cheery on top of it being the voicemail that he just received fifty odd minutes ago.
He was sat on the circle of Rocliffe Park’s second pitch. It was just like the main pitch, except that it didn’t have the floodlights that were on the main pitch which would make him visible, and at the mont, William did not want to be visible.
The second pitch was at the back of the training complex, and was separated from it through a large car park.
The sky above was a shade of black or gray or purple, William wasn’t sure, that he didn’t know the na of. Sothing between the three, covered by the cloud was stained by the edges of the light pollution of the Middlesbrough proper, and of course contributing most to it was the training complex he was in, as well as several retail parks and the townspeople going about their business, albeit most of them were in cars as it was currently raining cats and dogs.
William had been sitting in the center circle for forty whole minutes. His body was getting massively cold, and he was almost beginning to start shivering. He couldn’t feel his fingers inside his gloves. They were numb, and he could see his breath co out in visible puffs. He did not move still, even though he was assaulted by cold from all directions. Moving would an him going sowhere and he did not know where he wanted to go yet.
The voicemail he received was from David Stanton, the head coach of the Middlesbrough Under-18s. William’s head coach. William had been in the shower after the session that he was told not to attend, but fuck it, right? Wrong.
Don’t co in on Tuesday or Wednesday, William. We’re conducting a new squad review and it would be much more easier for everyone included if you weren’t around. I’ll be in touch at the end of the week with more information.
"Heh..." William let out a choked laugh. "Twenty three fucking seconds".
That was how long the voicemail was. William had listened to it multiple tis, so much so that he was pretty sure that he could recite the entire thing off head, and sohow it still didn’t register inside of him.
"Denial, is it?" William spoke again. "Is this what denial feels like?"
"Fucking squad review!" William muttered again, this ti, smashing the base of his fist into the wet grass.
He had been in the U18s for four years. He had watched three full cohorts above him go on to professional contracts or get released, but sohow he was still there. He thought it was a positive sign, the fact that they kept him for as they did because the alternative aning would be that he was so much of a bum that he couldn’t even make a debut for the first team four years after playing with the youth team. The squad review ant that they were releasing players, and the fact that they told him not to co ant that he was most likely going to be among the released players.
He was seventeen years old at the mont, and now he was going to be released from the only football club he ever wanted to play for.
"Hahahaha!"
William left out a hoarse laughter while looking at the sky. It was a habit he’d developed in his early teens. Looking up at the sky, not laughing like a lunatic. His dad told him sothing that made him adopt the habit. He couldn’t rember for the life of him what his dad said, but he still liked looking up. It was liberating.
Unfortunately, on this particular night, there was nothing liberating about the sky. It was a gloomy ss, much like himself.
"Is this it?" William whispered to himself, as he lowered his head. Rain droplets were beginning to get into the air.
The silence that followed after was very loud. Wind in the car trees. A car on the A66, and his hoarse breathing.
And then it beca... louder?
A holographic panel appeared in the air, approximately sixty centiters in front of his face. It was in the air, not on his phone or on his screen, just there and lifelike. Hovering in the dark air above the grass, with a luminescent blue color.
"What the fuck?" William stared blankly at the projection for a few seconds. And then he moved to touch it, but his hands phased through it.
[Ding! Limitless Potential System has awakened]
[Host identified: William Smithson]
[Age: 17]
[Club/Affiliation: Middlesbrough FC Academy (U18)]
[Position: Attacking Midfielder {Second Striker/Central Midfielder/Right Midfielder}]
[Status: Academy scholar]
[Current Rating: 54]
[Potential Cap: 72]
[Credits: 0]
[Core Stats]
[Pace: 58]
[Shooting: 51]
[Passing: 55]
[Dribbling: 53]
[Defending: 47]
[Physicality: 48]
[Endurance: 60]
[ntal: 61]
[Set Pieces: 44]
[Leadership: 39]
[Welco Host. Shall we begin?]
William did not move for a very long ti. He was still trying to make sense of what was currently happening.
The panel remained in the air in front of him. The numbers didn’t disappear, and his eyes was fixated on the last notification from the holographic panel in front of him.
’Shall we begin?’
Unlike the rest of the notification, it was blinking, once per second.
Gradually, he realized that he was cold as hell. From a slight discomfort, to sothing that required imdiate attention so he stood up. He felt his knees protest the motion as he stood up from the frozen ground and stood there in the dark with the holographic panel glowing at eye height.
Fifty four. His overall rating was fifty four. He had never seen his own stats rendered as numbers before and there was sothing quite unpleasant about it. He knew he was a bum, but watching the holographic panel tell him that slapped a bit. It was like when you write an exam and you know you’re going to fail. You still hold a little bit of hope towards passing until you actually see the result of the exam.
He thought about the voicemail, and the voice of his coach, how cold it was. He thought about the four years that he spent in the Middlesbrough academy. The early mornings, the extra sessions. How he had turned to a social recluse just because he was training for the football and to achieve his dreams.
A lot of his life flashed in front of him at that mont. And he sighed. He reached his hand out and touched the space where his potential cap was displayed.
William Smithson stood on the frozen number two pitch at Rockliffe Park at nine fifteen on a Tuesday evening in July and read.
He read for a long ti. When he finally walked to the car park, the frost had thickened on the grass behind him and his footprints showed clearly in it, two parallel lines of impressions leading from the center circle to the gate, the footprints of soone who had arrived one thing and left, perhaps, sothing else.
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