The Aston Villa first-team coach pulled into Berkshire, southeast England.
Instead of forcing the squad straight onto the training pitch, Dean Smith gave the boys a long leash.
They had a brief window to grab lunch and shake off the travel fatigue before the mandatory 1:00 PM tactical preparation session.
Theodore and Jack Grealish skipped the bland, heavily monitored hotel buffet.
Grealish had been constantly bugging Theodore about trying so authentic food from his background.
Since Theodore was half Norwegian, he decided to give the Villa captain a taste of the North.
He led Grealish a few blocks off the main strip, down a quiet cobblestone alley, until they found a rustic, wood-paneled Scandinavian tavern called The Fjord.
"This is it," Theodore said, pulling the heavy oak door open. "Authentic Norwegian comfort food. It's going to put you straight to sleep, but it won't disappoint."
"Finally!" Grealish rubbed his hands together, his eyes wide as the sll of rich gravy and roasted ats hit them.
"I've been waiting for this all week, mate. I'm starving."
They grabbed a booth in the corner.
Theodore ordered a massive, steaming plate of Pinnekjøtt (cured, slow-roasted lamb ribs) and a hearty serving of Kjøttkaker (traditional Norwegian atballs smothered in thick brown gravy with a side of lingonberries) for Grealish to devour.
The Villa captain didn't hold back.
"Holy shit, Theo, what kind of at is this?!" Grealish mumbled around a mouthful of lamb, looking absolutely delighted.
"This is incredibly tender. I swear this isn't regular lamb."
"It's a Norwegian sheep that spent two and a half years doing wind sprints up a frozen glacier," Theodore replied with a deadpan face.
Grealish stopped chewing.
He stared at Theodore blankly. "...For real?"
Theodore rolled his eyes. "Never mind. Just eat your food. We need to get back."
He checked his phone.
It was already 12:30 PM. Dean Smith's strict schedule ant they had to be fully kitted up on the training ground by 1:00 PM sharp.
Realizing they were on the clock, Grealish activated vacuum mode.
He inhaled the rest of the al in under five minutes.
Theodore threw a few twenty-pound notes on the table, and the two of them stepped back out into the freezing Berkshire alleyway to head back to the hotel.
They barely made it fifty yards down the street before Theodore stopped dead in his tracks.
Three massive, heavily tattooed English drunks had cornered an elderly Asian man against a brick wall.
The man, probably in his sixties, looked terrified as the drunks shoved him back and forth, hurling aggressive slurred insults in his face.
Theodore's blood ran cold.
He just moved.
Closing the distance in seconds, Theodore grabbed the largest drunk by the collar of his jacket and violently hurled him backward.
The drunk flew through the air and crashed hard into the alley dumpsters.
The other two turn around, raising their fists, but Theodore was already inside their guard.
Two blindingly fast precise punches dropped them straight to the cobblestones.
They groaned, clutching their jaws, completely neutralized.
"Thank you! My savior, thank you!" the elderly Asian man gasped, shakily getting to his feet and clasping his hands together in gratitude.
What surprised Theodore was the language.
The old man was frantically speaking Mandarin.
"Are you from China, sir?" Theodore asked in perfectly fluent Chinese, stepping forward as Grealish nervously watched the groaning drunks.
"Yes! Yes, I am from China," the old man stamred, his eyes widening in relief at hearing his native tongue.
Theodore and Grealish quickly guided the trembling man over to a nearby wooden bench outside the tavern.
The old man gradually caught his breath and explained the nightmare.
He had traveled to England with his daughter for a vacation.
An hour ago, they got separated in the crowded streets.
To make matters worse, a pickpocket had snatched his phone right out of his jacket, completely cutting off his only way to contact her.
"Please help ! You must help find my precious daughter! I'm begging you!" The old man was so distressed his knees buckled, nearly dropping to the pavent in front of Theodore.
Theodore caught him under the arms and hoisted him back up.
"Sir, please, don't do that. I've got you. Just give her phone number, and I'll call her right now."
Theodore pulled his own phone out. "What's your na?"
"Mulati!" the old man said anxiously.
Theodore punched the number in. The phone rang twice before soone picked up.
"Hello? Who is this?" a woman's frantic voice ca through the speaker.
"Hi, is your father currently lost?" Theodore asked calmly.
"Yes! Yes! Do you know where he is?!" Her voice cracked with pure desperation.
"Is his na Mulati?"
A sharp sob echoed through the receiver. "Yes! He's my dad! Please, tell where you are! I will pay you anything, I'll give you whatever reward you want!"
"Keep your money," Theodore replied. "We're sitting on a bench right outside The Fjord, a Norwegian tavern a few blocks off the main high street."
"A Norwegian tavern? I... I don't know where that is, I'm just a tourist!" she pleaded. "Do you have WeChat? Can you just add my number and drop a location pin?!"
"Yeah, done. Sending it now."
Theodore hung up, quickly added her number to his WeChat and fired off the GPS location.
Less than five minutes later, a young woman with long flowing hair ca sprinting frantically down the cobblestone street.
Theodore blinked.
He recognized her instantly.
It was Dilraba Dilmurat. The insanely famous Chinese actress.
She didn't even look at the two Aston Villa footballers. She threw herself at the old man, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing loudly.
"Dad! You scared to death! I thought I was never going to see you again!"
As the father and daughter held each other, Theodore checked his watch.
12:57 PM.
"Shit. Jack, we gotta go!" Theodore hissed, tapping his teammate's shoulder.
They were going to be late.
As they turned to sprint away, Dilraba finally looked up, wiping tears from her flawless face.
She rushed over, stepping right in front of Theodore.
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" she cried, bowing deeply. "I don't even know how to begin to repay you. Please, is there anything I can do?"
"Your dad's phone got stolen, go buy him a new one!" Theodore shouted, already backpedaling down the alley.
"We're late for work! Glad you found him!"
Without waiting for a response, Theodore and Grealish turned and launched into an absolute dead sprint, tearing down the street and vanishing around the corner.
"What a good kid," Mulati sighed, wrapping an arm around his daughter as he watched the empty alleyway.
"Doing a massive deed and not even sticking around for a reward. I didn't think there were people like that left in the world."
By the ti Theodore and Jack violently shoved through the hotel lobby doors, panting and covered in a light sweat, it was 1:05 PM.
They were five minutes late.
Dean Smith was standing by the team bus with a clipboard.
He looked up, checked his watch, and then looked at his star winger and his newly crowned midfield maestro.
Smith didn't say a word.
He just pointed his pen toward the bus doors.
When you were the two most indispensable players on the roster, a five-minute delay wasn't going to get you benched.
Theodore grabbed his gear and climbed aboard.
They had a brutal four-hour tactical session ahead of them, and at 7:00 PM, they were walking into the hostile fortress of Reading.
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