The Spanish Spring brought orange blossoms and a relentless, dry heat that baked the clay pitches of the Paterna Training Ground.
Harry sat in the academy's cafeteria, a plate of grilled chicken and pasta before him. Across the table, Mateo was furiously gesturing with a fork.
"Barça is different, Hermano," Mateo said, his eyes wide. "La Masia? They are robots. They play tiki-taka in their sleep. If you chase the ball, you die tired."
Harry nodded, taking a sip of water. "So, we don't chase. We cut the passing lanes."
"Easy to say," Mateo grunted. "Hard to do when their midfield is spinning you like a top."
It was the week of the Youth Cup semi-final: Valencia U-19 vs. FC Barcelona U-19. It was the biggest game of Harry's life. Scouts from every major club in Europe—Liverpool, Bayern, Milan, and his boyhood dream club, Manchester United—were rumoured to be attending.
Harry wasn't just a player anymore; he was a student of the game. He spent his evenings not at parties, but in the video analysis room, or studying for his sports Management degree at the university affiliated with the club. He had learned that talent got you in the door, but obsession kept you in the room.
"Hey," Mateo said, lowering his voice. "Did you see the article in Marca? They called you 'The American Metronome.' They say you play like a European."
Harry smiled, a genuine, easy expression that had become more common lately. "Let them talk. I just want to win."
His phone buzzed on the table. It was his mother.
"Good luck tomorrow, sweetie. Dad and I are flying in. We'll be in the directors' box."
Harry typed back: "See you there."
He didn't check Instagram. He didn't check for messages from the US. That part of his life felt like a movie he had watched a long time ago—fading, grainy, and irrelevant.
Meanwhile, at First High School
The air in the cafeteria was thick with the smell of stale pizza and desperation.
Lena sat at the popular table, though her seat had drifted further from the center. The hierarchy of high school was brutal, and without Harry's money and status shielding her, Lena's armor was cracking.
"Prom is in two weeks," Sarah said, examining her nails. "My dad rented a limo. Who are you going with, Lena? Michael?"
Lena forced a smile. "Obviously."
"Is he paying?" Sarah asked, her voice dripping with faux-innocence. "I heard his card got declined at the arcade last weekend."
The table went quiet. Lena felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
"It was a banking error," Lena lied smoothly. "Michael's family is... reorganizing their assets."
In reality, Lena had paid. She always paid. Her own allowance had been slashed by her father, forcing her to dip into her savings—money she had been setting aside for a car. Now, it was bleeding out in twenty-dollar increments to buy Michael's affection.
Speaking of the devil, Michael slid into the seat next to her. He looked dishevelled, wearing the same hoodie he had stolen from Harry months ago. It was starting to look frayed.
"Babe," Michael whispered, leaning in. He smelled like weed and cheap cologne. "I need a favour."
Lena stiffened. "What now?"
"Prom tickets," he said, keeping his voice low. "They're selling out. And I need a tux. I can't look like a scrub next to you."
"I don't have the money, Michael," Lena hissed. "My dad cut me off, remember? You said you'd pick up extra shifts at the garage."
Michael's face hardened. The 'gentle boy' act evaporated instantly. "Come on, Lena. Don't be stingy. You want to go alone? You want everyone to laugh at you? 'Oh look, the girl who threw away the millionaire for the broke guy.' Is that what you want?"
Lena felt a cold knot in her stomach. He knew exactly where to stick the knife. He knew her pride was the only thing she had left.
"Fine," she whispered, defeat heavy in her voice. "I'll figure it out."
Michael grinned, kissing her cheek. It felt wet and gross. "Thanks, babe. You're the best. Oh, and can we get a party bus? Sarah's taking a limo, we gotta beat that."
Lena looked down at her tray. She wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up and flip the table.
Instead, she pulled out her phone. She opened a photo editing app.
She took an old screenshot of a text conversation with Harry from a year ago. She carefully edited the timestamp to Today, 12:30 PM.
Harry:Miss you. Thinking about flying you out to Spain for the summer. First High isn't the same without us.
She saved the image. It was a desperate, pathetic move. But she needed a win. She needed to prove she still mattered.
The Match: Valencia vs. Barcelona (La Masia)
The stadium was packed. Five thousand fans, flags waving, flares smoking in the stands.
Harry stood in the tunnel, the noise washing over him. He adjusted his captain's armband.
Yes, Captain.
Coach Alvaro had given it to him yesterday. "You speak the language of football," Alvaro had said. "Lead them."
They walked out onto the pitch. The Barcelona players looked confident, arrogant even. They were technically perfect, smaller, faster.
The whistle blew.
For the first twenty minutes, Valencia couldn't touch the ball. Barcelona moved it in triangles, mesmerizing and frustrating. Harry spent the time chasing shadows, his lungs burning.
Don't chase, he reminded himself. Wait for the mistake.
In the 35th minute, it happened. The Barça center-back got comfortable. He took a heavy touch.
Harry didn't sprint immediately. He anticipated. As the defender tried to recover, Harry stepped into the passing lane.
Intercepted.
Suddenly, Harry was driving forward. He was thirty yards out. The crowd rose to their feet.
Two defenders collapsed on him.
Six months ago, Harry would have tried to muscle through.
Today, he dropped his shoulder, faking a shot. Both defenders bit, sliding in to block.
Harry rolled the ball gently to his left.
Mateo was there, unmarked.
"Shoot!" Harry yelled.
Mateo smashed it. Top corner.
1-0 Valencia.
The team swarmed Harry, but he kept them focused. "Head in the game! It's not over!"
The game turned into a war. Barcelona equalized in the 60th minute. 1-1.
Then, in the 89th minute, Harry got the ball deep in midfield. He saw the run. Not a winger, but his fullback making a desperate overlap.
Harry turned. He unleashed a forty-yard diagonal pass. It was a laser. It landed right on the fullback's toe.
The cross came in. Harry had continued his run, bursting into the box. He leaped, towering over the smaller Barcelona defenders.
He didn't head it down. He cushioned it into the corner.
2-1.
The whistle blew.
Harry Chase, the boy who was supposed to be a lapdog at Haleswood High, fell to his knees on the Spanish turf, screaming at the sky.
The Aftermath
In the locker room, champagne was spraying everywhere. Harry was laughing, his arm around Mateo.
Coach Alvaro walked in, holding a phone. "Chase! Interview! Live TV!"
Harry wiped his face with a towel and walked out to the mixed zone. A reporter with a microphone and a cameraman were waiting.
"Harry!" the reporter said in Spanish. "Incredible game. You were the conductor today. How does it feel?"
"It feels like home," Harry answered in fluent Spanish, surprising the reporter. "This team is my family."
"You came from America 3 years ago," the reporter continued. "There are rumors that Manchester United is watching you. What do you say to the people back home who doubted you?"
Harry looked directly into the camera lens.
At that exact moment, in the First High cafeteria, Sarah screamed.
"Oh my god! Look at the TV!"
Someone had turned on the cafeteria TV to the sports channel. It was a global broadcast.
Lena froze. Michael stopped chewing his burger.
On the screen, Harry looked older. Harder. He had a scar above his eyebrow. He looked like a man, not a boy.
"I don't think about the people who doubted me," Harry said on the screen, his voice echoing through the silent cafeteria. "I tried to save people who didn't want to be saved. I learned that you can't carry dead weight if you want to fly."
The reporter laughed. "Do you miss anyone? A special girl perhaps?"
Lena held her breath. She clutched her phone with the fake text message under the table.
Harry smiled, but it was cold. "No. The people who matter are the ones standing next to me on the pitch. The rest? They were just preseason training."
The interview ended.
The cafeteria was dead silent. Every eye turned to Lena.
"Preseason training," someone whispered, snickering.
"Dead weight," another voice giggled.
Sarah looked at Lena, then at the phone Lena was holding. "Lena... didn't you say he texted you today? Saying he missed you?"
Lena's hands shook. "I... he did. Maybe he's just saying that for the cameras..."
"Let me see," Sarah demanded, snatching the phone from Lena's weak grip.
Sarah looked at the screenshot. Then she looked at the date. Then she looked at the metadata displayed at the top of the photo editor app which Lena had forgotten to close.
Edited: Today 12:45 PM.
Sarah laughed. It was a cruel, loud sound.
"You edited this! You fake!" Sarah shouted, holding the phone up for everyone to see. "She's lying! Harry hates her!"
The laughter started as a ripple and became a wave.
Michael pulled away from Lena as if she were contagious.
"Babe, you lied?" Michael said, loud enough for everyone to hear, trying to save his own skin. "That's messed up. I can't believe I trusted you."
"Michael!" Lena gasped, reaching for him. "I did it for us!"
"Don't touch me," Michael sneered, standing up. "I'm not going to Prom with a liar. I'm going with Sarah."
He walked over to Sarah's side of the table. Sarah smirked and made room for him.
Lena sat alone. The laughter crashed over her like a physical weight.
Spain
Harry walked out of the stadium. A black car was waiting.
The back window rolled down.
A man with grey hair and a Manchester United tie sat there.
"Mr. Chase," the scout said with a British accent. "Get in. We have a lot to discuss. Specifically, your future at Old Trafford next season."
Harry looked back at the stadium one last time. Then he got in the car.
He didn't look back.