Manchester, England – Three Months Later
The rain in Manchester was different from the rain in Valencia. In Spain, the rain was a brief, violent interruption. In Manchester, it was a permanent state of being—a cold, grey mist that soaked into your bones.
Harry Chase loved it. It smelled like football history.
He sat in the plush leather chair of the boardroom at Carrington, the Manchester United training complex. Across from him sat the Club Director and the manager, a stern Dutchman known for his tactical obsession.
"The fee is agreed with Valencia," the Director said, sliding a thick document across the mahogany table. "Thirty million pounds. A record for a teenager from the Spanish academy system."
Harry looked at the contract. The numbers were staggering, generational wealth printed in black ink. But his eyes drifted to the clause on page four.
Squad Number: 19.
"I wanted 10," Harry said calmly, not touching the pen.
The Manager chuckled dryly. "The number 10 shirt at Manchester United is heavy, son. It has been worn by legends. Rooney, Beckham... you earn the 10. You do not demand it."
Harry leaned forward. He wasn't the boy who begged for affection anymore. He was the American Metronome.
"I wore 10 at Valencia," Harry said. "I orchestrated the midfield against Barcelona. I don't want 19. Nineteen is a bench player. I didn't fly across the continent to sit on the bench."
The room went silent. The Director looked nervous, but the Manager's eyes glinted with interest.
"Arrogance," the Manager mused. "Or confidence?"
"Certainty," Harry corrected. "Give me the 10. And I'll give you the league."
The Manager stared at him for a long, intense minute. Then, a small smile touched his lips. He took the contract back, crossed out 19, and wrote 10.
"Sign," the Manager said. "But if you play like a child, I will strip the shirt off your back myself."
Harry signed.
First High School – The Same Afternoon
Lena walked through the cafeteria, her tray shaking slightly in her hands.
It had been three months since the "Preseason Training" interview aired. Three months since Sarah exposed her fake text message. Three months of hell.
She was no longer the Queen Bee. She was the ghost.
She sat at a table in the far corner, near the janitor's closet. She ate quickly, head down, hoping to disappear.
"Nice bag, Lena," a voice sneered.
Lena flinched. It was Chloe, a girl Lena used to mock for wearing off-brand shoes.
"Is that a... knock-off?" Chloe asked, pointing at Lena's purse.
It wasn't a knock-off. It was from Target. Lena had sold her Chanel bag—the one Harry had bought her for Christmas two years ago—at a consignment shop last week. She needed the money to pay for her cell phone bill because her father had officially cut her off.
"Leave me alone," Lena whispered.
"Where's your knight in shining armor?" Chloe laughed, her friends giggling behind her. "Oh wait, he's busy being famous."
As if on cue, a notification pinged on everyone's phone. Then another. Then a dozen.
The cafeteria filled with the sound of chimes and vibrations.
"Holy..." someone shouted. "Check Twitter! Fabrizio Romano just tweeted!"
Lena felt a dread settle in her stomach. She pulled out her cracked phone.
@FabrizioRomano:Harry Chase to Manchester United. HERE WE GO! Agreement signed for £30m fee. The American wonderkid takes the legendary #10 shirt. Official statement soon.
Attached was a photo.
It was Harry. He was standing on the pitch at Old Trafford, the massive stadium rising around him like a cathedral of red steel. He was holding up a red jersey with his name and the number 10 printed in white.
He looked regal. Untouchable.
"Thirty million pounds?" a boy at the next table shouted. "That's like... forty million dollars!"
"He's rich," Sarah's voice carried across the room. She was sitting with Michael. "He's literally a multi-millionaire."
Lena looked at Michael. He was staring at his phone, his face pale, his jaw slack. The "gentle" boy looked sick. He looked at Sarah, then he looked across the room at Lena.
For a second, their eyes met. Michael looked at her not with sympathy, but with blame. As if it were her fault he had chosen the wrong side.
Lena looked back at the photo of Harry. He wasn't smiling. He looked focused. He looked like a man who had conquered the world.
She looked down at her Target bag. She looked at her cold tater tots.
She realized then that she hadn't just lost a boyfriend. She had lost a lottery ticket she had held in her hand for ten years and ripped up because she wanted to play games.
She stood up, leaving her tray, and ran out of the cafeteria. She didn't stop until she reached the bathroom, where she retched into the sink, sick with a regret that tasted like bile.
Manchester – Old Trafford Tunnel
The noise was deafening. Seventy-five thousand people chanting his name.
"Harry Chase! Harry Chase! He's one of our own!"
It was his debut. The season opener against Chelsea.
Harry stood in the tunnel. The air smelled of Deep Heat cream and wet grass.
Beside him, the Chelsea captain, a veteran defender, looked him up and down. "Welcome to the Premier League, kid. Don't cry when I snap you."
Harry adjusted his shin guards. He didn't look at the defender. He stared straight ahead at the light at the end of the tunnel.
"I don't cry," Harry said softly. "I score."
The referee blew the whistle.
Harry stepped out onto the grass. The roar of the crowd hit him like a physical wave. He looked up at the stands. He saw the banners. He saw the red sea of shirts.
He closed his eyes for a second.
He thought of the Blue Velvet lounge. He thought of the ginger tea in the trash. He thought of Lena's empty eyes.
He opened his eyes. The past was dead.
He was the number 10.
The ball was kicked off. Harry took his first touch. It was crisp, perfect.
The game began.
Lena's House – That Evening
Lena sat on the floor of her bedroom. It was dark. The electricity had been turned off an hour ago. Her father hadn't paid the bill, or maybe he just didn't care anymore.
She was watching the game on her phone, using the last 5% of her battery and the neighbor's stolen Wi-Fi.
Min 88. Score 2-2.
Harry picked up the ball in the midfield.
Lena watched, mesmerizingly. He moved differently now. He was sharper.
On the tiny screen, Harry pointed to the right, deceiving the defense, then threaded a no-look pass through the center. A teammate latched onto it, drew the keeper, and cut it back.
Harry had continued his run. He was there.
He didn't smash it. He caressed it.
The ball curled into the bottom corner.
GOAL.
The stadium on her screen exploded. Harry ran to the corner flag, sliding on his knees, arms spread wide.
The commentator screamed. "A star is born! The American Dream at the Theatre of Dreams!"
Lena's phone screen dimmed.
Battery Low.
She watched Harry's face on the screen. He was screaming in joy, his teammates piling on top of him. He looked so alive.
And then, the phone died.
The screen went black.
Lena sat in the darkness of her room, the silence absolute.
"I won," she whispered to the empty dark, her voice cracking. "I got exactly what I wanted. Distance."
She curled into a ball on the expensive rug she would probably have to sell tomorrow, and finally, she let herself break.