VOLUME 2: THE ACADEMY DAYS

ACT 1 OF VOLUME 2

Tuesday, June 2nd - Saturday, June 6th, 2016

The sterile, unfamiliar scent of the London air was the first thing that hit me as I stepped out of my flat. It was clean, almost antiseptic, a world away from the damp, earthy, industrial tang of Manchester that I knew as home.

The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, the sun already promising a heat that felt different here: drier, more oppressive. Back home, even on a sunny day, you could feel the memory of rain in the air. Here, it felt like the city had forgotten how.

My flat, a modern but soulless box in a Croydon high-rise, was quiet. Too quiet. The weekend had been a blur of unpacking boxes and forced cheerfulness with Emma before she'd taken the train back to Manchester on Sunday evening.

The silence she left behind was a physical presence, a constant reminder of the two hundred miles that now separated us. Her scent lingered on the pillows, a ghost of home in this alien landscape.

Yesterday had been my 27th birthday. My first day at Crystal Palace. I hadn't celebrated, hadn't even mentioned it to anyone at the club. Hell, I'd barely mentioned it to Emma.

That had been a mistake.

She'd called me last night, and the conversation had started pleasantly enough. "How was your first day?" she'd asked.

"Good. Intense. The players are talented but..."

"Danny."

"Yeah?"

"What day is it?"

I'd paused, confused. "Monday?"

"What. Day. Is. It."

And then it had hit me. I'd winced. "June 1st?"

"Your BIRTHDAY, you absolute muppet! You didn't tell me it was your birthday! I've been sitting here all day thinking you were just busy with work, and you spent your 27th birthday alone in a new city without telling anyone!"

"I was working, Em. It didn't seem..."

"Important? Danny Walsh, I swear to God, sometimes I think you were raised by wolves. No, wait. Wolves would at least howl or something. You just... suffer in silence like some kind of Victorian orphan."

I'd laughed despite myself. "I wasn't suffering. I was coaching."

"On your birthday. Alone. Without even a bloody cupcake."

"I had a sandwich from Tesco."

"A TESCO SANDWICH. Danny, I'm going to kill you. When I visit in two weeks, we're celebrating properly. Cake. Candles. The full embarrassing display. No arguments."

This morning, she'd sent a follow-up text: "Happy day-after-birthday, you emotionally constipated disaster. Did you at least buy yourself a cupcake? Or are you too busy being a big-shot London coach now? 😏"

I'd replied: "Bought a coffee. £4.50. London prices are mental."

Her response came instantly: "£4.50?! For COFFEE?! Danny, come home. You're being robbed. Also, that's not a cupcake. You're impossible."

I'd smiled at her exasperation, but the truth was more complicated than I'd let on. I didn't celebrate birthdays. I hadn't, not really, since I was seven years old.

Mum had tried, back then. She'd always tried. But raising a kid on her own, working double shifts at the care home, there just wasn't money for parties or presents or any of the things other kids had.

I remembered my seventh birthday clearly, the year I'd realized we were different, that we didn't have what other families had.

She'd made me a cake from a box mix, stuck seven candles in it, and sung to me in our tiny kitchen. I'd seen the exhaustion in her eyes, the worry lines that had no business being on a woman in her thirties. And I'd decided, right then, that I wouldn't ask for birthdays anymore. Wouldn't add to the weight she was already carrying.

"It's just another day, Mum," I'd told her the next year when she'd asked what I wanted. "Don't worry about it."

She'd looked relieved and heartbroken all at once.

Twenty years later, I still didn't celebrate. It wasn't about the money anymore, I could afford a cake now, could afford a lot of things. But the habit had stuck. Birthdays were just days. Work was what mattered.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Mum: "Happy birthday, love. I know you don't like a fuss, but I'm proud of you. Crystal Palace! My boy, coaching at a Premier League club. Your dad would've been over the moon. Love you. Mum x"

I stared at the message for a long moment, a lump forming in my throat. She always mentioned Dad on my birthday.

He'd died when I was three; a heart attack at 32, sudden and cruel. I barely remembered him, just fragments: his laugh, the smell of his aftershave, the way he'd lift me onto his shoulders. Mum never remarried, never even dated as far as I knew. It had always been just us.

I typed back: "Thanks, Mum. Love you too. I'll call you this weekend. x"

Her message did something Emma's teasing hadn't. It gave me hope. Not for birthdays or celebrations, but for the work. For the chance to make her proud, to justify the sacrifices she'd made. To prove that all those years of struggle had been worth it.

I pocketed my phone and shook off the melancholy. This was the life I had chosen. The dream I had chased from a convenience store stockroom to the pinnacle of youth football. There was no time for sentiment. There was only work. And maybe, just maybe, that was my way of celebrating: by doing what I loved, by building something that mattered.

By the time I arrived at Copers Cope, the U18s were already on the pitch, going through their pre-training stretches. The sight of them, a sea of blue and red training kits on the impossibly perfect green of the training pitch, was a jolt of purpose. This was my team. My responsibility.

My first session on Monday had been intense but promising, ending with a 61% pressing success rate. The players had responded well, but I knew that was just the honeymoon period. Today, the real work began.

I gathered them in the center of the pitch, the holographic interface of the Gaffer's Eye system shimmering at the edge of my vision, visible only to me. It overlaid each player with a cascade of numbers: Current Ability (CA), Potential Ability (PA), and a dozen other attributes.

Nya Kirby (CA 110/PA 175) stood at the front, his eyes bright and attentive. Reece Hannam (CA 105/PA 150), the natural leader, was next to him, a serious expression on his face.

And then there was Connor Blake (CA 125/PA 185), a generational talent, lounging at the back of the group, his posture a study in bored indifference.

His stats were a supernova of potential, but his work rate was a dismal 7/20. He was also, I couldn't help but notice, wearing his training shirt inside-out. Either a fashion statement or he'd dressed in the dark. Knowing Connor, it could be either.

"Alright, lads," I began, my voice echoing slightly in the morning air. "Today, we start building. We start learning the system that's going to make us champions. We're going to learn how to press."

***

Thank you nameyelus, chisum_ lane and Harith_TM for the gifts.

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