Chapter 8: Contract signing
David and his mother, Tabitha Jones, followed Wayne Rooney through the winding corridors of Pride Park Stadium. Each step echoed with anticipation. The excitement thrummed in David's chest; after years of training, trials, and sacrifices, this moment had arrived. If all went well, Wayne Rooney, the legendary footballer, would soon be David's manager—an idea that made his heart race with excitement.
The stadium was vast and awe-inspiring. As they moved down the hallway, the walls were lined with framed photographs of Derby County's greatest moments: jubilant players mid-celebration, iconic goals that had won championships, and a sea of blue and white fans. The polished floors reflected the bright lights above, and the atmosphere was charged with history. David could barely hold in his awe, his eyes flitting from one display to another. This was where he belonged, or so he hoped.
Wayne chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder. "Come on, David. You can look later. We've got work to do."
David snapped back to reality, though he couldn't help but feel like he was stepping into a dream. He stole a glance at his mom. She looked proud but a little nervous, her face betraying the weight of this moment.
They followed Wayne through a set of double doors, entering a smaller corridor that led them into a spacious office. The door opened to reveal Philip Cockerill, Derby County's sporting director, seated at a large oak desk. He looked up as they entered, his face hard to read.
"Well, well, if it isn't the man himself," Wayne said, a teasing tone in his voice. He stepped aside, motioning for David and Tabitha to enter.
David's eyes immediately went to the desk, where a stack of papers sat neatly organized. The room was modern yet humble, with framed team jerseys on the walls and a couple of footballs displayed in glass cases. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and leather, the typical scent of a high-end office.
Then, trailing behind Wayne, a woman stepped into the room, her high heels clicking against the floor. She was dressed smartly, with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. Her professional attire matched the serious tone in the room. Following her, a young boy caught Phillip's attention. He was no older than 15, a young African-British boy with a lean build. His clothes were sharp, and his eyes were intense, scanning the room with the curiosity of someone who was aware of the significance of this very moment.
"That's the boy wonder," David overheard Philip mutter under his breath, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Wayne grinned but didn't rise to the bait. "This is David Jones," he said. "I'll let him speak for himself."
Tabitha stepped forward, her protective instincts kicking in. "And you are?" she asked, her voice calm but firm.