Chapter 169: A day before the match
"Arrrgh," David groaned, a low, pained sound escaping his lips as he shifted slightly in bed. His left foot throbbed with a dull soreness that hadn’t been there yesterday—or at least not this bad. He reached down and rubbed it gently, rotating the ankle with practiced care. As he did, the memory of the moment came back—how, in the heat of the chaos, he’d used that same leg to kick the car door open.
Now, there was a pulsing ache running from the arch up to his shin. Nothing broken. Just sore. He grimaced and slowly lowered the foot to the floor, pressing down with caution. The sting that followed wasn’t unbearable, just a reminder—sharp enough to make him wince, soft enough to convince himself he could manage.
Tomorrow was match day. Just light training today, followed by a tactical session and lineup briefings. But even light training couldn’t hide an injury. And with the starting XI still undecided, David knew he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now. Not when he’d fought so hard to be taken seriously.
He told himself the pain was temporary. Mind over matter. Just another test on the long road to glory. He’d seen players limp for their countries, shed blood for their crests, and rise from the ground like titans fueled not by strength, but by purpose. Football wasn’t just a game—it was war dressed in jerseys, dreams draped in sweat. He wasn’t just a boy fighting for a spot; he was a soldier fighting for his name, his team, his pride. His future
So he decided not to tell anyone.
Maybe after training, he could slip away and get a massage. What were they called again—physios? Yeah. The club physios could help loosen things up if it got worse. Or maybe he’d just rely on the one person who always seemed to know how to fix him.
Mohamed.
His best friend. His teammate. His unofficial masseuse ever since they bunked together at the academy and Mo had discovered that his hands worked magic on tight calves and stiff shoulders. David smiled at the memory of their banter, of Mo grumbling like an old man while expertly kneading sore muscles.
Still grinning faintly, he reached for his phone lying beside his pillow. The screen lit up in the early morning gloom as he scrolled through his contacts. Mohamed’s name popped up—saved under "Mo."
They hadn’t spoken since yesterday’s chaos. After everything went down and David had left the hospital, there hadn’t been time. No texts. No calls. But that was about to change.
He hit the call button.