Alex was exhausted. His first team training had been brutal. The manager, Steve, had him doing defensive drills until his legs felt like they were full of wet sand.
He was a professional player now. He had a five year contract. And his new life meant he was the first one to training, and the last one to leave.
He looked at the watch on his wrist. The one the team had given him.
Three fifty five PM.
He limped across the perfect grass of the training center. He was heading for the U18 pitch.
He was a professional. He was rich.
And he was still a duck.
He sighed. Mark was going to kill him.
He got to the pitch.
Mark was already there. He was not just standing with a bag of balls. He had set up cones. A small goal. He had a stack of water bottles. He looked... organized.
"You are late," Mark called out. He did not sound angry. He sounded like a coach.
"It is four o'clock," Alex panted, jogging over.
