The rain came down in steady sheets, cold and thin, soaking through the light fabric of Russell's training shirt. It wasn't the kind of rain that roared or pounded, but the kind that persisted, quiet, relentless, and bone-deep. His brown hair, already drenched, clung stubbornly to his forehead. Strands stuck down in jagged lines that kept falling in front of his eyes. He kept brushing them back every few seconds, but the water made it pointless. They just flopped down again, heavy and slick with rain.
His breathing was slow and steady, the kind that came only after nearly an hour of focused drills. The kind of breathing where you could feel your ribs expand just a bit too much and every exhale seemed to cool your insides. His shirt stuck to his skin like a second layer, outlining the muscle definition in his arms and shoulders. He wasn't tall, just about average for a boy of sixteen, but there was something in his build that told a different story. A story of work, of discipline, of repetition. He wasn't bulky, not oversized like some gym-rat kids, but there was a lean sharpness to him, the kind of strength that didn't come from lifting weights, but from years of drills, sprints, and effort.
He placed the ball a few steps ahead of him, just beyond the edge of the waterlogged patch of grass he had claimed as his makeshift pitch. A broken fence lined one side of the field, jagged and worn from time and neglect. Behind him sat a goalpost, skeletal and empty, no net, just the outline of purpose. But Russell had rigged something up himself, a tangled mesh net from some old garden project, fastened with worn-out bungee cords and a bit of tape. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't even all that stable. But it did the job. It caught the ball. That was enough.
He took three steps back. His eyes narrowed, scanning the ball's position and the imaginary defenders in front of him. He had done this a thousand times before. His right foot sliced clean through the air and met the ball with a thud that reverberated through his boot. The shot flew low, fast, with that beautiful skimming spin, and it buried itself into the back of the netting with a satisfying, muffled smack.
Russell didn't stop to admire it. Instead, he spun quickly, arms thrown out wide, chest puffed forward, launching into a mock celebration. He jumped and twisted in the air, landing with a dramatic stomp. Just like Ronaldo used to do. For a fleeting second, he let himself believe it. He imagined the stands around him, filled with screaming fans, bright lights shining through the mist, voices chanting his name. He wasn't cold. He wasn't soaked. He wasn't alone. He was just a boy who had made it, if only for a moment in his head.
He smiled faintly to himself. It wasn't pride. Not exactly. More like relief. He jogged to retrieve the ball, which had rolled a few feet away, nudged by the wind. As he picked it up, his eyes lifted toward the sky. The clouds were stacked in dense grey layers, unmoving, thick like smoke that had forgotten to lift. The rain wasn't easing. If anything, it was growing stronger, heavier, as if nature had decided to test his endurance.
He wiped his forehead again with the back of his hand, even though the gesture was pointless. The water didn't stop. It never did.
That was enough, he told himself.
His fingers were starting to go numb. His neck was sore from the cold. His legs ached in that particular way that told him tomorrow morning would not be kind. The trial was less than a day away, his shot at Middlesbrough. A chance to show what he had in him. He had earned it. That was a fact. Still, something had dragged him out here today. Something inside him that refused to rest, that buzzed restlessly no matter how still he sat at home.
He tucked the ball under his arm and began walking off the pitch. His thoughts moved slowly now, drifting like the rain, aimless but heavy. He wasn't nervous. Not in the traditional sense. It wasn't fear of failure that sat in his gut. It was something else entirely. A fear of not being perfect. Of not doing justice to what he knew he was capable of. Of being seen, but misunderstood. Judged, but not truly known.
The muddy grass squelched under his boots as he reached the edge of the field. He climbed over the sagging wooden fence, the wood slick under his hands. The road was empty. Of course it was. No one else trained in weather like this. No one else would have even thought of it. Stupid, they'd say. Reckless. But for Russell, this was the only time he felt like he could breathe, really breathe, without noise or rules or expectations.
Five minutes later, he reached his street. His hoodie was pulled up now, not that it made a difference. The rain had long since soaked through every layer he wore. His house was halfway down the row, modest but clean. The kind of home that blended in. A pale blue door sat in the middle of the brick frame, flanked by white window trims that had begun to peel at the edges. The garden was neat. The grass was trimmed. Everything in its place. The gate creaked when he opened it, and the porch, though small, offered a moment of dry shelter.
He stood there briefly, dripping. He shook some of the water off, then unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The smell of home hit him instantly. Not food, not something warm or cooking. Just that familiar scent, the one tied to worn-out carpets, aged furniture, the faint trace of old polish, and the ghost of sweat embedded deep in fabric. The hallway was narrow. To his left were framed photos, lined with careful spacing. Most were of him, school portraits, football team photos, a few candids. But nestled among them were older ones. Photos of his dad in his twenties, in another kind of kit, a different time. One showed him lifting a small trophy, teammates crowding around, faces half-frozen in laughter. His dad's smile in that photo was bright and wide, as if he had the world at his feet.
Russell paused and stared at the picture. That weight settled again. Not quite sadness. Not pressure either. Just a quiet heaviness. Something that was always there, humming just under the surface.
He dropped the ball by the front door and bent to unlace his boots. The chill in his fingers made the task slow, clumsy.
"Where the hell were you"
The voice came sharp from the living room, cutting through the silence. It wasn't yelling. Not yet. But it was close.
Russell straightened instinctively. His dad stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. He wore a black t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, his feet bare. His hair was thinning more than last year, and the muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched it hard. The vein in his temple stood out. His eyes narrowed as they swept over Russell's drenched form.
"You were out in this, are you serious"
"I was training," Russell said quietly.
"In the rain" His dad stepped forward. "You've got a bloody trial tomorrow, Middlesbrough, and you're out there kicking a ball in a storm like it's some schoolyard kickabout"
"There's no thunder," Russell replied, voice flat.
"Don't talk back"
He bit his lip and stayed silent. His chest rose and fell a little faster now.
"You think this is funny, you think this is some kind of game, the most important trial of your life is tomorrow. If you catch something, even a cough, you risk everything"
"I didn't go full pace. I didn't push myself too hard," he said.
"You're soaking wet" his father snapped.
"I just wanted to stay sharp"
"You think you're not sharp enough" His father pointed toward the hallway, eyes burning. "You train every single day. I train you. I drive you. I watch every match. I talk to scouts. I pull strings. And you're telling me you needed to go play in the rain"
Russell didn't respond. The words sat in his mouth, bitter and unspoken. His throat stung, but he didn't let it show. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, still red and raw from the cold. Droplets slipped from his sleeve and hit the floor, one after another.
"You don't understand what's on the line," his father said, voice lower now. "You don't get it"
But Russell did. He had heard it all before. The story of the injury. The missed contract. The dream that had slipped away weeks before it was meant to begin. The pain that never really left.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, voice soft but steady. "I didn't mean to risk anything"
His dad exhaled, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "Just go shower. Now. And don't pull that shit again"
Russell nodded, picked up the ball, and started toward the stairs. He walked past the pictures again, each one seeming to watch him with unblinking eyes. The fourth step creaked as always. He entered his room, small, clean, everything in its place. Posters of footballers on the wall. Boots lined up neatly by the door. Kit hung on a hook. He closed the door behind him and stood in the center of the room for a long second.
I was just trying to get ready. What's wrong with that?
It wasn't about rebellion. He hadn't gone out to defy anyone. He hadn't ignored advice. He hadn't lied. He just couldn't sit still. Something inside him kept moving, spinning. A need to feel the ball at his feet, to be in control for even one small moment.
He sat on the edge of his bed, peeling his wet socks from his feet. The skin underneath was pale, wrinkled, cold. He rubbed his toes briefly, then stood and moved into the bathroom. The water hissed as he turned the knobs. Steam curled against the mirror.
He stepped into the bath. The hot water ran over his skin, chasing away the cold inch by inch.
His body began to relax.
But his mind didn't.
Tomorrow is big.
He knew that. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything.
But the voice in his head, his own voice, had already begun to whisper.
What if it's not enough
He tilted his head back, letting the water cascade over his face, eyes closed.
It washed away the rain.
But not the weight.
Never the weight.