Michael Emenalo steepled his fingers, his expression the perfectly calibrated blend of regret and boardroom finality. "David, you have to understand. Football is a business. And no sane man continues to invest in a losing venture."
He gestured vaguely toward the window, as if pointing at the ghosts of departed teammates. "You've seen the others move on. It's time for you to accept reality."
David sighed. At nineteen, with the face of a kid who should be fretting over prom, but the eyes of someone who'd already seen the invoice, the effect was jarring—a boy dressed in a man's exhaustion.
Michael watched, unmoved. He'd seen every reaction in the book: tears, rage, begging, the stunned silence.
The script was familiar. So was the precaution—a discreetly stationed security guard right outside, prepped to intervene if the 'conversation' turned physical. Honestly, the drama some players concocted.
So when David simply stood up, Michael's shoulders relaxed a fraction seeing no aggressiveness. He judged David as among the sensible one.
David didn't lunge. He didn't even raise his voice. He just fixed Michael with a look that was far too weary for his birth certificate.
"Honestly?" David said, his voice quiet. "If we're just talking business? You're absolutely right. I'm a depreciating asset. A bad bet."
He paused, a faint, ironic twist on his lips. "But football isn't just a business. It's the sound of 40,000 people holding their breath. It's the stupid, beautiful dream you have when you're six. It's the reason a 'sane man' would run headfirst into a wall of muscle for ninety minutes."
He shrugged, the gesture conceding everything and nothing. "Of course, that's a loser talking. So what do I know?"
He didn't wait for a reply. It wasn't arrogance; it was the profound indifference of someone who'd already read the last page of the book. Arguing with the author was pointless.
Outside the office, past the wary glance of the bulky man leaning by the water cooler, David walked.
He moved through the stadium's bowels, a place that once smelled like home—of damp grass, liniment, and ambition. Now it just smelled of cleaning products and corporate decisions.
Emerging into the London drizzle, he stopped. He couldn't help but turn back.
Stamford Bridge rose before him, a fortress of blue memories.
A week ago, he'd wake up in his young, broken body, the cruelest second chance imaginable. He knew this day was coming.
The injury had stolen his electric pace, and his confidence had followed it out the door. The release was just the formal funeral for a career that had already flatlined.
It wasn't just adding salt to the wound. It was the whole damn ocean, and he was expected to swim in it.
Last time, it had taken him three years to even crawl back to shore.
Yeah, he had his reasons for the decadence. Try spending every waking moment from age seven with a ball at your feet, dreaming in stadium lights, only to have it all crumble because one tendon decided to snap.
It was a solid excuse, as excuses go.
But here was the truth, the one that kept him up at night: as the years had passed, he'd seen people get hit with worse. Real tragedy, the kind that leaves permanent shadows.
And they hadn't spiraled into the same glorious, pizza-stained pity party he'd thrown for himself. So, yeah. The excuse was wearing thin.
His newfound confidence, though came from two places. First, a hard-won maturity that felt like a mental callus coupled with his body.
Second, and far more peculiar, was the glowing white bar that floated in his vision whenever he trained or was in a competition, an experience bar.
A slow smile spread across his face. He tugged his headphones on, Armin van Buuren playing, and looked out at London. 2013.
A decade before the world would collectively decide to lose its mind. People hurried past, clutching smartphones that felt like toys, blissfully unaware of how precious these simple, un-crazy days really were.
By the time he pushed through the front door, his head was clear, the old fire rekindled.
The silence, however, was unexpected. No Mum clattering in the kitchen, no sisters arguing over the telly, no Dad's commentary drifting from his study, just an empty house.
A statistical anomaly.
Then he remembered. This exact ghost house had welcomed him the day he was released from the club. His mother and the girls at an aunt's house, his father hanging out with his friends.
He thought it was perfect, dropping his keys on the sideboard. The universe, in its clumsy way, was handing him a blank sheet of paper.
The past week had been about survival: pretending he wasn't completely unmoored in time, relearning the feel of his younger skin. He hadn't dared to think about the future.
Now, with the trance music soothing his thoughts, there was nothing else to do.
David sank into the sofa thinking about his career, his path and his life.
First thing first: money was off the table as a motive. Last time, it was desperation that drove him.
He'd spent three years adrift, until a miracle he had nothing to do with—Leicester City, 5000-to-1, lifting the Premier League trophy—had given him hope. If they could defy logic, maybe he could, too.
He'd traded cleats for a keyboard, writing the perfect football life he'd been denied.
The beginning was naturally full of self-doubt, living in his childhood room living off his parents while his friends bought houses. But by 2026, after thirteen grueling, glorious years? He'd cracked it.
He was in the top 0.1%, pulling in over a hundred grand a month from stories about fictional wonderkids and last-minute winners.
So, even in the absolute worst scenario—like, "living-off-expired-cup-noodles" level of bad—he'd always have his writing to catch him.
Plus, with all those future-story concepts buzzing in his brain, he'd basically be a one-man entertainment revolution for this era.
Not too shabby for a fallback plan.
And since money was off screaming into the void somewhere, his career choice came down to three things: childhood dreams, midlife regrets, and that weird, glowing experience bar that only popped up when he was training.
"Alright, so goal number one: make it to a team. Or, get ambitious—lead a squad to a Premier League title. Or go completely delusional and win the Champions League…" He shook his head before his imagination could sprint any further. "Next thing I know, I'll be mentally lifting the World Cup for a national team that hasn't even called me."
Right. Maybe he should focus on step one: finding an actual team to play for. Daydreaming about trophies was fun and all, but right now, he wasn't even worthy of a practice bib.
"But should I even go for a trial right now?" he wondered. Sure, muscle memory was still on his side—his body still remember how to play football.
But originaly, he was known for his speed, not his slick skills. He wasn't exactly out there doing step-overs and rainbow flicks. More like… zoom-overs and hopeful crosses.
Not that he was terrible, he'd survived years in Chelsea's youth setup. You don't do that without decent basics. It's just that "decent" doesn't exactly make peoples reach for their highlighters anymore.
His eyes drifted to the floating experience bar only he could see. Almost full. If he kept training like he had this past week—since the whole "reborn in my younger, more elastic body" situation—he'd max it out in six to ten days.
But now he was training solo. No more structured drills, no more squad sessions. Which meant progress would slow to a crawl… and honestly, David was way too curious about this so-called 'cheat' to put it on hold.
What if he aced a trial, passed the medical… and then, a few days later, the magic 'cheat' suddenly fixed his old injury? How would he explain that? "Oh, just some extra stretches, doc."
He shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. Because this training—with its visible, glowing progress bar—was dangerously addictive.
If you've ever had a brain that thrives on instant gratification (hello, ADHD), you'd understand. Leaving that bar unfinished felt like ignoring an itch in your soul.