The rain in Manchester didn't wash away the guilt; it just made the mud stick to Kyle's boots faster. It was a freezing Tuesday in November, the kind of weather that separated the professionals from the hopefuls, and the hopefuls from the boys who should just go home.
"Useless! Absolute garbage, Kyle!"
The voice of Coach Kavanagh cut through the howling wind like a serrated knife. Kyle stood in the center circle of the Ironwood Academy training ground, his chest heaving, his jersey clinging to his skin like a second layer of regret. Around him, the other boys shuffled their feet, looking anywhere but at him. Puddles were forming on the grass, reflecting the gray, unforgiving sky.
Kavanagh, a man built like a brick outhouse with a temper to match, stormed across the pitch. His boots squelched angrily with every step. He stopped inches from Kyle's face, spraying spittle as he yelled.
"You had a three-yard pass to Miller! Three yards!" Kavanagh roared, pointing a thick finger at the stricken-looking boy to Kyle's left. "You chose to back-heel it into nowhere. Are you trying to be funny? Do you think this is a circus?"
"I... I slipped, Coach," Kyle stammered, his teeth chattering slightly from the cold and the adrenaline dump.
"I don't care if you slipped, broke a leg, or got abducted by aliens!" Kavanagh screamed. "You've been here three years, Kyle. Three years! And you still control the ball like a frightened donkey. You're slow. Your first touch is heavy. And your vision..." He laughed humorlessly. "You play with your eyes closed."
Kyle looked down at the mud. He knew it was true. He had tried. God, he had tried. He ran extra laps, he stayed behind after practice, but the ball never seemed to do what he wanted it to do. It was like he was fighting against his own body.
"Get off my pitch," Kavanagh said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
Kyle looked up, hope fading. "Coach?"
"Get your gear. Get out of my academy. If I see your face here tomorrow morning, I'm calling security. You're done, Kyle. Go find a new dream. This one isn't for you."
Kavanagh turned his back, clapping his hands loudly. "Alright, rest of you! Lap the pitch! Warm down! Move it!"
Kyle stood frozen for a moment as the team jogged past him. No one met his eyes. Not even Leo, his best friend, who offered a sad, apologetic shrug as he ran by.
"Bye bye, donkey," a voice whispered.
It was Marcus Sterling, the academy captain and the golden boy. He didn't stop running; he just let the words drift back to Kyle like poison.
Kyle walked to the locker room in a daze. The silence was deafening. He stripped off his muddy kit, his movements mechanical. He didn't cry. He was too numb for tears. He packed his bag, the sound of the zipper echoing like a gunshot in the empty room.
He walked out of the stadium into the twilight. The streetlights were blurred by the downpour. He thought about his dad waiting at home, the proud look that would turn to pity when Kyle told him he'd been cut. He couldn't go home. Not yet.
He needed to think. He needed to erase the image of Kavanagh's disgusted face.
Kyle turned left instead of right, away from the bus stop. He just started walking. He walked past the chippie, past the closed park, toward the busy dual carriageway that circled the city center. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead.
Why couldn't he be good enough? He loved the game. He loved the smell of the grass, the sound of the ball hitting the net, the geometry of the passing lanes. But his body refused to cooperate.
He was so absorbed in his misery that he didn't hear the screech of tires until it was too late.
He stepped off the curb to cross the intersection. A pair of headlights blazed through the rain, blinding him. There was a horn, loud and long, and the sickening sound of a brakes locking up on wet asphalt.
Kyle turned his head, time seeming to stretch into an eternity. He saw the grille of the car. He saw the shocked face of the driver.
Then, impact.
The world flipped upside down. Pain exploded in his side, then his head. He hit the wet asphalt hard, tumbling like a discarded ragdoll. The rain felt cold against his burning skin.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. The last thing he heard was the screaming of a woman who had been waiting at the bus stop, and the faint, rhythmic beep of a siren in the distance.
Football is over, he thought. Really over.