Reporting to the U18s was nowhere near as ceremonial as Zayn had imagined.
After all, the two teams’ training grounds were separated by only a single pitch.
On Sunday morning, Zayn walked through the gates of Bodymoor Heath with his training bag over his shoulder, following the same path he had taken every day for the past year.
The only difference was that when he reached the fork, he did not turn left toward the U16 training pitch.
Instead, he continued another two hundred meters before turning onto the U18 pitch.
What surprised Zayn was seeing Jacob Ramsey.
The young midfielder with short, curly hair carried an equipment bag almost wider than his body and followed close behind Zayn, looking as casual as if he were heading to the canteen for lunch.
“You’re joining the U18s too?” Zayn asked.
“Mr.
Cowans said it was time for me to move up,” Ramsey replied with a shrug.
“He’s been talking to me about it since last week.
It just worked out that we’re starting together.”
“Oh.”
For a player like Jacob Ramsey, who had already been promoted above his age group, joining the U18s had only ever been a matter of time.
The two of them walked around the dividing fence and stepped onto the U18 training pitch.
A tall figure was already waiting for them on the touchline.
Robert David Hughes, the U18 head coach.
Hughes looked at least 1.92 meters tall.
Standing there, he resembled a wall.
He wore a dark claret Villa training jacket with both hands tucked into its pockets, his expression somewhere between stern and appraising.
After learning that he would be joining the U18s, Zayn had searched the original body’s memories for information about the coach.
David Hughes was Welsh, had come through Villa’s academy, and played as a center-back.
His playing career had been unremarkable.
He failed to establish himself at Villa and moved between the lower divisions of English football and the Welsh leagues.
At twenty-five, a serious knee injury forced him to retire.
Afterward, he returned to Villa and devoted himself to academy coaching.
In a way, he and Cowans were cut from the same cloth.
Both men had the club carved into their bones.
The difference was that Gordon Cowans was a legend standing at the summit, while David Hughes was an ordinary man who had climbed upward one step at a time.
“Zayn Ryder.
Jacob Ramsey.”
Hughes’s voice suited his imposing build.
It was deep, clipped, and almost devoid of emotion.
“Cowans told me about both of you.
Ramsey, attacking midfielder, fifteen.”
He turned toward Zayn and studied him for a moment.
“Ryder, nearly seventeen.
Seven years in defensive positions.
Switched to forward yesterday.”
Zayn prepared himself for the inevitable questions.
But Hughes said nothing else.
He did not ask why a player who had spent seven years in defense had suddenly become a forward.
Nor did he show Zayn any special treatment because a Villa legend had personally recommended him.
He simply wrote both names on the attendance sheet in his hand, then nodded toward the pitch.
“Warm up.
Recovery session today.”
Zayn and Ramsey exchanged glances, set down their equipment bags, and joined the U18 players already jogging around the pitch.
As he ran, Zayn controlled his breathing while quietly studying his new team.
At English clubs, squads at each academy age group generally contained fewer than thirty players.
Younger groups were larger.
U9 through U12 squads usually had between twenty-five and thirty players.
By the more competitive U18 and U21 levels, that number was reduced to around eighteen to twenty-two.
Zayn’s former U16 squad had twenty-five players.
The U18 squad in front of him had twenty-two.
As competition grew more intense, clubs kept their older academy squads close to twenty players to ensure that everyone received enough playing time.
Since the U18s had also played the previous day, the session had only been intended for recovery.
“All right, that’s enough for today.
Take the afternoon off and recover properly.”
The players began drifting away in small groups.
Just as Zayn bent down to pick up his equipment bag, the pale golden light screen in the upper right corner of his vision silently refreshed.
A line of text appeared in the centre, surrounded by a faint golden glow.
[The Host has obtained a professional contract.
From now on, Realization Rate can be increased through training and matches.]
The lock had been removed.
The contract he had signed had not only brought him a weekly wage of £400.
It had also unlocked the most important function of the Salary Football System.
From now on, every drop of sweat he shed and every minute he spent playing would contribute directly to his growth.
Zayn slowed his movements and pretended to search through his bag while focusing entirely on the screen.
Another line appeared beneath the first.
[Squad Weekly Wage Ranking activated.]
[Squad Weekly Wage Ranking: 14th.
Realization Rate Bonus: 100%]
£400.
Fourteenth place.
Neither good nor bad.
Thirteen players in the twenty-two-man squad earned more than he did.
Most were probably older, had already renewed their contracts once, or were considered more promising prospects.
Those below him were likely players who had signed professional contracts on lower starting wages.
A 100% bonus meant his template Realization Rate would improve at the system’s standard pace during training and matches.
His progress would not accelerate because he earned more than his teammates, but he would not be penalized for sitting near the bottom of the ranking either.
…
After leaving Bodymoor Heath, Zayn climbed onto his bicycle and raced home.
The journey normally took ten minutes.
Today, he made it in five.
His father had promised the previous day that they would go to a match together.
One of the most famous rivalries in English football, the Second City derby.
Zayn left his bicycle by the door and pushed his way inside.
As usual, Biscuit had heard him arrive and was waiting in the entrance hall.
Today, however, the golden retriever did not wag his tail and circle around him.
Instead, he sat in the doorway, staring directly at Zayn with round brown eyes while letting out a low whine.
“Biscuit, don’t look at me like that.”
Zayn stepped around him and continued inside, thinking that the dark-coated golden retriever really knew how to work people.
Biscuit immediately rose and followed him.
His claws made soft tapping sounds against the wooden floor as he stayed pressed close to Zayn’s leg.
In the living room, George had already wrapped his scarf around his neck.
It was a deep claret Villa scarf with frayed edges, an old favourite he had worn for years.
Lucy stood in front of the mirror, trying to bend the brim of her Villa cap into the perfect shape.
Not seeing Anna getting ready, Zayn asked, “mom isn’t coming?”
Anna sat beside the sofa with a half-read paperback open in front of her and a steaming cup of tea within reach.
She had little interest in football unless her own son was playing.
“I’m staying home with Biscuit.”
At the sound of his name, Biscuit’s ears rose, then immediately drooped again.
He seemed to realize that his fate had already been decided.
He pushed his head into Zayn’s palm in one final, hopeless attempt.
Zayn crouched and rubbed the golden retriever’s large, fluffy head with both hands.
“It really isn’t possible.
I’m not being cruel.
Stadiums across England only allow guide dogs and service dogs inside.”
Biscuit’s ears perked up.
He trotted over to Lucy and began nudging her calf with his nose, wagging his tail even harder than before.
His reasoning was clearly simple. This story is hosted at g.com.
Perhaps the youngest member of the family would give in.
Lucy crouched down, held Biscuit’s face between her hands, and pressed her forehead against his head.
“Silly dog.
I didn’t buy the tickets, I’m not driving, and I’m not the one who signed a new contract.
I have the least say out of anyone.
Be good, and I’ll bring you something tasty when we come back.”
George took Zayn’s Villa scarf from the coat hook and tossed it across the living room.
“Let’s go.
Any later and we won’t get inside in time.”
…
The Birmingham derby.
Aston Villa against Birmingham City, one of the oldest local rivalries in English football.
Aston Villa was founded in 1874, with Birmingham City following just one year later.
Both clubs date back to the earliest days of English football.
Outside St Andrew’s, Villa supporters heading toward the away section gathered before entering the stadium, claret flags rippling above the crowd.
Lucy held tightly to George’s sleeve as they pushed through the mass of people, her eyes wide.
She had attended plenty of matches before, but the atmosphere on derby day still left her both nervous and excited.
George rested a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and hummed a broken version of “Holte Enders in the Sky.”
He was badly out of tune, but no one corrected him.
Zayn walked beside them with his Villa scarf wrapped twice around his neck.
In his previous life, he had watched countless local derbies on television.
The Milan derby, the Merseyside derby, the North London derby, the Madrid derby.
Through a screen, the deafening roar of the crowd had been reduced to a distorted hum from the speakers.
The surging stands had been confined within the edges of a television.
Now, for the first time, he was standing among it all and experiencing it himself.
…
Aston Villa’s promotion campaign had been a roller coaster.
A disastrous opening run of only one victory in seven matches had dragged the team into trouble and placed them under enormous pressure.
Steve Bruce’s side then responded with an eight-match unbeaten streak, climbing back into the promotion race.
By October, however, their momentum had begun to fade again.
A 2-0 away defeat to Wolves halted their rise.
Fortunately, Villa had beaten Fulham 2-1 before the derby, giving them some breathing room after weeks of uneven form.
This was the final match of October.
Their opponents were their bitterest rivals.
No one wanted to lose a derby.
For ninety minutes, both sides fought for every ball and contested every second.
When the final whistle sounded, however, the score remained 0-0.
The teams had combined for twenty-eight shots.
The woodwork had been struck twice, and both goalkeepers had made three crucial saves.
The pitch at St Andrew’s looked as though it had been ploughed.
Someone went down during every aerial challenge, and every tackle carried a reckless intensity.
It was a scoreless derby, but a true derby in every sense.
Neither side had won, yet no one could call it a poor match.
There were no celebrations in the away end, but there were no curses either.
The supporters remained where they were, applauding and singing for a team that had given everything but failed to claim victory.
“Lion Hearts” rang out across their rivals’ stadium.
Zayn did not know when he had started singing along.
The sound burst from his throat before the thought had even reached his mind.
His body reacted before his consciousness could catch up.
The lyrics, melody, and every syllable engraved in the original body’s memory poured out naturally.
Zayn’s voice grew hoarse.
The singing around him seemed to come from somewhere far away, yet at the same time, it felt as though it were echoing inside his chest.
Just wait.
One day, he would make all these people sing his name.