The Next Big Thing

"What should I do? This is bad."

Those were the only thoughts that raced through David's mind as he struggled to find the right words. A massive part of him screamed to just lie. To say he got injured while playing, something simple, something that would keep the focus away from him. That should be alright, he thought. It would protect him. Protect the team. Protect the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, this disaster wouldn't crush everything.

But as he opened his mouth, a strange thing happened — the words refused to come out as planned. Fear, tension, the weight of the moment, or maybe the burning gaze of the coach had scrambled his thoughts and voice alike.

He looked up and locked eyes with Eric ten Hag — eyes blazing red with fury, a storm about to break.

David couldn't help himself. His voice cracked, faltered, and finally broke free, raw and unsteady:

"During the accident I…"

He didn't even finish. The weight of his confession was still hanging in the air when Ten Hag's sharp voice cut through, cold and accusing:

"The accident? The accident?" he snapped, louder this time, his words ringing like a judge's gavel.

Suddenly, all eyes were on David.

It was unbearable.

He could feel the invisible gaze of every single person in the locker room. It wasn't just sight — it was a physical force, like the heat of the sun burning his skin, like the air itself had thickened and pressed against him. The sharp sting of dozens of pairs of eyes drilling into him made his pores crawl, his skin prickle, his heart hammer in his chest.

His breath caught, shallow and quick, like a trapped animal. Panic surged through his veins, a wild tempest of rising anxiety that made his chest tighten and his vision blur at the edges. He tried to steady his breathing — in and out, slow and steady — but the noise, the shouts, the accusing tone… it pushed his panic higher and higher.

Ten Hag was relentless.

"How did you get injured and keep it a secret? You're compromising the whole team! Do you know what this loss means? We're in a fight for the whole season, and you decide to play hurt? To hide it from me? From everyone?"

His voice cracked with frustration and hurt — raw passion behind the anger. This wasn't just fury; it was worry and disappointment mixed in a bitter cocktail.

"You should've told me! Why didn't you say anything? Why risk the team? The match?!"

Ten Hag's words were like thunderclaps, each one crashing against David's chest. Yet even amid the fury, there was a strange tenderness when he glanced down at David's wrapped foot. The care for his player's injury showed through the harsh reprimand, but the blame was still heavy, unrelenting.

As the coach's shout filled the room, he suddenly paused mid-sentence and turned his piercing gaze fully on David — the player, the boy — who was sitting there quietly, head bowed.

"Eh?" Ten Hag's voice softened just a bit, a note of surprise cutting through the anger.

David looked up, startled by the sudden pause, and realized the coach was staring right at him.

Then David felt it — the unexpected heat trickling down his cheek.

Tears.

He hadn't even known he was crying.

His throat tightened, his breath caught again, but this time for a different reason.

The silence stretched, broken only by the whispered murmurs of the other players.

"He's really crying…" one voice said, barely above a breath.

"Oh lord, is this for real?" came another, tinged with disbelief.

"Man up, seriously. What's this?" a harsher voice sneered.

Some voices carried pity, others mockery, a few barely hidden laughter.

David could hear them all, their judgments swirling around him like a cold wind.

He brought his trembling hand up to his cheek, touching the wetness with disbelief.

His skin was slick with tears.

A deep, aching vulnerability opened inside him, a wound far beyond the one wrapped on his leg.

He sat there, exposed, under the heavy gaze of his team and coach, the harshness of the locker room suddenly a raw and lonely place.

The moment stretched endlessly — the pain, the shame, the hopelessness — all crashing down at once.

And still, the tears kept falling.

The moment David felt the wetness on his cheek, shock froze him. Quickly, almost instinctively, he stood up—despite the heavy cast encasing his left leg. A sharp stab of pain shot through him, but the overwhelming rush of emotions pushed through the physical agony. The sudden movement drew a ripple of murmurs across the locker room; heads turned, whispers spreading like wildfire as he wobbled uncertainly on his casted leg.

His breathing became rapid, shallow — a frantic panting that betrayed the storm raging inside him. The room spun slightly, his heart pounding in his ears. Every step felt precarious, unsteady. His mind scrambled, desperate to escape the suffocating pressure, the glaring eyes, the crushing disappointment. Panic rose swiftly, sharp and raw.

David barely registered the voice calling his name, "David! David, wait!" The coach's tone was urgent but gentle, cutting through the chaos. Ten Hag's voice was an anchor in the tumult, but David was beyond hearing, beyond caring. His focus was the door — freedom.

He stumbled forward, clumsy and uncoordinated, the cast on his left leg making every step a perilous gamble. At one point, he nearly lost his balance entirely, flailing his arms instinctively, fighting to stay upright. The murmurs grew louder, some voices anxious, others disbelieving.

"David, come back! Please, wait!" Ten Hag's calls echoed down the hallway as David jerked his hand in a desperate gesture to keep going. The locker room door closed behind him with a soft but final thud.

Outside, the cold air hit him like a slap. The relief was immediate but short-lived as his legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, clutching them as he gasped for air. His breaths came loud and ragged — panicked, uncontrolled.

Behind him, he heard the frantic shouts again, echoing from the locker room. His head whipped left and right, eyes wide with terror. Every instinct screamed to run, to vanish. Remembering his cast, his leg aching terribly, he pushed off the floor, wincing, and bolted down the corridor.

At the entrance to the stadium, a security guard stepped out of his booth, concern etched across his face.

"Oi, David… tough game, huh? You alright?" he called.

David didn't stop. He barely acknowledged the question, his mind trapped in a storm of panic and pain. The guard's words faded behind him as he hurried past, ignoring the shout about his injured leg. His footsteps echoed hurriedly, uneven and desperate.

David's breath was ragged, and his chest felt tight — he needed to get away. He scanned the area frantically, eyes darting from side to side. The world seemed overwhelming and suffocating.

Suddenly, a voice cut through his panic, screaming his name.

"David!"

But the noise barely registered until a firm grip seized his arm, pulling him backward. Spinning around, he found himself face to face with Mohammed — his friend.

Mohammed's eyes were wide with worry, his brow furrowed deeply. "David, what happened? Are you okay? Talk to me, man!" His voice was urgent, desperate to understand, to help.

David barely managed to whisper, "I want to go home."

The ride to David's apartment was quiet except for Mohammed's gentle reassurances. "We're home now, David. You're safe. Do you want to eat something? Drink? I can make anything you want."

But David only nodded slightly, his spirit crushed. He barely responded as he shuffled inside, each step heavy with exhaustion and pain.

Mohammed watched silently as David moved toward his bedroom. "Yeah, you should rest," he said softly. "I'll check the kitchen, make something quick."

David didn't answer. He simply closed the bedroom door behind him with a soft click, shutting out the world—and with it, every lingering whisper, every judging gaze. The room was cloaked in shadows, dim and heavy, as if the darkness itself pressed down on his chest. He let his body collapse onto the bed, the mattress barely cushioning the weight of not just his broken leg but the even more unbearable weight in his heart. His limbs ached, his cast a constant reminder of the physical pain, but inside, it was a different kind of torment—raw, aching, and unrelenting.

A soft, helpless whimper escaped him, a sound almost lost in the suffocating quiet. The loneliness wrapped around him like a suffocating fog. His thoughts tumbled endlessly, spiraling with questions and regrets. What had he done? How had it come to this? He felt crushed by the enormity of it all, like the walls of the room were closing in, shrinking the space until it felt impossible to breathe.

When he had said "home" back there in the hallway, it hadn't been this bleak, cold apartment he sought. No — this place was just a shell, a temporary stop where loneliness thrived and hope felt distant. Home was something else entirely.

Home was Southampton.

Home was the soft warmth of his mother's arms wrapping around him, holding him close when the world was too much to bear. It was the gentle reassurance in his father's voice—the steady strength that always made the impossible seem manageable. It was the smell of familiar meals cooking in the kitchen, the laughter in the living room, the quiet comfort of knowing he was seen, understood, loved without condition.

Here, surrounded by strangers who expected too much, who whispered behind closed doors, David felt like an island—adrift, isolated, and invisible except when they wanted to point fingers.

Tears spilled down his face, unbidden and relentless, carving silent trails across his cheeks as he curled into himself on the bed. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to make himself smaller, hoping somehow to disappear from the weight of all he felt. Each sob was a tiny fracture in his fragile composure, and he let them come, knowing they were the only release he had.

Memories flickered—his mother's smile, his father's reassuring hands on his shoulder—like distant lights in a storm. They were reminders of a world where he belonged, where he was safe. But those images only made the emptiness in the room sharper, the silence more deafening.

He felt hollow, broken in ways the cast on his leg could never explain. The pain inside was deeper, a quiet, gnawing ache that no medicine could touch. It was the ache of dreams deferred, of hope fading beneath the weight of failure and fear.

With trembling hands, he reached for his phone, fingers numb as they dialed the one number that might still reach the warmth he craved. The ringing felt endless, echoing through the empty room like a heartbeat searching for life.

Finally, a familiar voice answered.

And through the cracks in his voice, the desperate, fragile edge of a boy drowning in his own sorrow, David whispered—

"Mom... I need you."