The sky was still bruised with night when they started.
No birdsong. No sunrise. Just cold turf under cleats and the distant hum of the city waking up beyond the trees.
At a standard training ground, the floodlights buzzed overhead like a thousand tired insects, casting long shadows across the dew-slicked pitch. It was early. Too early for any teenager to be this awake, let alone this active.
But this was Manchester United's under-16s. There was no such thing as too early anymore.
"Round it again, boys!" One of the assistant coaches shouted from the sideline, stopwatch in hand.
Sixteen teenage boys ran passing drills on a tight grid like machines. One-touch. Move. One-touch. Move. Mistakes were met with shouted corrections, sloppy touches with long, silent glances.
Jerry's lungs were already burning.
He wasn't alone. Everyone was struggling.
