The next morning started the same way most mornings did at the MIC tournament—early. Way too early.
The kind of early that felt personal, like the universe had specifically designed it to test the willpower of teenagers with sore legs and dreams of playing in front of 80,000 fans.
The sun was still hiding behind the hills, the sky a soft mix of dark blue and dull orange, that moment just before dawn fully cracked open. The floodlights lit the pitch with a cold, artificial brightness, buzzing faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the dew-slicked grass. It was quiet except for the occasional cleat squeak, muffled yawns, and the gentle thud of footballs rolling across the ground.
Manchester United's U-16 squad was already halfway through warm-ups.
