The moment I stepped through the gate, a few kids were already running drills—cones, shouts, the usual teenage chaos dressed up as structure. About twenty of them were scattered across the 3G, split into two groups: one doing passing patterns that looked improvised, the other taking turns blasting balls at a keeper. A couple of parents leaned on the fence with takeaway coffees, pretending to care. The floodlights gave everything that weird grey glow, like football under anaesthetic.

  One kid caught my eye straight off, not because of his stocky build or the way he was jogging back from a shooting drill, hair sticking to his forehead. It was because of the overlay atop his head.

  I blinked hard, but the box didn’t vanish. Not even a full star. Poor lad.

  I moved my gaze to another lad further down the line, doing the same drill. Taller, wiry, the kind of kid who looked like he’d been told once he had ‘good potential’ and decided to base his entire personality on that. He took a touch, wound up for a shot, and absolutely skied it over the fence. The box appeared above his head all the same.

  One star; better. Though judging from that shot, you’d think he wasn’t a striker.

  I stared, horrified and fascinated. It wasn’t random. Every time I moved my eyes, the boxes followed, jumping from a young lad to another.

  A man was walking along the touchline, clipboard under one arm, shouting half-hearted instructions to the group like he’d been doing this too long to still care about volume. For a moment, I couldn’t place him. The face was older, more lined, and his hair was thin enough at the temples to consider flying to Turkey for a transplant, but the way he walked was painfully familiar.

  Mitch Thompson.

  Bloody hell. It was actually him.

  And of course, even he had an overlay.

  If he had an overlay, did that mean he was still playing? Didn’t make sense. Last I’d heard, Mitch was at Reading; though it might have been a good four years ago. And now he was here, shouting at fifteen-year-olds on a plastic pitch in the arse-end of the arse-end of Berkshire, for what? Petrol money and a free tracksuit?

  I hesitated for a moment, then made my way over. Mitch was still shouting as he turned, squinting at me through the floodlight haze. For a second I thought he didn’t recognize me, then that familiar smirk crept onto his face, the same one he used to give refs right before getting booked.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, lowering the clipboard. “Didn’t think I’d see your mug again.”

  I opened my mouth, not sure what I was meant to say to that, and he beat me to it with a grin.

  He said, “Late for your trial, eh? Not a good look.” The way he said ‘trial’ made it sound like I was here to join a game.

  I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah, trains got delayed,” I lied, because ‘showed up at the wrong ground’ didn’t sound particularly professional. I didn’t even know why I lied there; wasn’t my fault Mitch didn’t specify the location.

  Mitch chuckled. “Figures. You know what you’re supposed to be doing tonight, then?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Good. Jump in with the older lot once they finish this drill. We’ll see what’s left of your legs.”

  I nodded like that was the most reasonable request in the world. Inside, though, the math didn’t add up. Hungerford Town weren’t exactly throwing Prem money around. Clubs like this didn’t have the luxury of hiring defensive coaches for their youth teams. Half the time they were lucky if the bibs matched. So if Mitch was running the session himself, it probably wasn’t because the club asked him to.

  He was doing me a favour.

  After Mitch finished barking at a kid for ‘passing like he was allergic to his left foot,’ I tried focusing on the box above his head again. When I concentrated my will to open his detailed attributes, I was once again met with a single letter:

  Made sense. If this thing was treating reality like a career mode save file, then I hadn’t been officially added to the squad. So, no easy way to cheat my way through this. If I wanted to make sense of whatever the hell was happening, I’d have to rely on the only thing I actually had left: old instincts and rusty ball knowledge.

  Mitch blew the whistle, a sharp blast that cut through the chatter. “Alright, lads! Split bibs and no bibs. Small-sided, two-touch max. You know the drill.” He turned to me. “You’re with the no bibs. Centre of defence.” Then he stepped forward. “Right, listen up. This is Jamie Harrington. He played pro back in the day for Dunsvale back when they were in League One.”

  There was a small murmur of impressed sounds, the polite kind you give when someone’s uncle claims they once marked Harry Kane.

  “And before you lot start mouthing off,” Mitch added, giving one of them a look, “he’s here on my invite. So show a bit of respect and don’t go trying to nutmeg him.”

  Hold on. Was he really wanting me to play with the kids first instead of coaching them?

  I wondered if I could keep up. Seven years off the competitive circuit didn’t mean I’d lost all my fitness—I’d been semi-regular at the gym, done a bit of five-a-side here and there, and my work kept me moving—but lifting crates and swinging hammers was a different kind of leg work than sprinting across a pitch. Not completely unprepared, but not exactly match-ready either.

  A few snickers, but they settled.

  Most of them couldn’t have been more than sixteen. None of them would’ve remembered my name, not properly. League One wasn’t glamorous enough for their generation of highlight reels and TikToks. Still, I caught a few glances, that quiet curiosity of who’s this old bloke getting a run-out with us?

  Mitch clapped his hands once, loud enough to refocus them. “Jamie’s gonna give you pointers where he can. Defending, positioning, that sort of thing. Treat it like a normal game, yeah?”

  That at least made sense now. It was probably easier for him to assess me that way.

  I gave a quick nod, trying to look composed. It didn't help that I could feel a few parents’ eyes on me from beyond the fence. They did look old enough to remember. Their faces didn’t say much, but I could tell they were scanning my name in their heads, rummaging through old back pages or match reports.

  Harrington? Wasn’t he that defender . . .?

  Didn’t he get banned or something . . .?

  The old ghosts.

  I rolled my shoulders, stepping onto the pitch. My boots sank a little into the 3G rubber; the same sound I’d heard a thousand times, just years too late. The boxes danced at the edge of my vision like some augmented reality fever dream. Half-stars, full-stars, roles, numbers. I ignored them this time.

  The whistle went again, and muscle memory took over.