Xander Hamrol couldn't stop smiling.
He sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed in the same black tracksuit he had worn to the training ground earlier. His heart kept replaying the moment over and over again like a favorite song. The words of his coach echoed with perfect clarity in his mind.
"You've been promoted to the senior team. Report to Carrington tomorrow morning."
He had imagined hearing those words so many times that they had almost lost meaning in his daydreams. But now they were real. Spoken. Delivered. And the difference was overwhelming. He felt like the world had tilted on its axis. He was no longer standing in the academy's shadow. He was stepping into the spotlight.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a prank. It wasn't something that would disappear when he blinked.
Xander picked up his phone, the device almost slipping from his sweaty hand. His fingers moved on their own, muscle memory guiding them to the number he always dialed first, no matter what happened. Whether it was good or bad, she was the first one to know.
His leg bounced as it rang. One, two, three rings, and then—
"Hallo?" came the familiar, gentle voice of his mother.
Xander swallowed the excitement clogging his throat. "Mom."
Something in his tone must have given it away.
"What is it, mein Schatz?" she asked, instantly alert.
He took a breath, trying to keep it together. "I got promoted to the first team."
There was a pause on the other end. It lasted just long enough to make Xander wonder if the call had dropped. Then came the sound of movement, like she had stood up too quickly from her chair.
"You're not joking?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"I swear," he said. "Coach told me today. I start training with the first team tomorrow."
A small gasp escaped her. Then joy erupted through the speaker. "Oh my God! Xander! You, oh my God! I'm so proud of you!"
His grin widened until his cheeks ached. "Thanks, Mom."
"You've worked so hard for this," she said. He could hear the thickness in her voice now, the tremble of held-back tears. "You've earned it. Your father would have said the same thing."
Xander's heart gave a heavy thud. He looked at the ceiling, blinking fast. "Yeah. I know."
There was a stretch of silence between them. It wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Real. The kind of silence where emotions said more than words ever could.
"You'll do great," she finally said, with warmth and certainty. "Just stay calm, keep your head up, and don't let the pressure get to you."
"I won't," he replied softly. "I'll try to enjoy it. But I can't lie, I'm nervous."
"Of course you're nervous," she said. "It means you care."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yeah."
They talked for a while longer. Mostly small things. What time he had to be there. What he should eat in the morning. Whether he was bringing a jacket just in case it rained. But eventually, the call had to end.
Xander set his phone beside him, leaned back against the headboard, and stared at the ceiling. The silence returned, but it was different now. The noise wasn't gone. It had simply gone inward.
His thoughts ran wild.
Would training be as intense as they said? Would the older players even talk to him? Would they see him as just another academy kid? What if he embarrassed himself? What if he wasn't ready?
He thought about the players he would be joining. Bruno Fernandes. Marcus Rashford. Casemiro. Ronaldo. These were not just stars. They were legends in the making. Some had already made history.
And now, he was supposed to stand beside them.
His stomach twisted. It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was pressure. The kind that curled its fingers around your ribs and squeezed.
Training would be faster. Stronger. Smarter. Mistakes wouldn't be tolerated like they were in the academy. Here, there were eyes everywhere. Watching. Judging.
Even though his body was tired from the day, sleep didn't come easily. He lay in bed for a while with his eyes closed, but his mind continued to sprint ahead. Every scenario played out in his imagination. Every slip, every stumble, every bad first touch.
But under all of that noise, something steady pulsed beneath.
A sense of purpose.
He didn't make it this far just to crumble. He didn't climb the ladder to stop at the final rung.
He would show them he belonged.
Eventually, exhaustion took hold. And like a fighter finally giving up, his thoughts quieted and let sleep claim him.
The next morning came quickly. Too quickly. His alarm buzzed at 6:30 a.m. sharp, but Xander was already half-awake by then. The excitement had shaken him loose from any deep sleep. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and looked around his dimly lit room.
Today was the day.
He got up and changed into the clothes he had carefully set out the night before. Black training pants, a red Manchester United zip-up jacket with the club crest proudly stitched on the chest, and spotless white sneakers. He checked himself in the mirror. Adjusted his hair. Straightened the jacket.
Then he grabbed his bag and headed out.
The car ride to Carrington felt completely different from all the others. Usually, he was dropped off at the academy side, where youth players gathered like a school hallway. But today was different.
Today, he asked the driver to take him to the senior team facility.
The building ahead looked like something out of a magazine. Sleek. Modern. Every inch of it gave off professionalism. There was a confidence in its stillness. This was where the top played. This was where greatness trained.
Xander stepped out of the car and adjusted the strap on his bag. He took a breath, grounding himself, and walked toward the entrance.
A security booth sat near the front, with a tall man in a black jacket standing inside. The guard looked up as Xander approached.
"ID?" he asked.
Xander reached into his jacket pocket and handed it over. The guard scanned it, glanced at his monitor, and nodded.
"Go ahead," he said, passing the card back. "First time?"
"Yeah," Xander replied, voice steady.
The guard smiled faintly. "Good luck."
Xander nodded and kept walking.
Every step felt surreal. Just two years ago, he had stood far away from this building, peeking through fences with the other academy boys, hoping to catch a glimpse of a senior player. They had whispered and laughed, made jokes about walking through those very doors.
Now here he was. Not watching. Not pretending. Living it.
He scanned his ID at the door, and it slid open with a soft hiss. The hallway inside was silent, polished, almost too clean. The lights were white and cool. The air smelled faintly of lemon and grass.
He followed the directions he had been sent until he reached the changing room.
When he entered, it was empty.
Rows of lockers lined the walls, each one neatly labeled. Red training shirts folded perfectly. It was like a museum of discipline. And then, he saw it.
"X. Hamrol."
His name.
On a real locker.
He sat down slowly in front of it. His knees bounced up and down as nerves crept in again. He adjusted his position, sat straight, then slouched. Sat straight again. His fingers tapped against his legs without him realizing it.
Then the door opened.
Xander looked up.
Alejandro Garnacho stepped inside, his dark hair slightly wet from what looked like a recent shower. He caught Xander's eye and offered a grin.
"About time, right?" Garnacho said.
Xander laughed quietly, relieved. "Yeah. Feels weird being in here."
"You'll get used to it," Garnacho said, plopping down beside him. "They're not as scary as they look."
Xander gave a small nod. "You nervous?"
"A little," Garnacho admitted, shrugging. "But we earned this. They know that."
That one sentence helped more than Garnacho probably realized. The word we meant everything. He wasn't alone.
They chatted about the usual stuff. Who might show up first. What the coaches were like. Garnacho mentioned that Bruno went hard in every training session, and that Ten Hag didn't miss anything, not even a misplaced pass.
Xander was about to respond when the door opened again.
And everything changed.
Cristiano Ronaldo walked in.
The energy in the room shifted like a pressure drop. Xander sat up straighter. His heart rate jumped without warning. His skin tingled.
Garnacho was worse. He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe. Everyone knew Garnacho idolized Ronaldo. His dorm room had Ronaldo posters. His celebrations mirrored Ronaldo's. His Instagram was practically a shrine.
Ronaldo moved without urgency, completely relaxed. He placed his bag down, pulled out his gear, and started changing with fluid, practiced motions.
He didn't even need to say anything. His presence filled the room.
But then, after a moment, he glanced their way.
"You two," Ronaldo said, voice calm. "Congratulations."
Xander blinked. Did he really just say that?
"Thank you," Xander said, standing up slightly.
"Thanks," Garnacho echoed quickly.
Ronaldo didn't say anything else. He finished changing, tying his boots like a man preparing for war. Every action was efficient. Measured.
Xander hesitated, then asked, "Isn't it a little early to start training?"
Ronaldo glanced over again and nodded once.
"It's never too early to train."
There was no ego in his tone. No bravado. It was simply the truth as he saw it.
Xander had no response. He just nodded back.
He looked at the clock.
Training didn't start for another hour.
But Ronaldo was already preparing.
And in that moment, Xander understood something deeper than he had before.
If he wanted to belong here, really belong, he had to do more than keep up.
He had to go beyond.