The alarm had not gone off yet, but Xander was already awake.
His eyes opened slowly to the faint glow of the streetlight outside leaking through the blinds, tracing thin lines across the ceiling. His body felt heavy, legs and shoulders carrying the weight of yesterday, but his mind was already racing. Images from the last training session ran through him like a highlight reel he could not pause. The way the ball rolled under his foot when he dropped McTominay, the clean strike Ronaldo hit, the net rippling before he even moved, the queue of players giving him a slap on the back as he ran through the line. It had all felt like a dream, but it was a dream he was now living, every breath reminding him that it was real.
He turned to check the time on his phone, the screen lighting up softly in the dark room. 5:37 A M. Still over an hour before he needed to be up, but the thought of trying to fall back asleep felt pointless. His eyes blinked once, twice, but the tiredness would not come back, not when today was waiting for him outside.
Carefully, he sat up, feet pressing against the cold floor, moving quietly so he would not wake Jeremy, who was buried under his covers on the other side of the room, breathing softly, lost in the peaceful quiet of sleep. Xander reached for his toiletry bag and his neatly folded training kit, gripping them in one hand before slipping out of the room without letting the door creak.
The hallway outside the academy lodging was silent, the overhead lights buzzing lightly as he moved, the fabric of his track pants brushing softly with each step. In the small bathroom down the hall, he changed, washing his face in the cold water, letting it snap him awake fully. The mirror showed a reflection that still looked like him, but there was something in his eyes, something sharper, something determined, a quiet promise that he would not waste the chance he had been given.
When he stepped outside, the early morning air hit him immediately, crisp and cold, brushing against his cheeks, waking every sense as he inhaled slowly. The road toward Carrington was empty, the quiet world around him making each footstep sound louder, the hum of distant traffic like a soft reminder that the rest of the city was still asleep while he was moving toward his dream.
The sky above was a deep blue, waiting for the sunrise, and he could see the faint glow along the edges of the horizon as he walked. His boots tapped against the pavement, his breath forming small clouds in front of him. Step by step, the facility came closer, the large gates standing tall, carrying the weight of history, the badge above them reminding him why he was there.
At the security post, he flashed his academy ID, holding it steady as the guard leaned forward, checking it with a small smile.
"You are early again," the guard said, his voice calm, familiar now after the last few mornings.
Xander managed a small, polite smile back. "Trying to make a good impression."
The gate buzzed open with a soft click, and he stepped through, the gravel under his feet crunching lightly as he moved forward.
He entered the first team building, and immediately, the difference in atmosphere struck him again. It was quiet, but it was not empty, a calm readiness in the air that felt heavier than noise. The halls were lined with large photos of matches, players lifting trophies, moments frozen in time, reminding everyone who walked there what the expectations were.
He passed by the glass-walled physio room, catching a glimpse of a staff member preparing ice packs, and made his way toward the changing room. The smell of fresh linen mixed with the sharp scent of menthol from the recovery creams, a scent that was quickly becoming familiar.
Inside, a few players were already there. Fred was tying his laces near the far bench, his head bent, focused. Diogo Dalot leaned against a locker, sipping from a water bottle, speaking quietly to De Gea, who stood with his arms folded, his training top fitting neatly against his frame.
Xander nodded quietly as he entered. Fred glanced up, returning the nod with a small smile, while Dalot lifted a hand in greeting. No one stared at him, no one questioned why he was there. It was different now. He was beginning to blend in, not one of them yet, but no longer an outsider looking through a glass wall.
He found the same locker he used yesterday, the one with no nameplate, no number, just plain, just his. He sat down slowly, unzipping his bag, pulling out his training wear piece by piece, the sounds around him louder now, the rustle of fabric, the light squeak of boots on the tile, the quiet click of water bottles opening and closing.
His hands moved slowly, carefully tying the laces, adjusting the fit of his top, making sure everything was in place. Every detail mattered, every preparation felt like a ritual he could not rush.
A few minutes later, Garnacho walked in, a small bounce in his step, his hair a mess as if he had just rolled out of bed, his bag hanging loosely from one hand. His eyes found Xander immediately, and a grin stretched across his face.
"You beat me again," Garnacho said, dropping his bag onto the bench beside Xander with a soft thud.
"Could not sleep," Xander replied, shrugging slightly.
"Excited or nervous?" Garnacho asked, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it neatly into his bag.
"Both," Xander said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Garnacho laughed softly, the sound easy, breaking the quiet tension in the room. "Fair enough."
They did not say much more after that, just moved through their preparations in a comfortable silence, occasionally making short comments about how cold it was or how the pitch might feel underfoot. The kind of conversations that filled the air without needing thought.
A staff member stepped in, his voice firm but not loud. "Gaffer wants everyone in the tactical room in five."
Xander tightened his boots, standing up and taking a deep breath, Garnacho following beside him as they stepped into the hallway, the quiet buzz of players moving filling the air.
The tactical room was filled with rows of padded chairs facing a large screen. Some players were already there, Bruno and Eriksen near the front, Martinez leaning back in his seat, Rashford seated with his arms resting on his knees. Ten Hag stood at the front, Mitchell van der Gaag beside him, a laptop open, ready.
Xander found a seat near the middle, sitting quietly, eyes locked on the screen, ignoring the small pulse of nerves in his chest.
"Morning everyone," Ten Hag said, his voice even, carrying weight without force. "Today's focus is Liverpool."
The screen flickered to life, playing clips from the matches against Brighton and Brentford, each clip showing small mistakes, loose pressing, slow defensive rotations, the ball slipping past defenders into the net.
"These results were eh... they were unacceptable," Ten Hag said, his eyes scanning the room. "And they came from small errors that added up. Liverpool will punish those even more."
He tapped the remote, and a new clip played, showing Liverpool's high press, their quick transitions, the way they switched the ball wide, their players moving with sharp intent.
"Quick transitions, wide switches, second balls," Ten Hag continued, his tone steady. "They thrive on it. We cannot give them space to run at us. We must be compact and smart."
Xander took quiet mental notes, his eyes following the movements on the screen, watching how each player moved, the way they found space, the way they pressed as a unit. A quiet tension rose in his chest, the reality of what he was stepping into pressing against him.
"Our wingers and attacking midfielders will need to drop into eh... defensive shape quickly," Ten Hag said. "We must be brave on the ball, but not careless."
Xander heard that part clearly, letting it sink into him. If he got minutes, if he stepped onto the pitch, there could be no mistakes, no sloppy touches, no slow decisions.
After twenty minutes, the briefing ended, and the players stood, moving out toward the training pitches, boots tapping softly on the floor, voices low.
Outside, the wind hit Xander again, but this time it felt like it woke him up fully, the cold brushing against his skin, reminding him that he was here, that this was real. The pitch looked perfect under the early morning light, the grass sharp, the cones lined neatly, the balls placed in quiet rows waiting for them.
"Into rondos," one of the assistants called out.
Xander stepped into a group with Fred, Dalot, and Eriksen, taking a deep breath, clearing his mind, letting the nerves settle into focus.
The ball moved quickly, sharper than it ever did in the academy. Fred's touches were clean, Eriksen barely glanced before moving the ball, Dalot shifted with ease. Xander's first few passes were off, the weight wrong, the timing a fraction late.
Dalot intercepted one of his passes, firing the ball back at his legs with a grin. "Wake up brother."
Xander nodded, taking it without complaint. No excuses. No explanations.
He reset.
This time, he let himself move naturally, letting the touches flow, adjusting his body better, his passes coming quicker, crisper. He stopped overthinking, let himself play. The ball started to move through him cleanly, the rhythm coming back.
[Ball Retention +1]
[Press Resistance +1]
[Rondo Session four minutes thirty seven seconds completed]
He saw the system notification, but he closed it quickly, eyes staying on the ball, on the movement, on the voices around him.
They moved to short sprints, the coaches pushing them, voices calling out, "Quicker Xander,"
"Reset,"
"Touch and go."
His shirt clung to his back, sweat dripping, but he did not slow down.
The final drill was a half-pitch tactical simulation. Ten Hag split them into two sides, one mimicking Liverpool's shape. Xander's group was to replicate their system, pressing, shifting, moving with urgency.
He was placed as the right midfielder, not his preferred spot, but it demanded his focus. He pressed, tracked back, offered himself in attack, stayed alert.
The ball moved fast, Casemiro laying it off, Bruno splitting the line, Rashford shifting into space. Xander chased, tracked Shaw's overlap, recovered after a poor touch, made a clean tackle on Elanga that drew a small nod from a coach.
Then, he received the ball under pressure and hesitated, taking too long. Bruno closed him down, nicking the ball away with ease.
"Quicker there Xander," Ten Hag called out calmly. "You eh... you had the out pass. Do not wait for them to get close."
Xander nodded, burning the mistake into his mind, locking it there.
The drill reset, and he focused harder, scanning quicker, moving lighter, passing cleaner.
When the whistle blew, Xander's shirt was soaked, his chest rising heavily with each breath. But he had held his own.
As the others moved toward the stretch area, Xander jogged a slow lap alone, letting the air cool him, letting his mind process each moment, each mistake, each success.
[Tactical Awareness +1]
[Confidence +2%]
[Session Complete, Performance stable progress]
He did not smile, but the numbers were something he could hold onto.
At the far end of the pitch, he paused, looking across the training ground, breathing in the cold air.
It did not feel normal yet.
But it did not feel impossible anymore.
He turned and jogged the final stretch, his muscles aching, but the ache felt good.
He was getting stronger.
Bit by bit.
And there was still a long way to go.