Dylan Vaughan rose with the sun.
His alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but his body was already moving, every muscle buzzing with purpose. The weight of rejection still lingered in his chest, but now it burned hotter—fuel for the next step. Southport was two days away. That was all he had to prove that Manchester City had made a mistake.
Downstairs, the kitchen was quiet. He poured cold water into a glass, drank it fast, and stepped out into the back garden. It wasn't much—patchy grass, a rusted shed, and a goalpost he'd hammered together from PVC pipe when he was thirteen. But it would do.
He trained the only way he knew how: like his life depended on it. He started with dribbling, weaving through a row of old bricks and bottles with the ball tethered to his feet like a shadow. Then came passing—firing the ball again and again into a wooden board nailed to the shed. Precision. Rhythm. Repetition. Finally, he worked on aerial duels, throwing up the ball and attacking it against the mattress pinned to the fence, gritting his teeth with each jump.
The real touch work—the finesse—came at the end. He launched a volley high into the air, let it spin and drop, then killed it with one touch, as Berbatov once had. Soft. Dead. Beautiful.
By the end of training, his shirt was soaked. His chest heaved. And he smiled.
Coach Doyle met him at the Stockport County grounds the next day. The man hadn't changed a bit—still in his windbreaker and cap, voice gravel-thick from decades barking orders.
"You look leaner," Doyle said as Dylan approached. "Sharper."
"I've been training."
"I can see that. Heard you put six hours in yesterday."
"Seven."
Doyle nodded, impressed. "You only get one crack at these chances, Dylan. You know what Southport is, right?"
"Mid-table Conference. Physical side. Direct."
"Exactly. You won't get five-star passes. You'll get elbows and loose touches. They want someone who can score ugly. Not pretty. Ugly."
"Good," Dylan said. "I can be ugly."
Doyle cracked a grin. "That's the right answer. Just remember—no one outworks you. That's your edge."
Dylan hesitated. "Coach... you think I belong out there?"
Doyle looked him in the eye. "You belong wherever you decide to. City's loss doesn't define you. Southport doesn't define you. You do."
They stood in silence a moment, just the sounds of balls being struck in the background.
"You ready for this?" Doyle asked.
"More than ever."
The train to Southport left the next morning from Manchester Piccadilly. Dylan packed light—boots, shin pads, a change of kit, and a notebook where he'd written down every weakness he still wanted to fix.
As the train rolled north, Dylan looked out over the fields, towns, and slow-rising sun. He visualized the pitch, the trial, the chance.
When he arrived at Southport station, the wind smelled like the sea, and the air held that slight coastal sharpness. The town was quieter than Manchester, but the stadium wasn't far. A small ground, but a real one.
He walked the last stretch to the club, bag slung over his shoulder, boots knocking together with each step.
in a few hours , everything could change.
And he wouldn't waste this chance.