The weeks off came quicker than expected. One moment Harry was gasping for air on the training pitch, chasing after his teammates in a defensive drill, and the next, Frank was telling them to enjoy their Christmas break.
For most of the lads, it meant food, laughter, and a pile of presents. For Harry, it meant something else entirely.
His little sister Sophie was turning twelve.
---
The Whittaker house felt smaller after living in the academy accommodation for weeks. Harry stood in the doorway of the front room, taking in the familiar chaos.
Ellie was on the sofa marking papers from her part-time tutoring job. Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor, reading some Arsenal magazine. Their mum bustled around the kitchen, radio playing old Christmas songs.
"Well, look who's graced us with his presence," Ellie said without looking up. "The famous footballer returns."
"Pack it in," Harry grinned, dropping his bag by the stairs.
Sophie jumped up and tackled him around the waist. "Harry! Did you bring me anything from the posh academy?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. A signed ball? A trophy? David Beckham?"
"Fresh out of Beckham, I'm afraid."
Their mum appeared in the doorway, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. The dark circles under her eyes seemed deeper than before, but her smile was genuine.
"There's my boy," she said, pulling him into a hug and kiss on the forehead. "You look taller."
"It's been over a month, Mum."
"A month of proper food. About time."
Harry glanced around the small room. The same battered sofa, the same wonky coffee table, the same faded family photos on the mantelpiece. But somehow it felt different now. More precious.
On the Christmas Eve morning, Harry woke to the sound of Sophie singing downstairs. Badly.
He found her in the kitchen, flour in her hair, helping Mum ice a small chocolate cake. It was lopsided and covered in rainbow sprinkles, but Sophie looked proud as punch.
"Birthday cake and Christmas pudding in one," she announced. "I'm efficient."
"You're mental," Harry said, stealing a bit of icing with his finger.
"Oi!" Sophie swatted at him. "That's for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's your birthday. I get preview rights."
Ellie appeared in her dressing gown, hair sticking up at odd angles. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
"It's half past nine," their mum said.
"Exactly. The crack of dawn."
Harry looked at his sisters—Ellie pretending to be grumpy but sneaking glances at the cake, Sophie practically vibrating with excitement. His chest tightened.
He'd been so focused on training, on leveling up, on proving himself, that he'd almost forgotten this. The reason he was doing any of it.
That afternoon, Harry walked to the corner shop to buy wrapping paper. Mrs. Thompson behind the counter smiled when she saw him.
"Harry! I saw your team on the local news. You're playing in the FA Youth Cup now, very impressive."
"It's just one match, Mrs. Thompson."
"One match more than most boys your age. Your father would be proud."
The words hit him unexpectedly hard. Harry paid for the paper and walked home slowly, thinking about his dad. Eight years had gone by, but his presence still filled every corner of their lives.
Back home, he wrapped Sophie's present in his room. A second-hand Arsenal shirt he'd found in a Manchester charity shop—proper vintage from their impressive 2001–02 season. It had cost him most of his pocket money from the last month, but the look on her face would be worth it.
---
Christmas morning arrived gray and cold. Sophie burst into Harry's room at 7 AM, already dressed and ready for presents.
"Come on! Mum's making breakfast!"
Downstairs, the tiny Christmas tree sat in the corner, surrounded by a handful of small packages. Nothing fancy, but it looked perfect in the morning light streaming through the window.
Sophie tore through her presents like a hurricane. Books from Ellie, colored pencils from Mum, and finally Harry's carefully wrapped shirt.
She held it up, eyes wide. "A proper Arsenal shirt! With Henry's name on it!"
"Thought you could wear it when you're watching their U18 beat us 4-0," Harry said.
"They're going to win the league this year," Sophie said, pulling the shirt over her pajamas. "It's going to be an Invincible season, mark my words."
"We'll see about that." But Harry didn't think much of it. An Invincible season? That wasn't possible, not with clubs like Manchester United, Liverpool, and even Newcastle around to put a stop to such notions.
---
That evening, after Christmas dinner and Sophie's birthday cake, the family settled in front of the tiny television. Some old film was playing, but Harry wasn't really watching.
Instead, he was thinking about the past few weeks. The system, the training, the upcoming Round 3 Proper match against Walsall U18. It all felt important, but sitting here with his family, it also felt surreal.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Ellie said quietly.
"Just thinking about going back."
"Nervous about the big match?"
Harry nodded. They'd all seen the draw announcement. At home against a League One side' youth team. It had been the talk of the Salford community for days.
"You know what Dad used to say about big matches?" Ellie asked.
"What?"
"The bigger they are, the more they have to lose."
Harry looked at her dead in the eyes with all seriousness. "He never said that."
Ellie chuckled, having had her 'elderly wise moment' seen through. "He might have. If he'd lived to see you play for real."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching their mum doze in her chair and Sophie sprawl across the floor, still wearing her Arsenal shirt over her Christmas dress.
The next morning, Harry was up early, juggling his ball in the small back garden. The frost made the grass slippery, but he kept going anyway.
Sophie appeared at the back door in her pajamas and new shirt.
"You're mental, you know that?"
"So you keep telling me."
She came outside, breath fogging in the cold air. "Teach me something."
"What?"
"Football. If I'm going to support Arsenal properly, I should know how to play."
Harry smiled and passed her the ball gently. "Right foot first. Keep your head up."
They spent the next hour in the tiny garden, Harry teaching Sophie basic touches and passes.
She was hopeless at first, the ball bouncing off her shins more often than not. But she kept trying, tongue poking out in concentration.
"I'm rubbish," she said after another wayward pass.
"You're learning. There's a difference."
"How long did it take you to get good?"
"I'm not good yet."
"You scored twice against Blackpool."
"One match doesn't make you good. It makes you lucky."
Sophie kicked the ball straight to him for the first time. "That one was on purpose."
"Course it was."
Boxing Day passed quietly. Harry helped his mum with some shopping, played more football with Sophie, and tried not to think about returning to the academy.
But on the 27th, reality came calling. A text from Coach Frank: "Training resumes January 2nd. Hope you're staying sharp. Big things ahead."
That evening, Harry sat in his old room, looking at his Salford City tracksuit hanging on the back of the door. In a few days, he'd be back to the daily grind. Training sessions, tactical meetings, and the constant pressure of knowing that the match was getting closer.
But right now, he was just Harry Whittaker from Northside Greater Manchester. Brother, son, and football dreamer.