The dressing room was loud before Marcus even reached it.
Boots hit the floor. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone replayed the third goal on a phone, volume up, commentary crackling.
"TOP BIN," a voice shouted.
"AGAIN, AGAIN."
Marcus sat on the end of the bench and untied his laces slowly. Sweat cooled on his neck. His calves still hummed from the sprints. He kept his eyes on the floor.
The first goalscorer walked past him, towel over his shoulders. "Good win," he said, not unkind, not looking.
Someone else laughed. "Three goals. That's what strikers are for."
Marcus didn't move.
The right winger dropped onto the bench opposite him, still breathing hard. He tossed his shin pads aside. "You disappear too much," he said. "I don't know where you are half the time."
Marcus looked up. "You knew exactly where I was when you scored."
"That's different."
"How?"
The winger shrugged. "You're meant to be up there."
The captain stood between them before Marcus could answer. "Enough," he said. "We won."
Marcus leaned back, jaw tight. He could still hear the centre-back's voice in his head. Decide what you are.
The coach came in last.
The room quieted immediately.
"Good result," he said. "Scoreline flatters us."
No one spoke.
"We lost shape. We gave them transitions. That doesn't fly."
He looked down the bench. Not directly at Marcus. Never directly.
"We need clarity up front," the coach added. "Clear reference points."
Marcus felt the words land anyway.
The coach clapped once. "Recovery tomorrow. Video after."
He turned and walked out.
The noise crept back in, but it felt thinner now.
The winger stood up again, restless. "I'm serious," he said, pointing lightly. "If you're not scoring, at least stay high."
Marcus stood too.
"You want a target man," he said. His voice didn't rise. "Not a striker."
The winger frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Marcus took a step closer.
"YOU WANT A TARGET MAN, NOT A STRIKER."
The room went quiet again.
The captain put a hand on Marcus's chest. Firm. "That's enough."
Marcus exhaled and sat back down.
He finished changing without another word.
The evening air was colder than he expected.
Marcus jogged lightly along the edge of the training pitch, studs clicking on concrete. The floodlights were off. The grass looked darker without them, softer, almost forgiving.
He dropped his bag by the sideline and pulled out his phone.
No messages from anyone who mattered.
He opened his notes instead. The same page he'd been updating since he was fourteen. No tables. No graphics. Just observations.
Sprint felt sharper late second half.
Acceleration still average.
Dribbling cleaner under contact.
Decision speed better when dropping deep.
He paused, then added:
Assist won't be mentioned.
He locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Marcus stepped onto the pitch and set the ball down.
Short sprint. Stop. Turn.
Again.
He didn't run flat out. He never did. He worked on the first two steps. On the moment defenders hesitated. On the space that existed before they decided whether to follow.
He imagined the centre-back stepping out. Imagined the line bending.
The ball moved when he moved.
He stopped when his calves tightened, bent forward with hands on his knees, breathing slowly.
This was progress. Quiet, unrecorded.
He walked off the pitch just as the last light disappeared.
The match report went up the next morning.
Marcus read it standing in the corridor outside the analysis room.
"Manchester United Academy secured a 3–2 victory after a spirited second half…"
He scrolled.
The goals were described in detail. The tap-ins. The crosses. The finishes.
MOTM: the winger.
Marcus found his own name near the bottom.
"Marcus Hale dropped deep to link play and provided an assist."
That was it.
No mention of the foul drawn in the eighty-ninth minute. No mention of the interception. No mention of the runs that bent the line.
He locked the screen.
"Didn't see your name much," the rival striker said as he walked past, smirk already loaded. "Try scoring next time."
Marcus didn't reply.
The video room smelled like coffee and damp kit.
Clips rolled silently on the screen as the analyst scrubbed back and forth. Press shapes. Defensive lines. Freeze-frames.
The coach pointed at the screen. "Here. Our nine drops too deep."
He paused the video. Marcus's figure was frozen between lines, ball at his feet.
"What's the instruction?"
No one answered.
"Stay high," the coach said. "Pin the centre-backs."
Marcus raised his hand.
The room shifted.
"If I stay high," Marcus said, "they step up and compress. When I drop, they hesitate. That's when the run comes."
The coach studied him. Not angry. Measuring.
"And when it doesn't come?" he asked.
Marcus held his gaze. "Then I take responsibility."
Silence.
The analyst cleared his throat. The video resumed.
The coach didn't argue. He didn't agree either.
Training was lighter that afternoon. Recovery drills. Passing patterns.
Marcus felt the ball come off his foot cleaner than yesterday. Quicker release. Less friction.
Between drills, he caught his reflection in the window. Same build. Same face.
Different weight behind the eyes.
Later, alone again, he checked his notes.
Sprint speed: up.
Dribbling: more secure.
Passing: consistent.
No numbers. Just arrows in his head, pointing quietly upward.
Progress didn't care about applause.
That night, lying on his bed, he replayed the moment in the sixty-eighth minute. The drop. The spin. The short burst. The pass.
The goal.
He smiled despite himself.
THIS ISN'T ABOUT GOALS YET.
The numbers would come later.
For now, there were ninety minutes to survive.
And he intended to count every one.