# Chapter One: The Bench
Zane Whitlock sat on the bench.
His heartbeat felt weird. Not racing. Not calm. Just irregular, stuttering, matching nothing—least of all the pulse of the game unfolding meters away.
'Another match.'
His boots were muddied at the edges. Fifteen minutes of warm-up before the coach waved him back. A curt nod. That was it.
The substitute's bench. His throne.
Seventeen years old. Eighteen in less than a month. And this was where he belonged. Not on the pitch. Not contributing.
Not mattering.
'I'm shit. Complete shit.' The words cycled through his mind, mechanical. 'And there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing.'
He hated himself for it. Hated the weakness in his legs during sprints, the hesitation, the way his first touch betrayed him when it mattered. But more than anything—he hated that he couldn't even muster the will to change it.
Self-loathing without action was just noise.
A roar erupted.
Harrison had a shot.
Zane's eyes tracked the number seven—his best friend, golden boy of Salford City's academy. Harrison took the ball just outside the box, first touch perfect, killing its momentum. He shifted weight, planted left, struck with his right.
The ball rocketed toward the top corner, spinning viciously.
The entire stadium held its breath.
The goalkeeper launched himself horizontally, fingertips stretching. His gloves made contact, deflecting it just enough. Corner flag instead of net. Spectacular save. Instinctive.
Cheers rang out anyway.
'Of course Harrison's shots need world-class saves to stop them.' Zane's jaw tightened. 'While I can't even get on the pitch to miss.'
Corner awarded. Harrison jogged over, planted the ball with care. Eyes scanning the box. Calculating. He stepped back, raised his hand, delivered a curling cross that bent beautifully into the danger area.
Bodies collided. A Salford striker rose above his marker, glancing header. The ball skimmed past the keeper's desperate dive.
Net rippled.
"A gooooalllllll!"
The commentator's voice stretched the word, euphoric, bleeding through the speakers.
Players mobbed the scorer. Blue jerseys tangled, arms outstretched. Harrison at the center, grinning wide. Another assist for his tally. Another moment of brilliance.
Zane remained seated.
Clapping. Mechanically. His hands coming together, hollow rhythm.
On the sideline, the coach stood motionless. Face neutral. Stone. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on the pitch, expression betraying nothing.
But Zane knew. That neutrality wasn't satisfaction. It was disapproval wrapped in composure.
The coach expected more. Always expected more.
The game continued, intensity renewed.
Tackles flew in from both sides, desperation bleeding into every challenge. Boots clattered against shins, bodies crashed together. The referee's hand hovered near his pocket.
Before anything could materialize—
*Peeeeeeep!*
The referee's sharp whistle cut through. Three short bursts.
Final whistle.
2-2. Salford City versus whoever. A draw. Points shared. Another match where victory slipped through their fingers.
The sparse crowd filtered out, voices muted. Players exchanged handshakes, faces streaked with sweat and mud. Coaches spoke in hushed tones. Staff collected equipment. The stadium emptied of its energy.
Zane stood up. The usual feeling of disappointment settling over him like a coat.
Heavy. Suffocating. Expected.
'Not even a minute of play. Not even considered.' His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. But outwardly, his expression remained blank.
Neutral.
He said nothing. Showed nothing.
There was no point.
Inside the changing room, cold energy hung in the air. No one seemed willing to acknowledge it, but it was there—thick, uncomfortable. Players moved through their routines in silence. Toweling off. Peeling away muddy kits. Sitting heavily.
"Wassup Zane!"
Harrison materialized beside him, grin plastered across his face. He dropped onto the bench next to Zane, easy confidence, all smiles.
'Another assist for him. Of course.'
"I'm good. Your assist was amazing," Zane replied. Voice even.
"I know right? Seriously, did you see the looks on the other team's faces when that went in?" Harrison laughed, genuine, infectious—to anyone who wasn't drowning. "Man, I wish you were playing with me up there. I thought the coach was going to put you on today. Surely next week, right?"
Zane did not buy it.
The words were kind. Meant to encourage. But they rang hollow. Harrison didn't understand. Couldn't. He was talented, starting every match, accumulating assists and goals.
While Zane collected splinters from the bench.
'I'm cheap. Reserve. Useless.' The thought was cold, final. 'That's all I'll ever be.'
Rather than voice any of this, Zane said nothing. His silence stretched between them until Harrison shrugged, turned to another teammate.
"Alright, gather up!"
The coach strode in. Presence demanding attention. Bald, overhead lights reflecting off his scalp. Club's coaching jacket zipped halfway up over a plain black shirt. Jaw set firm. Eyes sharp, analytical, sweeping across his players.
"Today we were not good enough!"
The entire room held its breath.
"That performance was unacceptable. We dominated possession first half and let them dictate tempo in the second. Sloppy passes. Weak challenges. No urgency." His voice didn't rise, but the disappointment was palpable. "Training is going to be harder. Much harder. If you want to compete, you need to show me you can handle pressure."
He let the words sink in.
"In the bus. Fifteen minutes."
The ride home was nothing but the bus engine's rumble and occasional laughter from the older players near the back. Most sat in silence. Earbuds in. Staring at phones. Zoning out.
Zane pressed his forehead against the cold window. Water droplets formed, raced down the glass. Puddles reflected streetlights as the bus rolled through the city.
'Usual shitty weather.'
The bus dropped him near his street. He walked the remaining distance alone, bag slung over one shoulder. His house looked decent—well-maintained, lights on inside. The neighbor's house mirrored it almost identically.
Calm. Ordinary. Unremarkable.
He pushed open the front door.
Warm air greeted him as he stepped inside. Contrast to the damp chill outside immediate. He peeled off his jacket, damp at the shoulders, kicked off his boots.
"Zane?"
A woman's voice called from deeper in the house.
His mother.