บท 53: Nothings beats Training

David woke up the next morning with a singular focus: to improve. He knew the past few days had been a rollercoaster, but he couldn't afford to dwell on the lows. His mind was set on training—on pushing himself to the limit and proving that he belonged at this level.

After a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, he grabbed his gym bag and headed to the training facility. The brisk morning air filled his lungs as he jogged the short distance, each step fueling his resolve.

The facility was buzzing with energy. Players filtered in and out, but David paid no attention to the chatter. He found a quiet corner on the turf field and started with warm-ups—basic stretches, high knees, and a quick jog around the pitch. His muscles ached from the previous day, but he welcomed the burn.

Wayne Rooney spotted him and walked over, a clipboard in hand. "You're here early," Rooney said with a nod of approval.

David shrugged. "Can't get better by staying in bed."

Rooney grinned. "That's what I like to hear. Alright, let's work on your agility and shooting today. You ready?"

David nodded, and the session began.

First, Rooney set up a series of cones for an agility drill. David sprinted through them, weaving back and forth as quickly as he could. Each pass was timed, and Rooney pushed him to shave off milliseconds with every attempt. "Quicker feet, Jones! Don't overthink it—just react!"

Next came ball control. Rooney set up small goals across the field and instructed David to dribble through defenders—represented by mannequins—before slotting the ball into one of the goals. The emphasis was on precision and decision-making under pressure.

"You're hesitating, David," Rooney called out after one attempt. "Trust your instincts!"

David gritted his teeth and nodded. On the next run, he didn't stop to second-guess. The ball zipped past the mannequins, and his shot landed perfectly in the top corner of the net.

"That's more like it!" Rooney shouted, clapping his hands.

The final drill was set pieces. Rooney placed the ball just outside the penalty area, simulating free-kick scenarios. David focused on his breathing, visualizing the ball sailing into the net. The first few attempts went wide, but he adjusted his stance, his technique, and his mindset.

By the time he struck the fifth ball, it curled beautifully over the imaginary wall and into the top right corner.

"Perfect," Rooney said, giving him a thumbs-up.

But David wasn't done. After Rooney left, he moved to the gym for strength training. He powered through sets of squats, deadlifts, and bench presses, each rep fueled by his frustration from the last match. Sweat poured down his face, and his arms trembled, but he didn't stop.

He finished with core exercises: planks, Russian twists, and medicine ball slams. His body screamed for rest, but he ignored it.

When he finally collapsed onto a bench, every muscle in his body ached. But he felt alive, like he was clawing his way back to the player he wanted to be.

As he sat there, catching his breath, a thought crossed his mind: "I'll make them remember me for the right reasons."

Little did he know, while he pushed himself to his limits on that training pitch and in the gym, forces were already at work behind the scenes. Decisions were being made, opportunities were being discussed changes that would alter the trajectory of his career forever.

In a dimly lit hotel room with peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of dampness, Jonathan Cartwright sat hunched over a battered laptop. The flickering table lamp cast long shadows across the piles of overdue bills and empty coffee cups strewn across the small desk.

Jonathan had hit rock bottom. Once a promising agent, he was now barely scraping by, renting cheap hotel rooms and dodging calls from creditors. But tonight, he had a plan—a desperate one.

His eyes were glued to the screen as he scrolled through clips of David Jones's matches. The kid was pure talent, raw and electrifying. Jonathan knew he had to act fast if he wanted to turn things around, and David was his ticket out of this mess.

He rubbed his hands together and reached for his phone. Dialing a number he had saved long ago, he waited, his heart pounding as the line connected.

"Hello?" came a gruff voice on the other end.

"Hey, it's Jonathan Cartwright," he began, forcing confidence into his voice. "I need a favor."

There was a pause before the voice replied, "You're still in the game, huh?"

"Barely," Jonathan admitted. "But listen, I need to get in touch with David Jones. Can you help me?"

A low chuckle came from the other end. "You don't waste time, do you? Look, the club's in a real bad financial situation. I'm talking bad. If you want to get ahead of this, you know what you've got to do."

Jonathan leaned back, processing the words. "Understood," he said, a sly grin creeping across his face. "Leave it to me."

The call ended, and Jonathan sat in the silence of the room. His thoughts raced. He didn't need to ask for details—the implication was clear. Derby County's financial struggles could be his golden opportunity.

Opening his laptop, he drafted an email addressed to a long list of club managers and scouts. The subject line read: Exclusive Opportunity: Rising Star David Jones.

The email began:

"Dear Sir/Madam,

I am the agent of David Jones, one of the most promising young talents in football today."

Jonathan paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He wasn't David's agent—not yet—but desperation had stripped him of any hesitation.

With a resolute click, he sent the email.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he stared at the cracked ceiling. He didn't have a plan beyond this, but for now, he felt a surge of hope. If just one club bit the bait, he could finally claw his way out of the hole he was in.

As he shut his laptop and stretched out on the creaky bed, Jonathan whispered to himself, "This is it. My comeback starts now."