David stepped out of the bus, the roar of the stadium faint behind the concrete walls. He could feel the pulse of the crowd already forming outside Old Trafford, even though the match wasn't until the next day. The air had that familiar scent of grass and old ambition, of legacy and expectation. The sun hung low over the famous red-brick fortress, casting golden shadows across the car park as he adjusted the strap of his gym bag. His boots thudded softly against the walkway, and with each step, he felt the ache in his legs creep higher—a dull, stubborn reminder of the week's brutal training.
He walked slowly toward the players' entrance, his head buzzing. Inside that stadium, history had been made—glory written in sweat, blood, and tears. But today, David felt none of the glory. Just pressure. Pressure so thick he could barely breathe. His heart thumped against his ribs, a silent war drum leading him into battle.
