7th August.
Blaise was once again on a mad rush home.
It was the first round of the Football League Cup tonight, and as it was midweek right now, there was training for the youth teams of Sheffield Blades until the afternoon.
As such, he had to commute home from Sheffield to Manchester during rush hour to try and catch the 7 pm kickoff.
The Football League Cup draws teams from the 2nd to the 4th division at random for the first round. The winners of the first round advance into the 2nd round pool, which will then include the Premier League big boys. The winners will advance to the 3rd, and are drawn to fight an opponent at random, and so on until the final to be held at England's national stadium, the Wembley Stadium.
Given it's just a few days from the Wimbledon match, Blaise expects some sort of rotation from his team, especially since it's also a somewhat favorable draw for them having been pitted against Plymouth of League Two.
Blaise expects a straightforward victory for his own team, even if it's another away game. Even if it's mostly the back ups playing, they should have the sufficient quality to dominate a match against lower tier opposition.
He even thinks that a 2 goal win at the very least should be easily achieved.
Upon boarding the train, he slumped into the comfortable seat after another day of exhausting practice, with late 2000s rock music blasting to his ears at max. Blaise shifted all the blame to Potts, as the only thing he said for him to devote most of his time to was training to increase his stamina.
Blaise, with his mind of two lives, naturally knew the most optimal ways to build stamina in a steady, and better manner. What was out of his expectations though, was that this body of his at this age was far too lacking in the stamina department… to a point where he's barely keeping up with the team activities among other things.
So he'd take his z's wherever he can take them.
***
Plymouth.
The Sheffield Blades are wearing their signature red and white home kits with their black shorts in this away game. The atmosphere within the team was not tense, a little light hearted even, but the manager's eyes were stern, focused.
Steve Bronson always comes into games with the mindset of not underestimating anyone, or anything. Be it a struggling weak link of a big club, or an opponent in an extended winless run, or in cups like this, an opponent at least a tier below. He makes sure to hammer that down into the minds of his boys every single time he possibly could.
Bronson had to somewhat concede though, that rotation was necessary for his squad despite not underestimating their opponents. There were just too many tired legs since the thrilling game against Wimbledon was just 3 nights ago. Several of his key back ups and under 23 prospects entered the starting 11 just for this cup game alone, with club hero Damian Potts manning the pivot of his central midfield as captain of the day.
A win here would be hitting two birds with one stone for him. Some key prospects and back ups get much needed game time, and his starters get to rest for the league game on the weekend. A pretty sweet deal where everyone's happy.
The starting whistle ended Bronson's reverie.
Football League Cup first round, Plymouth versus Sheffield Blades.
***
Blaise was running. He didn't intend to run, but the circumstances forced his hand.
He lived 15 minutes by foot from the station, so when he got held up by a sudden rain shower, he didn't really give it much mind. Oftentimes, he would just wait for the rain to blow over before rushing back. This time was no exception.
"Oh, it's still just 7:15, I just have to get there by halftime or something." That's what he said looking at the huge clock inside the station while sitting with his legs crossed.
He then closed his eyes for a split second.
Then he opened it the next second.
"FUCK!" Blaise suddenly broke into a mad dash out of the station, without any care of the world. "How is it past 8 already?"
Blaise didn't even double check if what he saw on the clock was right, since he already knows that he didn't just blink for a split second. For one, the rain has stopped, so the people are getting out of the station in droves once more. Two, the song that was blasting in his ear isn't loud anymore, and instead had a soft, slow melody.
He shook off the urge to check his phone for some live stats of the game, and focused on running on the soaked pedestrian lanes.
Ten minutes later, the run of Blaise's life has finally ended. He entered the door of his house as sweaty as a sprinter, and as tired as a marathon runner. Compounded by the fact that he just got off a bad nap… he just collapsed at the living room sofa.
Blaise roused himself up and glued his eyes to the television. He didn't even perk his nose up on the wondrous aroma of soup coming from the kitchen.
"Nice…" Blaise finally gave the enticing aroma of the soup his father's cooking a healthy inhale after a long look at the TV screen, pushing his stomach to growl like a hungry beast.
"Are you winning, son?" Father Atkinson walked over from the kitchen with a bowl of soup in hand.
"Yes, dad! Too bad I still wasn't playing there though!" He stole the bowl of hot soup from his father's hands with a smile. His father looked at the scoreline on the bottom left with satisfaction and sat down. "Plymouth, huh? Those guys are regulars in the fourth or third tier…"
"Yeah, but now they're in the fourth tier." Blaise didn't even care about his mouth burned by the soup. "3-0 at 70 minutes is not bad at all."
"Good thing you weren't there, son." Blaise doesn't have any idea what this airhead father of his is trying to say.
"Huh?"
"'Cause the game would be 3-1." Daddy Atkinson smiled like he's some witty joker.
"Huh?" Blaise didn't get it.
"Huh?" The father didn't get that his son didn't get his dad joke.
Good thing Sheffield got Plymouth in the bag.