The black BMW pulled into the players' parking lot at Motspur Park. Marcus turned off the engine and stepped out of the sleek vehicle, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
He walked through the entrance and made his way toward the locker room, noticing some of the club's staff moving around hastily. He pushed open the door to the locker room, but it was empty. "Seems like I was a tad bit excited," he thought.
Marcus headed straight for his locker, where a crisp, new jersey lay neatly folded on the bench in front of him. The white shirt with black accents caught the light, and his eyes zeroed in on the number and name stitched on the back: 22. His new number, with the digits standing out boldly against the fabric.
He picked up the jersey, running his fingers over the smooth material, feeling the weight of responsibility that came with it. Number 22—it wasn't just a number, it was a statement. It was the number he would make his own, the one that fans and fellow players would recognize and, hopefully, revere.
He carefully folded the jersey and tucked it into his bag, making sure it wouldn't crease. With that done, he opened the locker further and grabbed his black training kit, swiftly changing into it.
With his bag slung back over his shoulder, Marcus left the locker room and made his way toward the team bus. As he approached, he saw the rest of the starting lineup gathering, each player lost in their own thoughts, their own rituals. Some had their headphones on, while others were chatting quietly. The air was thick with tension, but also with excitement.
Coach Anderson stood near the door, clipboard in hand, wearing a stern expression. He nodded at Marcus as he approached, "Get in, let's go." Marcus nodded as the team boarded the black-and-white bus.
Marcus placed his bag down by his feet and leaned back in his seat, his eyes drifting toward the window as the bus began to pull away from Motspur Park. The journey to Stamford Bridge wouldn't be long, but in that time, he let his mind focus, visualizing the game ahead.
As the bus moved through the streets of London, Marcus closed his eyes, blocking out the noise around him. This was his time, his chance to step up and show everyone what he was capable of.
Number 22—he repeated it in his mind, letting the weight of it settle in. By the end of the day, everyone would know that number. It would be the beginning of something new, something great. He closed his eyes and drifted into a nap.
A soft nudge on his shoulder stirred him awake. Marcus blinked, realizing where he was. Harvey Elliott stood beside him, already wide awake and eager, with a small grin on his face.
"Wake up, mate. We're almost there," Harvey said, his voice filled with excitement.
Marcus sat up, rubbing his eyes as he adjusted to the dim light inside the bus. The other players were beginning to stir as well, some stretching, others already on their feet, gathering their things.
He glanced out the window and saw the familiar sight of Stamford Bridge looming ahead, its iconic stands reaching toward the sky. The sheer scale of the stadium sent a jolt of adrenaline through his veins. This was it—one of the most famous grounds in the country, and they were about to step onto it.
The bus came to a stop, and the atmosphere inside became charged with anticipation. Marcus quickly gathered his bag, slipping it over his shoulder as the rest of the team prepared to disembark. Coach Anderson was already up, speaking in low tones to the staff as he gave them last-minute instructions.
"Alright, boys," Anderson said, turning to face the team as they stood in the aisle. "This is a big one. Let's stay focused and do what we've been working on. We've got the talent, we've got the drive—now let's show it on the pitch."
The door hissed open, and the team began to file out, stepping into the crowd of fans held back by metal gates.
The noise hit him first. A low roar that grew louder as they moved closer to the stadium. Fulham fans had gathered outside, a sea of black-and-white scarves waving proudly. Despite being the away team, their support was strong, and their presence gave Marcus a boost of confidence.
As he stepped off the bus with his headphones on, he could see the fans lining the walkway, their faces alight with hope and belief. They waved, cheered, and called out the players' names.
Walking alongside him were Harvey Elliott and Ryan Sessegnon, both of whom shared the same youthful determination. The three of them represented the future of Fulham, and today they had a chance to show the world what they could do.
The team was quickly ushered into the stadium, the familiar routine of pre-match preparation taking over.
While the players settled in, Coach Anderson made his way to the pre-match press conference. The room was already packed with reporters, each eager to get a word from the new interim manager who had been thrust into the spotlight. As he took his seat at the front, cameras flashed, and the murmur of conversation quieted down.
After a brief introduction, the questions began. Most were straightforward—about tactics, about the team's preparation—but then a reporter from Sky Sports asked the question that had been on everyone's mind.
"Coach Anderson, you're fielding three very young players today—Marcus Pearson, Harvey Elliott, and Ryan Sessegnon. Considering the importance of this match against Chelsea, we know how good they are performing in the U21s, but what made you decide to put your faith in such inexperienced players in the Premier League?"
Coach Anderson leaned forward, his expression calm. "Football is about talent, not just experience. Marcus, Harvey, and Ryan may be young, but they've proven themselves time and time again. They bring energy, creativity, and fearlessness to the pitch—qualities that are vital in a match like this. Age is just a number. What matters is how they perform when it counts."
The reporter pressed on, "But aren't you concerned about the pressure they'll be under, especially in a high-stakes match like this?"
"Pressure is part of the game. These lads have been training with the first team, and they've shown they can handle it. I have full confidence in them, and I believe they'll rise to the occasion." Coach Anderson said, shaking his head.
The conference wrapped up quickly after that, with Anderson making his way back to the locker room. As he entered, he found the players deep in their own preparations. He took a moment to observe them—Marcus, Harvey, Ryan, and the rest of the squad. This was his team now, and they were ready to fight. They might have been the underdogs, but they had something to prove.
As the minutes ticked down to kickoff, Anderson gathered the team around, his voice steady as he delivered his final instructions. "Remember, it's not about who they are—it's about what we can do. Stay focused, stick to the game plan, and leave everything out on that pitch. We're here to win. Make sure not to regret anything."
The team responded with a flurry of affirmative shouts, stepping out of the locker room and lining up in the tunnel with Tom Cairney, the team captain, leading the line.
Marcus stood toward the end of the line, the noise of the crowd swelling along with his determination. This was his moment—he wasn't going to mess it up.