In the Shadow of Greatness

The next three weeks, Arsenic found himself back at the rehabilitation wing of the facility. He still had to make weekly visits to Dr. Reynolds for fitness tests. He used to dread coming here but it was now like a Zen place for him. No shouting coaches, no echoes of boots against balls, just the occasional hum of exercise machines and the low chatter of athletes at various stages of recovery. Arsenic met with his team’s captain, Resurreccion Jorge who had suffered a torn hamstring, it was a mild strain so he would only be out for a few days.

“Arsenic!” a voice called out. He turned to see his physiotherapist, Jenna Morales, striding toward him. She was as relentless as she was optimistic—a combination that had both infuriated and inspired him over the past year.

“Good news travels fast,” she said with a grin. “I heard you’re cleared for individual drills.”

Arsenic nodded, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Yeah, but don’t get used to it. I’ll be back on the main pitch before you know it.”

Jenna raised an eyebrow, her expression teasing. “Confidence. I like it. But let’s not forget you couldn’t even jog six months ago. Baby steps, Phillip. Today, it’s cones and resistance bands. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe even a jog.”

The session began with light movements: balance drills, dynamic stretches, and agility exercises. Each movement felt awkward, like he was learning how to use his legs again. The once-fluid coordination between his mind and muscles had been replaced by hesitation, every step weighed down by the fear of reinjury. He would put weight on his foot and notice a twinge in his knee and jerked.

Jenna crouched next to him as he worked through a set of lateral lunges. “You’re overthinking it, mate” she said. “Trust your body. It remembers what to do-you just need to let it.”

Trust. That was the hardest part. Before the injury, his body had been his greatest weapon, an extension of his instincts on the field. Now, it felt like a stranger. No worse. It felt like an enemy opposing him at every turn.

“Let’s take it up a notch,” Jenna said, handing him a resistance band. She looped it around his thighs and nodded toward a line of cones. “Shuffle through the cones, side to side. Keep the band taut. No shortcuts.”

Arsenic gritted his teeth as he moved, each step forcing his muscles to work in ways they hadn’t for months. Sweat dripped down his face, his breaths growing heavier. By the time he reached the last cone, his legs felt like jelly.

“Good,” Jenna said. “Again.”

By the end of the session, his body ached in ways that reminded him of preseason training camps. But there was a flicker of something else, too: hope.

As he sat on the bench, guzzling water, he caught sight of the main pitch. His teammates were out there, running through tactical drills, trying special set pieces, their laughter and shouts carrying across the field. It stung to watch from the sidelines, but it also fueled his determination.

“Arsenic,” Jenna said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You did good today. Progress is progress, no matter how small.”

“Thanks,” he said, standing up. His legs wobbled slightly, but he steadied himself. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

The following morning, Arsenic arrived at the training center with renewed determination. The gym was busier than usual, buzzing with energy as players and trainers prepared for the upcoming season. The tension in the air mirrored Arsenic’s focus. The Month of August was finally approaching in a few months and with it, the transfer window. There were rumours of his team signing another winger as his replacement.

During a transfer window, teams get to sign players from other teams and also sell them. This was extremely stressful for Arsenic, who hadn’t played for a long time. Still, he shrugged off the hesitation and prepared for his day, embracing the grueling training regimen. He put on his hoodie, AirPods, and jogging shoes and went for a morning run. The neighbors of his estate waved at him as he ran by, each gesture giving him courage to keep going. By the time he returned, sweat clung to his skin, his shirt was drenched, and he felt invincible.

That feeling lasted until he unlocked his phone.

The screen lit up with an endless stream of notifications: mentions on X (Twitter LOL), clips from last night’s interview flooding Instagram, and headlines dominating his news feed.

One caught his attention: "Is This the End for Arsenic Phillip?"