The Weight Of Expectation

The morning haze hung low over London, softening the skyline’s steel edges. Beneath the muted sky, the city felt hushed — like it, too, was catching its breath after a storm.

Arsenic Phillip sat by the floor-length window of his flat, cradling a mug of black tea. He hadn’t slept much. His body ached in the best way possible — the kind of exhaustion that only came after leaving everything on the pitch.

After their win yesterday, Coach Rivera gave everyone a rare day off from training.

He’d planned to catch up on shows and sink into the cushions guilt-free, but a knock on the door interrupted the morning silence.

He opened it to find Kane Porter standing there, hoodie up, holding a small bag.

“Kane,” Arsenic smiled. “Come to say hello, have you?”

“Yeah,” Kane replied with a lopsided smile. “Figured since we’re in town for another day, I’d catch up with an old friend… and revisit the motherland.”

Arsenic stepped aside, laughing as Kane entered. “Don’t tell me you’re missing the ol’ fish and chips already.”

“I’ve had three takeaways since landing,” Kane said, dead serious. “And not the gentrified ones with truffle oil. I’m talking soggy chips in a newspaper and vinegar so strong it burns your nostrils.”

Arsenic cracked up. “God, I miss that. You can take the boy out of London…”

“…but you can’t take the grease out of his bloodstream,” Kane finished with a smirk. “It’s good to see you, mate. Last night — that was something.”

They hugged briefly, a thump-on-the-back kind of bro hug, and made their way to the sitting area.

“Want some tea?”

“Please. Last night had me knackered like you wouldn’t believe. Well, I guess you would.”

“You played well,” Arsenic said. “If we’re being honest, you lot had us rattled in the first half.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Kane chuckled. “You know in football, the only thing that matters is the scoreline.”

Kane added, pulling something from the bag and placing it on the table, “Anyway, happy birthday, mate.”

Arsenic blinked. “You remembered? I’m flattered.”

Kane shrugged. “I would have forgotten if I hadn’t been swarmed by the #BirthdayArsenic trending on X. Figured if I showed up empty-handed, I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

Chuckling, Arsenic pulled out his phone. X was indeed flooded — threads upon threads from fans:

      @MonarchsFaithful: " Happy Birthday to Arsenic. But next match? Keyes and Co. will demolish you!"

      @BallonDreams: "Remember when Arsenic dribbled past five defenders in 12 seconds? That hunger's still there. #BirthdayArsenic"

       @FootyNostalgia: "On this day, 3 years ago, Arsenic scored THAT bicycle kick against Ajax. Legend."

       @MasterlEague: Happy Birthday to the GOAT. A much-deserved win. Ballon D’or Loading…”

“They’re passionate, to say the least,” Arsenic murmured.

“Alright, birthday boy. Open it but lower your expectations, alright. It was last minute.”

Arsenic tore into the wrapping and pulled out a sleek envelope. Inside: five VIP tickets to the Champions League match between Bavarians Munchen and Valencia Titans.

He laughed. “So your idea of a birthday present is watching you play? I see your sense of humour hasn’t changed at least.”

“Two birds, one stone mate,” Kane said with a wink. “I even got you a couple extras for friends and anyone you want to bring along. Big match too — you know who I’m going up against.”

Arsenic’s face tensed slightly. “Alucron?”

Kane exaggerated the pronunciation mockingly. “Ah-loo-cron. You know who I’m talking about. Haven’t spoken since your last match together, have you?”

“Not really. We’ve both been busy with games, you know how it is.”

“Well,” Kane said setting his tea down, “No more excuses then. I asked him to meet after the match and I expect to see you there too. And… I’ve got another surprise for you.”

He stood, tossing Arsenic a set of keys.

“We’re going for a little drive.”

The car rolled through North London traffic, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in. Kane sat in the passenger seat, blaring some 90s RnB playlist.

“We’re really doing this?” Arsenic asked, glancing at familiar streets passing by.

“Dead serious. Pull up there,” Kane said, pointing to a parking spot outside a stadium.

The space had a shiny plaque.

Reserved for the Kensington Trio.

“Pretty nifty ain’t it? Saw it on the socials, couldn’t believe it.”

They stepped out, standing in silence for a moment.

Across the street of the stadium was a small café: Over Under Mama Wembly. The Owner, Mama Wembly still ran it and recognized them instantly despite Arsenic’s best attempt at camouflage with his dark sunglasses. Hey it works for Superman, right?

“Well, I’ll be… Kensington’s own prodigal sons,” she said, wiping her hands on an apron. “Come on right in lads. Today’s special’s on the house.”

Kane beamed. “Miss us that much?”

She squinted at them both. “You’ve both gotten skinnier. What are they feeding you up there in them fancy clubs?”

“Millionaire diets,” Kane said, hugging her.

Arsenic stepped forward, smiling faintly. “Good to see you, Mama.”

She hugged him tighter than expected. “Thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“Never.”

Inside, the smell of jam-filled pastries and fresh tea greeted them like home. The walls were still plastered with photos from better days — grainy snapshots of academy tournaments, local league wins, and neighborhood cookouts. Arsenic spotted one of himself, Kane, and Alucron as teens, holding up a rusted trophy.

“You kept that one?” he asked.

Mama Wembly smirked. “That’s part of history ‘round here.”

They sat down chuckling at old stories — the time Kane tripped on the cobbled path and blamed a “mystical gust of wind,” or how Arsenic used to play keepy-uppy with oranges while waiting in line.

A group of kids at the corner were blasting Tion Wayne from an old speaker when the food was brought up. Kane got up and tried to dance. Arsenic just watched soaking it in.

A few fans recognized them and came to ask for pictures.

Withing mere moments, they were surrounded by lots of people, their hands screamed in pain from signing too many autographs.

“Alright, alright, let ’em eat!” Mama Wembly barked, waving a rag at a lingering teen. “They’re not on a red carpet!”

They finished their food and headed out, Mama Wembly seeing them out.

Arsenic chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Neither have you, Mr. Gold touch. Come back anytime, yeah? And say hello to little Aveiro for me, tell him we miss him around here.”

He turned back and nodded.

They returned to where they’d parked — Kensington Football Club’s old stadium. The place where it all began. They strolled past the academy pitch, pausing. The place had changed so much since their days playing, back when no one knew of them.

They stood in silence for a moment, taking it in.

“Remember when we didn’t even have nets?” Kane said, eyes distant.

“I remember the wall at the back we used as goalposts.”

“And the vending machine that blocked more shots than Barry,” Kane added. “These lot don’t know how good they have it.”

Arsenic laughed. “I actually saw Barry a few months back during my rehab. Barry’s a chef now in Miami.”

“Totally makes sense though. He’s the only player I knew who ate in between drills. We should visit him when we’re in America.”

They wandered into the field, where a group of young academy players spotted them. They signed some autographs and took a few pictures, even had time for questions. After all, they were once aspiring players like them, it wouldn’t hurt to give them some tips.

One kid asked Arsenic what it felt like to beat Kane.

“Feels like every other day really,” Arsenic said, grinning.

“Oi,” Kane said, slinging an arm around him. “Careful now. When we face each other again, I’ll make you eat those words. Alright guys, we got somewhere to be, cheers.”

As they walked off, a gust of frigid wind whipped through the air.

“London’s still colder than heartbreak,” Kane muttered. “Almost as cold as during those winter drills. I swear I saw icicles on Coach Luca’s whistle everytime.”

“And he still wouldn’t stop blowing it,” Arsenic added laughing. “This is the perfect weather for a nap, man. Let’s wrap up this ‘surprise’ of yours so I can get back.”

“Patience mate,” Kane said with a smile.

The Kensington Stadium loomed like a cathedral. As they walked toward it, Arsenic felt a lump in his throat. He hadn’t been back since that last match — the last one with the Kensington trio.

Inside, the corridors smelled of turf and polish. Staff members gave polite nods. Arsenic kept his head down.

“Still gives me chills,” Kane whispered.

At the stadium’s main entrance, they were met with cheers and applause. The hallway was lined with familiar faces — old academy teammates, current Emirates players, and even Coach Luca, stood tall and proud, his grizzled beard and stern brow as iconic as ever.

“Happy Birthday, Phillip,” Luca said, pulling him into a rare, warm hug. “You’ve made us proud, lad. Always had that fire in your belly — even when you were a wee runt tryin’ tae meg lads twice your size.”

Arsenic chuckled, caught off-guard by the emotion in Luca’s voice.

“It’s like you used to say coach. Talent gets you in the door, but it’s the grit that keeps on the pitch.”

Resurreccion clapped him on the back. “And you got both and then some, right? You’ve carried us more times than I can count. This one’s for you.”

“Guys, you didn’t have to do all this,” Arsenic said, stunned.

Saka nodded toward Resurreccion. “Our captain made the arrangements and we just showed up. Happy birthday!”

They were ushered to the center of the pitch, where the screens flashed highlights from their youth tournaments — grainy footage of boys with oversized kits and oversized dreams.

Arsenic saw a clip of himself scoring a goal from midfield. He barely remembered it, but the roar in the stadium echoed in his chest.

Luca raised a glass. “The stadium’s yours for the night, boys. Celebrate however long you like.”

The party stretched into the evening — old drills re-enacted, teammates challenging each other to crossbar shots, music echoing through empty stands. At one point Pryce and Mendes had a rap battle, it was intense, as intense as two mumbling idiots could get.

A microphone was handed to Arsenic.

He cleared his throat. “I just want to say… thank you. To my teammates. My coaches. And to the streets that raised us.”

Cheers erupted.

“Some of us made it. Some didn’t. But we all gave everything. And I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything.”

More applause.

For a moment, it was like they were boys again, chasing dreams on a cold pitch.

As the sun dipped behind the rooftops, Arsenic and Kane sat on the old training bench.

Kane was the one who broke the silence.

“I’m worried about the match if I’m being honest. Not really the outcome of it but rather what it could unearth between me and him. Alucron always had a chip on his shoulder and I don’t blame him. Being uprooted from your country and way of life, to come to a country of blokes who don’t understand your language. No wonder he kept alone at first. That all changed when you two met, then you lot brought me along with you for the ride and we were … inseparable.

“Yeah, can’t imagine how different life would have been if we hadn’t met.” Arsenic said. "Speaking of, you ever regret not going to Valencia?” Arsenic asked.

Kane hesitated, thoughtful.

“Not really. I’m right where I should be. But I do regret how I handled the situation. Alucron went out of his way to convince me and all. I could have at least given him a heads up before my transfer.”

He looked over at Arsenic.

“But no worries, mate. We sorted everything out.”

Arsenic looked up staring at the moonless night.

“Good for you.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You ever think about how far we’ve come?” Kane asked. “Like, we used to sprint through these roads pretending to be Henry and Bergkamp. Now you’re in the stadium.”

Arsenic smirked. “You were too, yesterday…when you lost.”

Kane scoffed.

They both laughed.

“Let’s get you home, smart ass.”

Next: Destined For Greatness