Destined for Greatness

The black car curved off the motorway and into the quieter stretches of Surrey, past hedgerows and old trees Arsenic had memorized as a kid. Kane dropped him off near his childhood home before speeding away.

“Say hello to Mama Clara for me,” he said with a final hug.

The house looked exactly the same. Red-brick exterior, neatly trimmed hedges, and a slightly crooked mailbox. Arsenic had offered many times to renovate the house or even buy a new one, but his father refuses everytime.

"The Gold estate is a source of pride," Victor would say. But really, he was too stubborn to admit when he was wrong.

Dragging his small bag behind him, Arsenic approached the familiar two-storey home. The garden was still trimmed to his father’s rigid standards—square edges, no frills. As he stepped onto the porch, the light flickered on.

Before he could knock, the door burst open.

“Mom,” he said, dropping his bag.

“Oh my!” Clara cried, throwing her arms around him. “My God, you’re skin and bones.”

Arsenic laughed into her shoulder. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. I know you have to stay fit but come on, they feed you air over there or what?”

His younger sister Mia came sliding into the hallway in fuzzy socks, nearly wiping out on the polished floor. “Happy birthday, old man!” she shouted, leaping into a hug.

“Watch it, kid,” Arsenic grinned. “You’ll be asking for a couch in my flat after you graduate.”

“Hah. Like I’d ever—actually, keep that pink couch in the corner reserved for me, just in case.”

They both laughed.

“I’m grabbing my phone from the charger,” she called, heading upstairs.

Inside, his father Victor greeted him with a curt.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic, sir.”

Same greeting. Same response. Every time.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Arsenic had grown up in Kensington when Victor Gold was the pride of England. A 100-metre sprint legend, nicknamed The Golden Phantom for the gold-plated chain he wore while running. “To give the others a fair chance,” he’d joke.

Arsenic watched his father win, over and over. Until one race changed everything.

Victor tore his ACL. Two years of rehab followed. When he returned, he wasn’t the same. He lost—again and again—until he finally retired.

What does one do when their talent no longer matches their ambition?

They live precariously through their child, of course.

And that’s what Victor did.

The training was relentless. Twenty-kilometre runs daily. A hundred push-ups. Plyometric drills. Sprint mechanics. Resistance bands. Core-strength circuits. And all of this before his tenth birthday.

While other kids hated school, for him it was hours of resting and enjoyment. Clara tried her best to make her husband go easy on their child but Victor only doubled down. Because soon after Arsenic was homeschooled and he started racing regularly.

One street race changed everything.

Coach Luca saw something in him that day. What it was only he and God knew. But it started a chain of events that would shape their lives. And the most heavily affected by it were the father and son duo.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Inside, the house smelled like garlic and herbs and toasted bread. A homemade spread was already laid out on the kitchen table: sausage rolls, roasted chicken, and a suspiciously large Victoria sponge cake with blue icing that read “Happy Birthday, Starboy”. Clara’s handiwork, no doubt.

They squeezed around the table, eating as Clara kept passing Arsenic extra servings while muttering about how he was wasting away.

“Think of this as a cheat day, honey,” she said, pushing another helping of chicken.

After dinner, as the candles flickered atop the cake, they turned off the lights and sang happy birthday.

“Make a wish,” Clara whispered.

Arsenic looked around the room — at the warmth, the familiarity, the absurdity of it all — and for a moment, he let himself believe none of it would ever change. At the corner he saw his parents whispering in hush tones.

He blew out the candles.

Later that night, as the chatter faded and the dishes were stacked, he stood alone in the garden. The stars above Surrey were clearer than in any city. Crisper. Less demanding.

His phone buzzed. A message from Coach Rivera.

"Enjoy the rest of the night, Arsenic. Tomorrow, we’re back at it. The weight of greatness never leaves — but it does rest sometimes. Happy birthday."

His father, Victor came to join him.

“Was that Rivera?” he asked joining him in the dark.

“Yeah, he was reminding me about the match.”

“Rivera is a good coach, you should listen to him,” Victor said, grasping his shoulder. “Because if you don’t…Jadon Keyes will make you pay for it.”

Arsenic glanced up, a trace of annoyance flashing across his face. “Yes, sir.”

Victor wasn’t one for fanfare, but even he had seen the ceremony online. They stood awkwardly in silence, only the sound of Arsenic whistling could be heard. He side-eyed his father, who had a stern expression. He could tell that he wanted to tell him something but didn’t know how.

Victor finally turned, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

“You and Alucron are the most naturally gifted players I've ever seen. But Keyes… he’s different. He’s built for a system. He’s like Kane Porter—only more dangerous.”

“More dangerous than Kane?” Arsenic raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Yes.” Victor’s tone didn’t waver. “Trust me son, I know him more than you think. I scouted him at Club Bryne in the Norwegian fourth tier. Kid scored 18 goals in 15 games. Left foot, right foot—deadly from any angle. He’s a machine. And the Monarchs are built around him—fluid and intelligent. He can shoot with either foot and from any angle, just like you.”

Arsenic turned away. “Should you be telling me this, considering you’re his biggest fan?”

Victor sighed, softer now. “You’re still my son you know. I’ll always be rooting for you no matter what.”

Nice words to hear, but after everything, Arsenic wasn’t sure he could believe them.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It was right after Victor had retired from professional running—an Olympic champion and the once-fabled Golden Phantom—he was lost. The medals he had won meant less with each passing day, it seemed the whole world had forgotten him.

But one day, at a sports day, Victor went to see his son run and saw the future.

‘The next Golden Phantom,’ he thought.

For the next four years Arsenic trained harder than any child should ever have.

“You’re my son, so people expect more from you. You don’t need school, you already have what matters... and that is talent son.”

Victor scheduled races in various schools and events. Anytime there was a race, Victor made sure his son was among the competitors. Arsenic ran and ran. His methods were intense — no shortcuts, no excuses — and Arsenic was raised on that ethos.

It’s why he never took days off growing up. Why he knew every muscle in his body like a mechanic knows their engine.

He never lost a race, not even once but that didn’t stop his father from ‘motivating’ him.

“Discipline before glory,” Victor used to say while making him do planks till his arms shook. “Anyone can run fast. But who can run fast when it hurts?”

“Yes, sir.”

Victor looked up from his paper. “You looked strong out there. But you almost lost to that Barry kid.”

It was merely a coincidence that Coach Luca happened to be there watching his son run that he happened to see him. Afterward, Luca invited him to kick around a ball with a small club in Kensington.

Football started as just another sport. Another outlet for escape. But it became more—especially after he met Kane and Alucron. Even Barry, who’d once been his rival, became a decent goalkeeper.

Coach Luca noticed it too.

“How would ye boys feel if this became a daily thing? I can arrange matches. We’ll need eleven at least. Fair warning though—ye’ll be knackered.”

Arsenic started skipping sprint drills and Victor noticed. He threatened Coach Luca: “If my son touches another football, I’ll bury Kensington before it takes off.”

But it was too little too late. Everything would come crashing down from that day.

Kensington Club was born—first as an underground group, then a formal academy as more kids joined.

“He is no son of mine,” Victor said coldly.

After that falling out Arsenic found himself living with Coach Luca, a way to make his training and football easier. But Arsenic knew what it really was, he’d been cast out by his own father.

Coach Luca took Arsenic in, offering not just a roof but belief. And with Barry, Kane and Alucron, Luca perfected a winning team. Thanks to Victor’s brutal training, Arsenic’s body had become a machine, a weapon through which his natural athleticism and talent exploded. The Kensington trio was born and became unstoppable.

In an Under-15 match, they demolished Emirates Gunners U-15s—the youth system of a top Premier League side—with each of the trio scoring five goals apiece.

Their reputations soared.

By age 15, they were called to the England U-16 National Team. At the European Youth Cup, they won the tournament. With Kane winning the Golden boot, Alucron led in assists and Arsenic was crowned player of the tournament as well as acquired his now famous nickname, “Arsenic.” Deadly. Precise. Uncontainable.

After that everyone paid attention including his father, Victor.

After a year of silence, he approached Arsenic after the final.

“You…were good son,” Victor said softly. Then after a pause, he continued. “I’ve become a Fitness and Scouting Coach. A small National League side called Wrexham has already signed me. I’ll be starting in a month.”

“Yes…sir.”

Victor turned and nodded, a rare softness behind his eyes.

“Your mother and I ...we’d like you to come back home. Anytime you’re ready.”

His father had finally come around and not only that but had become a fitness coach himself. If nothin else, he always admired how hard his father worked, how far he could go. Once he put his mind onto something, he would not stop until he accomplished it.

When Arsenic and the others turned 16, they fulfilled the legal criteria to become a registered club:

At least 12 full-time players with valid player registration Certified coaching staff (thanks to Luca) Registered facilities with approved pitch dimensions Affiliation with local FA board

Kensington FC officially joined the National Youth Development League, a springboard into professional football.

What began as rebellion became a legacy.

And Phillip “Arsenic” Gold—child of the Golden Phantom—was no longer running in anyone’s shadow.

Author's Note: The slashes are to separate flashbacks from the present, hope it helps and thanks in advancing