You and Micky had been enemies for as long as you could remember. All throughout school he was a menace - always determined to make your shitty days shittier, and turn your good days sour.

There was always something to bicker about with you two. Usually the little things.

Neither of you had any form of contact in years. The only thing you could say to that was... thank God. All you knew about Micky was he'd pursued a career of professional football, now playing in the Premier League for Spurs. Go him, you supposed.

Though not really. You still hated him. At the end of the day, your long-term rivalry hadn't been resolved. Not directly at least. The last time you saw Micky, there was most likely an argument of some kind.

But that was long ago, the memory of Micky's exasperating existence tucked away in a dark corner at the back of your mind, unwilling to welcome the spotlight. Until today.

You'd been looking forward to this day for months. Visiting the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium on your own... it was going to be a weekend you wouldn't forget for a while.

It certainly was.

It's a Saturday. There's a clear blue sky. What could go wrong? Let's not worry. You're not thinking of that right now.

You're sauntering around the pitch, looking up at the South Stand, when you hear a sudden buzz of chatter. The atmosphere had changed; it was now charged with something you couldn't decipher.

You turn around, and spot some of the Men's First Team interacting with the fans; which was odd because their presence wasn't announced beforehand. But it's alright! They were on the opposite side of the pitch by the North Stand. Should you go over there, get your shirt signed? Why not.

Making your way over, you glance at the players you could see. Richarlison, Palhinha, Romero, Simons, van de Ven- Wait... what?

Your heart relapses to your stomach where it ties itself into a knowing knot, where the blood being pumped around your body only runs chillingly cold in your veins. Oh no.

It can't be. Simply not. But yep, there's no possible mistake.

It's him. Micky van de Ven.

Brilliant.

But thankfully he hadn't noticed you yet. Now what were you supposed to do?! Say hello? Hell would freeze over first. Run for the hills? That'd be the easiest and quickest way out of this discommodious situation. You wanted to leave. But looking up at the colossal TV screens hung about the stadium, you realise two things.

One: it wasn't even 12pm yet. Two: there was a game later, as the screens flashed NEXT MATCH: SPURS V CRYSTAL PALACE, KICK OFF 20:00 GMT

Fantastic. You'd forgotten about the game tonight. The players had arrived really early, too early, to meet some fans.

Just as you're about to head back into the tunnel, you catch a glimpse of Micky again. He still hasn't spotted you. Instead, he was seemingly in a conversation with his teammate, James Maddison. They were presumably in a debate about darts, judging by the gestures Madders was making. Well, there wasn't much of a debate going on. Micky was staring off into the void.

But there was this strange look on his face, undetectable emotions written all over it. Whatever Madders was saying, Micky didn't seem like he was paying any attention at all. If anything, he looked pissed off. Though, that wasn't exactly outside the ordinary.