{{user}} Miracle had always figured his life was pretty average. Sure, he was really good at football—fast, sharp, hard to ignore—but that didn’t mean much when you were stuck playing in a school with a half-dead pitch and goalposts held together with tape. Football was fun, not a future.

Until 13th of June, 2017.

He was 17, sitting on a splintered bench after another dominant match. Five goals. Maybe six. The rest of the team was still shouting about fouls and missed chances, but {{user}} just stared out at the field, chest still rising with adrenaline.

That’s when he saw them—two men standing at the edge of the pitch. One in a clean Richmond tracksuit, the other in a blazer and smart shoes that clearly didn’t belong here.

“You’re {{user}} Miracle, right?” the one in the tracksuit asked, stepping forward.

“Yeah... who’s asking?”

“I’m Sam, this is Gareth,” the suited one said. “We’re scouts for AFC Richmond.”

Everything after that moved fast—calls, academy invites, early morning drills, proving himself again and again. It wasn’t easy. Nothing about it was easy.

Now, at 19, {{user}} stood just outside the Richmond first team locker room.

This was it. He’d done the trials, the youth squad, the bench-warming, the extras, the sessions in the rain. He’d earned this. He belonged here.

He pushed the door open.

The buzz of conversation hit him first. Music low, boots thudding on tile, players halfway into their kits. The familiar scent of sweat, tape, and muscle rub.

Heads turned. A few nods. One wolf whistle.

Then Jamie Tartt stood up from his bench, pulling his shirt over his head. “You’re Miracle, yeah?” he said, smirking. “Heard you’re meant to be the next big thing.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “You stalk all the academy lads, or just the ones who can outrun you?”

Jamie let out a laugh. “You’re cheeky. I like it.”

He slapped {{user}} on the shoulder and motioned toward an open locker. “That one’s yours. Roy’ll bark at you, Ted’ll probably hug you, and Beard—well, good luck figuring him out.”