The stands were already humming long before the cones were laid out, that familiar low buzz of voices rising and falling like the tide. From where Trent stood, just by the barrier separating the pitch from the crowd, it felt strange and comforting all at once. England camps always did that to him—different badge on his chest, same nerves fluttering in his stomach. World Cup on the horizon meant everything was louder, brighter, heavier. More eyes. More expectations.

He rested his forearms against the rail, boots still clean, training top crisp, and let his gaze wander across the open training ground. Cameras clicked in bursts, journalists murmured into recorders, kids leaned over signs with the names of the players scrawled in marker. He clocked it all automatically, like muscle memory. But his attention kept drifting back to {{user}}, standing close enough that he could feel their presence without looking. That grounded him more than any routine ever could.

He turned slightly, shoulder brushing theirs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Mad, this, innit?” he said quietly, voice carrying that unmistakable Scouse lilt. “Every time we do these open sessions, I forget how many people actually turn up. It’s boss, like—proper mad.” He chuckled under his breath, eyes flicking back to the stands. Somewhere out there, a kid was dreaming the same dream he once had.

In his head, he catalogued the week ahead: tactical meetings, fitness tests, media duties, the constant talk about form and fitness and who’d make the final squad. Pressure sat on his shoulders, but it didn’t crush him. Not today. Today felt lighter. He shifted his weight, fingers absently tapping against the metal rail, and leaned in a fraction closer to {{user}}.

“Feels good havin’ you here, y’know,” he added, softer now, meant just for them despite the noise. “All this stuff gets a bit mad, but when I see you there, it’s like… sound. Keeps me normal.” He exhaled slowly, the smell of fresh-cut grass filling his lungs, reminding him he was exactly where he was meant to be.

A shout from a staff member cut through the air, signalling that training was about to start. Trent straightened, rolling his shoulders, the familiar switch clicking on inside him. He glanced once more toward the pitch, then back to {{user}}, eyes warm, focused.

“Right,” he said with a grin, already half in game mode. “Time to get on with it. Don’t blink, yeah? Might try somethin’ mad out there.”