Inside the Mile End stadium was a maze of corridors and rows of glass doors. Conference rooms and hallways that smelt of stale coffee and carpet samples. When he was a kid, Wayne had more or less had the run of the place. He knew it inside and out, and could easily have found his own way up to the box where his dad was waiting for him.

But these days, everyone at Mile End was more security conscious. Ever since the notorious Euros final '21, when fans had charged the gates and completely overwhelmed the staff, there had been a noticeable increase in violence at matches throughout the country, and Mile End Athletic was no different. The fans were unpredictable – the fact that the home team had won did not preclude general unrest among the crowds as they dispersed post-match. David Carter wasn't going to take any risks. He had employed a raft of new security guards who patrolled both inside and outside the stadium.

The two guards that met Wayne outside the changing room weren’t as tall as he was, but they wer twice as wide. They wore the standard uniform of white shirt, black tie and black puffy jacket, and they both had uniform cauliflower ears and broken noses, mashed flat against their faces like a pair of pancakes.

"Afternoon, Mr. Carter," said one of the security guys. They resented Wayne, just like everybody else. But unlike the rest of them, they were being paid to look out for him. Calling him "sir" or "Mister" was just part of the deal.

"Nice work this afternoon," said the other security man. He spoke in a dull monotone. The compliment was perfunctory; it might even have been scripted.

"Yeah, cheers," said Wayne, not meeting their eyes. "I'm going up to the box."

"Right this way," said the first security man, holding a door open for him and escorting him along the corridor toward the lift. Wayne reached for the button, but the guard beat him to it, prodding the panel with authority. The doors eased open and Wayne stepped inside.

"Cheers," he said again as the doors eased shut. The guard did not reply.

When the lift opened on the top floor, there were a couple more guards waiting. It really was ridiculous, at least to Wayne. But he had little choice in the matter. It was just a petty inconvenience.

"Alright there, Mr. Carter," said one of the guards. They looked so similar to the previous guys that it took Wayne a second to convince himself he had not stepped out of the lift on the same floor. But no, he was now standing on a carpeted mezzanine which offered sprawling views of the pitch and the stands.

"Nice work this afternoon," said the second guy.

Wayne just grunted, not looking at either of them. "Box," he said.

"Right this way," said one of the guards, as though Wayne had not spent the majority of his life in and around this stadium. They escorted him down another corridor, towards the double doors which led into the box itself. And, surprise surprise, there was another pair of guards waiting there, eyeing him suspiciously. At least, one of them was. The other, a guy Wayne had not seen before, was smiling slightly.

"Mr. Carter," he said. With a swift gesture he indicated for the second guard to stay where he was. He would take care of Wayne. This man had a shaved head and beady eyes. He was a little shorter than the other guards, but made up for it with his stocky build. From Wayne's experience, it was the short guys you had to watch out for. They were the real tough guys, the ones who had fought and worked harder than their burly counterparts.

He held the door open for Wayne with a deferential little bob of his head. Wayne was still not used to being treated like a celebrity. It didn't happen as often as he might have liked, and when it did he liked to make an effort. "You're new," he said.

"I am," the guard agreed. "That was a hell of a play this afternoon.”

"Thanks."

Wayne headed through the door, but before he could cross the threshold this new guard blocked his path with his bulky frame. He produced a crisp white envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Just a sec," he said in a low voice. "Sorry about this, I feel a right prat, but my son's a big fan of yours. I mean, a big fan..."

Wayne felt himself going a bit red.

"He wrote you a letter," the guard continued, handing him the envelope. "He wants to be like you when he's older. He spent a lot of time on this letter. It would make his day if you'd have a read of it and maybe send him a reply."

"Sure," said Wayne, "course I will." He smiled at the guard and tucked the envelope into his own pocket. He liked getting fan mail. It was still a relatively new sensation for him, and it gave him a much-needed ego boost when it occurred. More often than not, the mail he received at the club and the messages he got online were hateful, or at the very least mocking him because of the perceived nepotism behind his place on the team. So a letter from a kid he had inspired made a nice change. He would read it, he decided, and he would write a reply.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But within moments he had forgotten the letter. All at once he was in the fray once more. The director's box was crammed with people, men and women in suits. Some of them Wayne had met before, but he had no memory for names. These were media people and money men. Friends of dad's. And right in the centre, like the king surveying his domain, was David Carter.

The crowd burst into applause when they realised Wayne was among them. They cheered and slapped him on the back.

"Nice work, Wayne."

"You did it again, kid."

"Two goals in ten minutes! I couldn't believe my eyes..."

Times like this, when he was surrounded by his father's lackeys and hangers-on, Wayne felt like royalty. Especially when he had just scored two goals. Waves of adulation washed over him. People toasted him with their champagne flutes – real champagne, not the Prosecco they sprayed around in the changing room. Wayne himself could not taste the difference, but he would never have dared admit that. Particularly in front of his dad, who always insisted on the best of everything for his family. Tail-coated waiters carried trays of glasses brimming with the crystalline beverage. Wayne helped himself to one and took a sip. It was purely for show. He would have preferred a pint of something to all these bubbles.

"There he is!" bellowed David Carter, his arms spread wide. "There's my champion!"

"Alright, Dad?"

"Alright? I'm fucking ecstatic, matey boy!"

It was amazing how David Carter's presence could make or break a party. When he was in a good mood, he seemed to exude waves of bonhomie that the other guests could not help but absorb and emulate. But when he was in a bad mood, he was murderous. You could almost sense the chill in the air. And God forbid you should ever cross him.

Wayne decided to make the most of the good cheer.

He looked up to his dad the way most kids look up to their fathers. But there was more to it than that; the roots went even deeper. Throughout Wayne's childhood, David Carter had been a kind of godlike presence; the voice of fearsome authority; a benevolent dictator. Wayne had learned quickly that the best way to stay in his dad's good books was to do everything he could to keep the old man happy. In some ways, Wayne had devoted his young life to fulfilling his dad's every wish. David Carter lived and breathed football, so Wayne did too. David Carter revered professionalism, dependability and honesty in all things, so Wayne did too. Now, David was making a show of his son's success in front of a crowd. What choice did Wayne have but to mimic his enthusiasm?

As David hugged him tight, Wayne glimpsed Max Linley over his dad's shoulder. Uncle Max was one of David's oldest friends, and he had been a part of Wayne's life for as long as he could remember. But at a party like this, Max seemed almost as uncomfortable as Wayne felt. Wayne gave bald, fat, track-suited Max an encouraging smile. It was his way of saying don't worry. It'll be over soon. But Max did not smile back. Instead, he fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and prodded the "answer" button.

Wayne made out the word "Lorenzo." Fabian Lorenzo, the Colombian striker. His arrival had been hotly anticipated in the press and among the fans. It had even briefly shunted Wayne from people's minds and silenced the endless debate about whether or not he deserved his place in the first team.

Wayne was intrigued and a little intimidated by the Colombian's reputation. He had heard mixed things.

Max finished his phone conversation, then sidled up to David. "Lorenzo's arrived," he murmured. "Rochelle's taking him straight to the media hub, but I thought you'd want to go and say hello."

David nodded. "Good thinking." He turned to Wayne. "Keep yourself entertained for a few minutes, there's somewhere I have to go. Won't be long."

Wayne felt a sudden surge of fear. Abandoned in a crowd of strangers, he found himself at a loss for words. People in suits were still congratulating him. He found himself repeating "thank you, yeah, thank you, cheers," like a kind of mantra. He helped himself to another glass of champagne and knocked it back in one go.

There was so much about David Carter's professional life that was a mystery to Wayne. He lacked the innate business sense that had enabled David to climb the slippery slope to the top and fulfil the ambitions of a lifetime. Wayne’s instincts were better suited for sport. Schmoozing crowds and networking with investors was better left to dad.

Wayne was conscious of the crowd forming a circle around him, as though he were an exhibit in a museum. He grabbed a third champagne. By the fourth, he had finally started to have a good time.

That's when David reappeared, and he was even more jubilant than he had been earlier. "Drink up, my boy!" he shouted. "It'll put hairs on your chest." Then he approached Max, who was standing alone by the window, looking out at the floodlit pitch. Wayne sidled up too, hoping to eavesdrop on what the two men had to say to one another. But neither of them spoke; instead, they simply shook hands, as though sealing a deal.

And all at once, it was as if a great weight had lifted from Max's shoulders. He finally smiled at Wayne, and said: "Well, well, look who it is! The bloody boy wonder!"

When the party finally began to disperse, some of David's associates were talking about heading to a club, taking the party elsewhere. "You coming, Mr. Carter?"

"Thanks but no thanks,” David said. “You may not have heard, but our latest acquisition is in the building. He's being interviewed at the moment, but I'd better take him out to dinner, give him an old-fashioned Mile End welcome."

"Can I meet him?" Wayne asked.

"You can meet him on Monday, when the rest of the team does.”

The room had begun to sway. Wayne was now in too good a mood to resent being rebuffed by his dad. "Where's my driver?" he mumbled to no one in particular.

Max had his phone in his hand once more. "I'll call him for you," he volunteered.

Wayne slipped out of his jacket and flung it playfully over his shoulder. He took the lift back down again, not really noticing the guards as they escorted him to the exit.

By the time he got outside, a cool breeze was whipping around him and he was glad to tumble into the back of his Rolls Royce (nothing but the best for David Carter's son). The driver gunned the engine and the city slithered by in a blur of lights. Wayne's eyelids fluttered and he began to doze.