You Weren't Supposed to Be Her

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

The early morning air was sharp, cutting through the red of Isla Bennett's new training top like a whisper of reality. Carrington was quiet, almost empty, the pitch glistening under the pale sun that hadn't fully risen. Isla dragged her bag across the concrete, every echo of her boots sounding too loud in the stillness. She paused at the entrance to the changing rooms, her fingers brushed the embroidered badge on her new jersey, the Manchester United crest gleaming in the soft light. 

Number 17 stared back at her from the shirt hanging neatly in her locker. It wasn't just a number. It was a promise, a challenge, a step into a life she hadn't  dared imagine for herself in months. She touched the badge again, and for a moment, the memories of everything she'd left behind in America crowded her mind, the crowded stadiums, the late night bus rides, the laughter, the heartbreak. She swallowed hard, letting it slide into the corner of her thoughts. Knowing that this was fresh start. 

The locker room slowly filled as her new teammates tridckled in. Isla kept her head down, taking in the faces, the familiar clatter of boots, the smell of grass and sweat. This was home now. It felt foreign and thrilling all at once. 

When Marc finally called them to the pitch, Isla felt the familiar hum of anticpation rising in her chest. Left wing. That was her spot, her responsibility, her battlefield. She jogged onto the lush green turf, feeling the dew cool beneath her boots, the smell of the grass grounding her.

The session started with drills, short passes, sprints, quick turns. Isla moved with a quiet intensity, weaving past markers, her body remembering instinctively what her brain had spent years memorizing. By the time the coach called for a small-sided game, she was ready. She picked up the ball near the sideline, eyes scanning, and noticed the defender shading her toward the touchline. A slight feint, a burst of speed, and she slipped past. She sent a low cross into the box; one of the strikers reached it just in time, nodding in appreciation.

A few teammates glanced her way. Respect was there. Recognition too. Isla felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: pride. Not the showy kind, not the arrogant kind, just the quiet satisfaction that came from doing what you were made to do.

After the session, she slowed her jog toward the sideline, her chest rising with controlled breaths. That's when she noticed someone waving at her with a grin.

"Oi! You're the new left winger, right?" a familiar accent asked.

Isla looked up to meet Maya Le Tissier's sparkling eyes, framed by damp strands of hair clinging to her face. "Yeah," Isla said, trying to sound casual.

"You're fast. I like fast," Maya said, shaking Isla's hand firmly. "I'm Maya. Don't let the rest of us scare you. Yet."

Isla laughed, the first sound that didn't feel forced in weeks. "I'll try not to."

"You'll fit in just fine," Maya said, tossing her bag over her shoulder. "But just so you know... I'm watching you. Every sprint, every cross, every stupid celebration dance you pull. I'll judge."

Isla grinned, the tension easing slightly. "Good. I like being judged."

Maya shrugged, smirk widening. "You'll survive. Probably."

They walked off the pitch together, talking about the session, the training facilities, the new city. Isla felt something settle in her chest, a tiny warmth she hadn't realized she'd been missing: connection. Not romance, not even friendship yet — just someone who made her feel like she wasn't invisible.

Later, when the others headed to the showers, Isla found a quiet corner of the changing room. She knelt to tie her boots, the laces tight in her hands. Her phone buzzed against the floor — a notification from across the ocean. She didn't look. She couldn't. The sting of old memories made her fingers hesitate over the screen. Whoever it was, whoever it reminded her of, could wait. For now, she needed the present, this new start, this red shirt hugging her shoulders.

With her boots tied, she rose and made her way back toward the tunnel. The stadium ahead seemed impossibly large, empty, silent,  a blank canvas for everything she might become. Isla stood at the edge of the pitch, the crisp morning air brushing her face, and let her gaze sweep over the goalposts, the sideline, the seats waiting for crowds she would one day face.

Her stomach churned with nerves and excitement, a mix she had learned to embrace long ago. She imagined the roar of fans, the flash of cameras, the weight of expectation. She imagined herself running at defenders, threading impossible passes, scoring goals that would make headlines.

And somewhere in that imagination, she felt something else: the faint pull of challenges she couldn't yet name, rivalries she couldn't yet predict, and a strange, thrilling possibility that this life might demand more than just her skill. It might demand her heart.

She exhaled slowly, hands brushing her knees. Her boots dug into the turf. The morning light bounced off the red of her kit. For the first time in a long time, she felt ready.

I didn't know yet that Manchester was only the beginning.