Unbelievers

Chapter 2

Doncaster wasn't perfect. It was kind of ugly, as a matter of fact, with its boring English townhouses in rows and rows within blocks, through and through. And where there weren't townhouses there were square houses with gable roofs, and they followed each other in squares everywhere you went. Where there weren't houses, there were chunks of green, randomly arranged stretches of grass and bushes, strangely shaped parks and mottes. Indeed, there were nice things. Like the cinema that premiered movies without delay, the pizza parlour that never missed, and the town centre that provided enough city twist for Doncaster not to feel like a total dead corner of the country.

Doncaster wasn't perfect, but at the end of summer it was different. Some would even say it was a pretty nice place to live. The trees were yet crowned by green and there were still flowers on front lawns. The best thing about Doncaster at the end of summer was the way the grass on the football pitch felt under fresh cleats.

Harry had known since he was six years old that he wanted to play football for the rest of his life. His father had been relocated at work, and the family moved from Cheshire to Doncaster in his early teenage years. Doncaster, because of its large school and football pitch, had only been to fall in love with. The school had for a long time invested in football, and the boys' team had a recent, brief history of exceptional accomplishments. Harry's earliest experience in Donny had been a blur of longing and desire to be allowed to try out for the actual team. Certainly, younger grades had their own provisional football teams, but it wasn't serious enough for him. He had always wanted the real thing: Premier and Champions League, FIFA World Cup, and wearing the famed words Youth, Courage, Greatness across his shirt. Harry had done everything in his power to train as much as he could, and to learn as much as possible. His father took him to Manchester to watch United play at Old Trafford as a one-off Sunday activity, and he only dreamed he could one day stand next to Sir Alex and share his victories. That was a long time ago now, but that same urge and burn still sliced electrically through his limbs each time he placed a foot on a piece of grass.

It was the football pitch at school that Harry adored. During that time, at the start of the season, the grass was at a perfected peak. It was soft and firm all at the same time, providing the perfect surface to slide a football across and into the net of a goal. It wasn't just the way it carried the ball; it was the way it smelled, so crisp and fresh as it tore under cleats, knees and elbows. Late summer nights under the lowering orange sun, inhaling an easy breath and sinking a football into the deep end of a net, was the epitome of immaculacy.

Surprisingly, when he finally tried out for the football team it was easier than expected. Harry had breezed through the exercises with the older lads, swiftly falling in love with the earnest atmosphere and passion of the group of boys around him. And of course, during the try-outs, he had noticed him. How could he not have? There was a boy. He was fast and he was skilled. He was a bit rough around the edges. His feet were quicker than raindrops on windshields during sky fall, and he seemed to make precision an art. It was the boy with the fringe and the blue eyes. He looked like he'd been born with a football on his toes, and for a minute there Harry had been excited. A boy in his grade with seemingly the same passion and eagerness. Playing with someone like him could make for a beautiful future. It was simply such a shame that the bloke was a true, new brand of freaking idiocy incarnate.

Louis Tomlinson. That was his name.

"I'm Louis," he had said during the first real training with the team. His face was tan from summer, and his eyes were blue. Harry had seen him briefly in English class, but never actually spoken to him.

"Harry," he exhaled. The team was gathered in a half-circle on the pitch. The water case was in the middle, their names written on each of the bottles. Louis reached for his, and his eyes lingered on the case for a moment before he grasped Harry's, too.