(A/n: Sorry for the late update guys. Went to buy a car. Again sorry for it.)
...
It was the reporting day for the training camp.
St. George's Park National Football Centre, Staffordshire. Oliver was half a day late for his scheduled report time. The chain reaction from signing the contract, shooting the official photos, and the official announcement, plus the travel time from London, caused him to be delayed for a while.
Oliver, carrying a simple luggage bag, walked quickly towards the reporting area in the main building of the base. Most of his teammates had already arrived; some were familiar faces, but most were strangers. The national team hall always had a unique sense of liveliness and dispersion, with players from different clubs, fresh off the season, gathered together, some chatting animatedly, others quietly organizing their gear.
"Hey! Ollie!" A loud, somewhat solid voice cut through the not-so-noisy environment. Oliver looked in the direction of the voice, and a genuine smile immediately appeared on his face: "Harry!"
He saw the tall figure. It was Harry Maguire. The scene of them fighting side-by-side at Hoffenheim last season instantly came to mind. Maguire strode over, opened his strong arms, and gave Oliver a firm hug.
"Welcome back to the team, mate, though you're a bit late," Maguire released him, patting Oliver's shoulder firmly, his smile very warm, "Was your journey smooth? That official announcement photo was really handsome, Gooners' No. 7!"
"Hahaha, don't even mention it, time was so tight I couldn't breathe," Oliver shook his head with a smile, "But you, have you adapted to the rhythm of being back with the national team so quickly?"
"It's an old haunt, I often arrive early," Maguire said truthfully.
His words made Oliver feel a sense of reassurance. Having fought alongside Maguire for half a season at Hoffenheim, Maguire was not only a reliable defensive pillar but also became Oliver's most direct communication bridge in the locker room. As the two exchanged a few pleasantries, another voice came from nearby.
"The new double Golden Boot winner is here?" A voice with a strong East Midlands accent rang out; it was Jamie Vardy. This former non-League player, now a regular in the national team, didn't show much expression on his face, but his tone carried a hint of curiosity, and more so, a direct, scrutinizing gaze.
"Vardy," he introduced himself briefly, extending his hand. "Welcome, lad." His handshake was firm.
"Thank you, Mr. Vardy," Oliver smiled and shook Vardy's hand.
"Marcus Rashford," another young voice sounded, and Rashford, slightly taller than Oliver, also walked over, his smile appearing a bit more shy, "Welcome, I look forward to training together."
"Of course, it's a pleasure to meet you, Marcus," Oliver also shook hands amicably with Rashford.
Harry Kane, as captain, had clearly noticed the arrival of the new member. He left a few staff members he was talking to and walked straight over.
"Hello, Oliver, welcome to the team," Kane's voice was steady, carrying the authority of a captain, and he also extended his hand.
"You must have had a tough journey. You can relax a bit today; after this, it's all about focused training. If you need anything, you can find the staff or me." Kane's handshake was very formal; although his tone was polite, there was no excessive warmth, more like he was fulfilling his captain's duty, conveying a signal of "business as usual."
Oliver responded politely to each of them: "Thank you, Captain. Thank you, everyone."
He could feel that, apart from Maguire's genuine warmth, the others—Vardy, Rashford, and Kane—maintained a wait-and-see, polite attitude. Vardy's was a straightforward scrutiny born from experience, Rashford's was the polite curiosity of a peer, and Kane's was purely fulfilling his captain's duty.
This was all an inevitable process for a newcomer integrating into a group. This was also the process for Oliver, as an "outsider," to integrate into a new team. At the same time, more eyes were cast in his direction. Curiosity, scrutiny, and even some coldness. For example, Lingard of Manchester United, Henderson of Liverpool, Cahill of Chelsea, out of basic politeness, nodded or briefly said "Hi," which counted as a greeting. But more people chose to ignore him, continuing their conversations or turning away to do other things.
For these veteran England internationals, this 18-year-old newcomer, who had just transferred to Arsenal and only played one season in the German Bundesliga and despite wearing the same colored national team kit, he was still a complete "stranger."
Oliver was the only one from Birmingham in this group; he had no Premier League experience, and even with the titles of Bundesliga and Champions League Golden Boot, his credibility in the national team locker room clearly needed time to be established. In another corner of the hall, a few players gathered, their voices slightly louder than elsewhere.
Sterling spoke quickly, with rich body language. He was saying something to Stones, Delph, and Dier, his eyes occasionally darting towards the direction Oliver had just entered. Stones listened with his arms crossed, without much expression; Delph nodded in agreement from time to time; Dier seemed a bit distracted, but his gaze occasionally looked over.
"See? Our new Golden Boot has arrived, quite a big shot, late by more than half a day on the first day of reporting," Sterling's voice carried a hint of mockery; he used the term "Golden Boot," but there was no respect in his tone.
"What do you guys think, are his two Golden Boots really that shiny?"
Delph chuckled and chimed in: "What do you mean? His stats are right there."
This sounded like both a response and a question.
"Stats?" Sterling scoffed.
"Think about it, John," he turned to Stones, "In the Bundesliga, apart from Bayern and Dortmund, the others, RB Leipzig, Frankfurt... can their intensity be the same as our Premier League? If you ask me, getting a Golden Boot in that League isn't as hard as you'd imagine, especially when you're constantly facing... hmm?"
Sterling deliberately left his sentence unfinished, just shrugging, his meaning clear. He believed that the overall level of the Bundesliga was not as high as the Premier League, and Oliver's stats were somewhat inflated. Stones pursed his lips; he didn't immediately respond. Deep down, he somewhat disagreed with Sterling's flippancy, but since Sterling was a teammate, he didn't want to say anything.
In the 2017-18 season, Sterling's performance at Manchester City was indeed good, and he was still "flying high." But no matter what, Manchester City was eliminated by Hoffenheim in the Champions League quarterfinals last season. Stones only participated in the first leg; he was injured before the second leg began and watched the second leg from the hospital.
He had a deep impression of that match. Oliver's speed in counter-attacks and his nose for goal left a very deep impression on Stones; this was definitely not the performance of a flop. But he and Sterling were club teammates, and also national team teammates, and now they were in the same small circle, so he didn't want to cause conflict over this and chose to remain silent.
"Oh, and the Champions League Golden Boot," Sterling continued his argument, "How do you think he got those goals? In the group stage against... what was it? Oh right, Maribor, that Slovenian team? Moscow Spartak? A Russian team... Plus Sevilla, their performance this season was just so-so. Then in the Round of 16, he played a Portuguese League team, Porto. To put it harshly, are these teams considered tough nuts to crack in the Champions League? The only slightly tougher one, Porto, if they were in the Premier League, their difficulty would probably be mid-to-lower tier, right?"
Sterling spread his hands, with a "you know what I mean" expression.
"With this kind of fixture list, and facing these kinds of teams, being able to score so many goals isn't entirely about skill; luck is also part of skill, right? If it were our group's draw... Arsenal actually spent 158 million on him, tsk tsk, I can't even imagine..." Sterling clicked his tongue.
Dier listened to the conversation. Initially, he wasn't very interested in these analyses, but when he heard the words "Arsenal" subtly emerging from Sterling's teasing, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. As Tottenham's core midfielder and Arsenal's arch-rival, he naturally carried a layer of hostility and distrust towards this new teammate who was about to wear the Gooners' No. 7 jersey.
"Hey, guys, what's the point of talking about all that?" Dier finally spoke, his tone carrying his characteristic, nonchalant yet slightly contemptuous air.
He tilted his chin towards Oliver's direction, without much of a smile on his face.
"He's here, and the Football Association has their own considerations for team selection. If you ask me, it's nothing more than... well, the Football Association wants to establish a diversified image internationally, perhaps?"
Dier paused, his gaze sweeping over the other three, a smile without warmth playing on his lips, "Do you really think Southgate would put his faith so quickly in a newcomer who just came from the Bundesliga? And playing up front? The competition for forwards in our team, I don't need to say how fierce it is, do I? Just let him feel the atmosphere, don't take him too seriously."
His words seemed to be reassuring his companions, and also lowering their sense of "threat" from Oliver, conveying a subtle disdain for Oliver's actual ability and speculation about Southgate's personnel choices.
Sterling chuckled twice, clearly agreeing with Dier's statement: "Dier's right, he's just a mascot here, he'll be a spectator for a few games first. His turn to play? We'll see next time! But when we meet Arsenal in the new season, hehe..."
He didn't continue his mockery about Arsenal, but everyone understood.
On the other side. Oliver, Maguire, Vardy, and others chatted a few more words about the training base. Vardy briefly introduced him to the dormitory location and dining times. Although Vardy didn't say much, his phrase "the training ground is where the truth is revealed" made Oliver feel quite grounded. Maguire, meanwhile, kindly asked about his accommodation arrangements for his transfer to London.
After chatting, Oliver's gaze fell on the slightly conspicuous small group in another corner of the hall. Sterling's laughter was still very clear. Oliver was not a fool. He certainly understood that integrating into a new group, especially a locker room like England's, filled with superstars and factions, couldn't rely solely on introductions from acquaintances.
He had to actively face everyone, at least express basic respect. He took a deep breath, adjusted his backpack strap, and walked towards where Sterling and the others were. His steps were steady, and his face held a trained, appropriate, humble smile.
"Hey, guys," Oliver stopped a few steps away, ensuring his presence wasn't too abrupt, "I'm Oliver, just arrived, was delayed a bit on the way, my apologies, everyone..." His gaze swept over Sterling, Stones, and Delph in turn, finally settling on Dier.
All four stopped talking and turned to look at him. Sterling reacted the quickest; his young face instantly broke into a wide, very enthusiastic smile, and he was the first to extend his hand:
"Raheem Sterling, welcome, welcome! We were just talking about you, the Champions League Golden Boot, impressive!" His tone sounded incredibly sincere. But Oliver had clearly heard Sterling's earlier assessment of him. Oliver shook his hand: "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet you, Raheem."
He could feel that Sterling's hand only briefly touched his before letting go, with very light pressure.
Stones extended his hand, his expression still unchanged, very calm: "John Stones, welcome."
Delph also extended his hand, with his usual simple smile, his voice a bit hoarse: "Fabian Delph, welcome to the team."
Finally, it was Dier. He stood still, waiting for Oliver to look at him, then slowly extended his hand. There was no particular expression on his face, just a faint one: "Eric Dier, welcome." His handshake was polite, but nothing more, equally brief.
Even when Oliver tried to add a "Nice to meet you," Dier seemed to imperceptibly, with a minimal nod, shift his gaze naturally away, looking elsewhere. A new Arsenal player proactively greeting an old Tottenham player was indeed asking for trouble. On the surface, this was entirely the standard procedure for teammates meeting for the first time; at least to others in the hall who weren't paying attention to the details, there was no problem.
But an invisible string in Oliver's heart subtly twitched; he possessed a keenness far beyond his age and a high emotional intelligence honed in highly competitive environments. Therefore, Oliver's ability to perceive interpersonal relationships was also particularly strong, and he captured everyone's feelings towards him: Sterling's smile was too warm and superficial; the deliberate reminder of "Golden Boot" in his words seemed overly forced. Beneath Stones' calmness, there seemed to be something he wanted to say but held back. Delph seemed the least biased, just going with the flow.
And Dier...
That seemingly unintentional, extremely slight shift of gaze, the sense of aloofness in his handshake, and his lukewarm attitude during the introduction, all made Oliver detect a hint of coldness. Going deeper, Oliver felt a sense of being excluded.
The simple pleasantries, outwardly harmonious, felt like an invisible gust of wind, carrying a chill. But in reality, a faint, almost imperceptible, yet truly present, hint of animosity permeated the greetings just now. Oliver knew very well where these attitudes came from.
Because of his face, his heritage, his skin color, the Premier League pitch he had never set foot on, and the dazzling sensation brought by his sudden, brilliant achievements, as well as becoming this season's transfer record holder. Oliver pulled his thoughts back. He didn't show the slightest abnormality, his face still maintaining that appropriate calm.
"Okay, I won't bother you guys anymore, I'll go put my luggage away first, see you on the training ground later."
He nodded slightly to the four, his tone calm and natural, then turned, picked up his luggage bag, and followed the staff's guidance towards the dormitory assigned to him. Those scrutinizing, cold, and even subtly hostile gazes seemed to still be watching him. Oliver did not look back. Vardy's words were indeed truthful: the training ground is where the truth is revealed. Earning a place in the England locker room has never been a simple matter.
...
If you want to read upto Chapter 146 with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my P*tr+-n below
p*tr+-n.com/Not_Thor
( *=a ; -=o ; +=e )
...
Also I saw some of you use IOS app for subscribing. Please don't use the IOS app as it takes away too much as platform fees. Just subscribe using the web version. That will cost less, I think.
New Bonus requirement:
Every 100 powerstone or 5 five star reviews= extra chapter 🤭🤭
Count resets every week.
...