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The glass doors of the London Colney reception slid open with a rush of icy wind, letting in a swirl of frozen rain.
Sixteen-year-old Max Dowman sat huddled on the very edge of the leather bench, his trainers dangling an inch off the carpet. He had his giant red kit bag wedged between his knees, his hands jammed deep into his pockets, and his chin buried under his zipped-up collar. He checked his phone screen for the fifth time in three minutes.
A text from his mum popped up: M25 completely frozen, darling. Police blocked the roundabout. Haven't moved an inch in forty minutes. So sorry! Stay inside where it’s warm!
Max exhaled a small puff of air into his jacket. He didn't want to make a fuss. The senior players had all finished their evening recovery session and were drifting toward the car park in their designer coats, warm beanies, and expensive trainers. He was perfectly fine to just sit quietly and wait it out.
"Oi. What are you doing over there looking like a stray cat?"
Max looked up quickly. Declan Rice had just strolled out of the corridor, his car keys spinning smoothly around his index finger. Right next to him was Bukayo Saka, holding a woolly hat in one hand and shaking his head at his phone.
"Just waiting for my mum, Dec," Max said, offering a polite little smile. "Traffic's jammed on the dual carriageway."
Declan stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Max, blinked once, and then turned his head toward Bukayo with wide, scandalized eyes.
"B. Look at this," Declan whispered loudly, pointing an accusing finger. "Look at him. He’s turning blue. His ears are literally pink, mate. This is a safeguarding issue."
"Max, how long have you been sitting by the sliding door, man?" Bukayo asked, immediately walking over with that calm, big-brother frown on his face.
"Only twenty minutes," Max mumbled, his cheeks warming.
"Twenty minutes?!" Declan threw both hands up in the air. "In minus two degrees?! That’s it. On your feet. Up, up, up."
Before Max could reach for his straps, Declan scooped up the massive kit bag with one arm like it weighed nothing more than a feather. Bukayo took Max gently by the forearm, pulling the teenager to his feet before he could protest.
"I can wait out here, really, it’s fine—" Max began.
"You’re not freezing in a drafty lobby alone, little bro," Bukayo said with a quiet laugh, steering him firmly by the shoulder toward the warm corridor. "Mikel will drop Dec and me from the starting eleven if the wonderkid catches a cold before the weekend."
"Come on, child," Declan announced, marching ahead with the giant bag swung over his shoulder. "Back to the mothership."
The double doors of the private squad lounge swung open, instantly hitting them with a wall of golden light, underfloor heating, and the noisy chatter of twenty-odd footballers unwinding.
"Attention, everyone!" Declan bellowed at the top of his lungs, dumping Max’s kit bag unceremoniously onto an armchair. "Emergency protocol! The baby has been rescued from the wild!"
The entire room turned around.
"Who has been rescued?" Ødegaard asked, looking up from the corner sofa where he had an iPad propped on his knees between Zubimendi and Merino. The captain set down his water bottle immediately, looking thoroughly responsible.
"Maxy!" Declan declared, steering Max into the middle of the room with two hands planted squarely on the boy’s shoulders. "His mum is trapped in a blizzard, and he was sitting by the automatic doors like Oliver Twist."
"Oh, behave, Dec, he's not an infant," Ben White drawled from across the room. Ben was laid out flat on a leather massage chair in thick white socks, staring lazily at his phone without lifting his head. "The lad’s got a coat on. Don't be dramatic."
"His hands are like ice lollies, Benjamin!" Bukayo called back. "Go on, feel them!"
"I'm not touching his hands, that's weird," Ben muttered. But five seconds later, without breaking eye contact with his screen, Ben reached down into his duffel, pulled out a brand-new pair of thick black wool gloves, and tossed them across the lounge. They landed with a soft smack against Max’s chest. "Put them on, kid. You're giving me second-hand hypothermia just standing there."
Max caught them, blinking. "Thanks, Ben."
"Don't thank me. You look ridiculous shivering."
"He is cold?!" a loud voice cheered from the kitchen counter. Bruno Guimarães bounded across the room like a delighted golden retriever and threw both arms around Max’s neck in a bear hug so tight it lifted Max’s sneakers two inches off the rug. "My boy! Maxinho! Why you no tell me? I drive you home in my big truck right now! We smash through the snow, no problem!"
"Bruno, put him down, you will snap his neck," Zubimendi said with an easy chuckle. The Spanish midfielder stood up, walked over with a steaming ceramic mug, and placed it right into Max’s gloved hands. "Here. Hot mint tea with a little honey. Drink it slow, it warms you from the inside."
"Thank you, Martin," Max smiled, holding the warm mug tightly.
"Look at his jacket," Calafiori sighed dramatically, gliding over in a cream turtleneck that looked straight off a Milan runway. He looked Max up and down, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "The zip is only halfway up. The cold air, it goes straight down the throat, Max. Did nobody teach you the art of staying warm?"
"I was just—" Max tried to explain, but Calafiori was already stepping into his personal space with smooth, practiced fingers, carefully pulling the zipper all the way up to Max's lower lip and neatly arranging the hood around his collar.
"There," Calafiori murmured with a gentle pat on Max’s cheek. "Now you are protected. And much more handsome."
"Leave his styling alone, Ricky, he’s a footballer, not doing a shoot for Vogue," Jurrien Timber laughed, strolling past with a plate of sliced fruit. Jurrien reached out and messily ruffled Max’s tidy fringe with his palm, grinning when the kid tried to duck away. "Top session today, little man. That turn you gave Ezri in the small-sided game? Cold blooded."
"Hey! Keep my name out of your mouth!" Konsa yelled from the pool table, chalking the tip of his cue with a grin. He looked over at Max and pointed the stick at him. "The boy caught me leaning on my bad ankle, that's all. Fluke of the season. Next time you try that, little bro, you're ending up in row Z."
"You won't touch him, Ezri," Hincapié said in his low, gravelly voice. He walked over from the recovery boots station, pulling a brand-new Arsenal beanie out of his pocket. Without asking, Piero stretched it open and pulled it down until it swallowed Max’s head right to his eyebrows. "Keep the skull warm, Max. Very important for the brain."
Max shoved the brim up an inch so he could actually see. "Thanks, Piero."
"Look at him," Myles Lewis-Skelly wheezed from a nearby beanbag, pointing and cracking up. "Look at the state of you, Max. You look like you're in year seven waiting for the school coach."
"Shut up, Myles!" Max protested, his face flaming red. "You had this exact same hat on two months ago!"
"Yeah, but I've got aura, bro. You look like a potato," Myles grinned cheekily.
"Myles, leave the kid alone," Eze said smoothly, sliding onto the armrest of the sofa with effortless calm. Eze gave Max a relaxed low-five that melted into a soft shoulder tap. "You good, Max? Don't listen to them. You were moving sharp out there today."
"Thanks, Ebz," Max smiled shyly.
Before he could take a sip of his tea, a gigantic shadow fell over him. Gyökeres emerged from the squad kitchen holding a ceramic dinner plate loaded with an unbelievable mountain of grilled chicken breasts, steamed sweet potatoes, pasta, and three whole bananas.
"Eat," Viktor said simply, his Swedish accent deep and immovable. He set the plate down on the low table with a heavy wooden clatter. "You are growing. When I was sixteen, I ate an entire cow every two days. You need mass."
"Viktor, that is food for an entire family," Kepa laughed, walking out right behind him carrying a small tray. He set down a steaming bowl of tomato soup next to the mountain of chicken. "Drink some soup first, Max. It is light, it is warm. You do not need to eat a cow at eight in the evening."
"Cows are better," Meslier chimed in from the doorway, tall and lean, carrying a stack of fleece blankets he had raided from the physio room. "He needs muscle so Wil doesn't smash him during set-piece drills. Here, Max." Meslier shook out a navy fleece and wrapped it around Max’s shoulders like a heavy cape.
"Who is smashing Max?!" a booming voice roared.
The double doors banged wide open. Saliba and Gabriel marched into the room side by side, both still in their white shower slides.
"Nobody touches my little boy!" Gabriel shouted, eyes wide as he locked onto Max. He marched straight over, bent down, and scooped Max into a crushing, rib-creaking hug that almost spilled the mint tea. "Maxou! My baby! Big Gabi is here, you are safe!"
"Wil! Help!" Max squeaked playfully into Gabriel’s training sweater.
"Gabi, let the boy breathe, you are choking our future number ten," Saliba drawled with a lazy smirk. The moment Gabriel let go, Saliba stepped in, reached out with two massive fingers, and gave Max’s cheek a firm, affectionate pinch that Max had to swat away. "Look at this face. Very soft. Still drinking warm milk before bed, eh?"
"I'm sixteen!" Max laughed, rubbing his pink cheek. "I shave, you know!"
The entire lounge dissolved into immediate uproar.
"You shave what?!" Noni Madueke barked from the sofa, nearly choking on a strawberry gummy. "Max, stop lying to the public! You have three invisible hairs on your chin! Turn your head to the light, let the room see!"
"Leave his beard alone, Noni," Tzolis chuckled, tossing a small cluster of grapes across the table directly into Max's lap. "Eat the grapes, Max. When I was sixteen back home, the senior guys made me wash their shin pads in cold water. Here, these guys are treating you like royalty."
"Because he is our little prince!" Mosquera smiled, coming over to sit cross-legged on the floor right beside Max’s knees. He leaned his back against Max’s sofa and tapped his shin affectionately. "Don't worry about the roads, hermanito. If your mum can't get through, you come home with me. I order pizza, we play FIFA, no problem."
"No chance, he's coming to mine," Declan called out from the counter where he was slicing a loaf of banana bread. "We're having beans on toast and watching match highlights until two in the morning."
"He is staying with none of you lunatics," Ødegaard intervened smoothly. The captain walked over, phone pressed to his ear, looking thoroughly in charge of the situation. He lowered the phone and gave Max a reassuring nod. "I just spoke with your mum, Max. She says the plow just cleared the roundabout. The gritters are out, and she’ll be at the gate in about fifteen minutes."
"Oh," Max said, feeling a sudden, funny little tug between immense relief and not wanting the evening to end. "Thank you, Martin."
"See? Everything is handled," Mikel Merino smiled, resting a hand gently on Max’s shoulder. "Sit back, finish your tea."
From the far corner, Kai Havertz drifted over. He hadn't said a single word the entire time. With that slow, sleepy grace of his, Kai picked up the remote, muted the loud talk show on the wall TV, and turned on a highlight reel of classic Champions League goals. Then, without a word, he tucked a giant plush travel cushion right behind Max’s lower back, smoothed the fleece blanket over Max’s knees, and patted the boy’s head twice like an older cousin making sure a dog was comfortable by the fire.
"Rest," Kai murmured softly in his quiet German accent. "Good boy."
"Thanks, Kai," Max whispered, sinking into the ridiculously comfortable cushions.
"Now, the real question," Raya announced, walking in with two bottles of cold-pressed juice. He dropped one onto the table in front of Max and pointed an accusing finger across the room. "Who is carrying that kit bag out to the car? Because it weighs more than the kid does."
"Wil carries it," Ben White chimed in instantly from his massage chair, not missing a beat. "He needs the extra work. His distribution was shocking today."
"My distribution was top sensation!" Saliba fired back, immediately hurling a rolled-up gym sock straight at Ben's head. Ben simply tilted his head two inches to the left, letting the sock hit the wall behind him with a dull thud.
For the next fifteen minutes, the Colney lounge felt less like a professional workplace and more like a chaotic living room packed with two dozen older brothers fussing over one younger sibling.
Viktor stood by the table, arms crossed, nodding approvingly every time Max took a bite of sweet potato. Kepa and Meslier argued over whose local coffee shop did better pastries. Calafiori checked Max's coat zip one more time to ensure it hadn't dropped half an inch. Gabriel and Mosquera shoved their phones in Max's face to show him absurd training clips, while Bruno shouted loud, passionate words of Portuguese encouragement that Max didn't understand in the slightest but nodded to anyway.
Max sat there buried under Kai’s blanket, wearing Ben’s gloves and Piero’s beanie, clutching his warm mug with a plate of fruit on his lap. He had never felt so ridiculously small—and he had never felt more completely safe.
A soft chime buzzed in his pocket.
At the front doors, darling!
"She's here," Max said, shifting forward.
The room snapped into motion with the precision of a choreographed set-piece.
"Bag secured!" Declan yelled, grabbing the kit bag by both straps and slinging it over his back.
"Zip tight!" Calafiori commanded, double-checking the collar.
"Don't lose the gloves," Ben White muttered from his chair, still scrolling, but watching out of the corner of his eye.
"Take the bananas," Viktor insisted, sliding two pieces of fruit straight into Max’s outer coat pockets until they bulged like holsters.
"Drink the juice in the car," Raya ordered with a wink.
Gabriel wrapped Max in one final, back-cracking hug, lifting him clean off the floor before dropping him down with a firm slap on the shoulder pads of his coat. "Go home safe, Maxou! Tomorrow we work!"
"Get some good sleep, little bro," Bukayo smiled warmly, walking side-by-side with him toward the reception doors, an arm comfortably slung over Max’s padded shoulders.
Ødegaard held the glass door open against the cold night air. "Tell your mum to drive safe, Max. See you for morning activation."
Max paused in the doorway. He was bundled in so many borrowed layers he could barely turn his neck, his pockets were heavy with fruit, and his heart felt completely full. He looked back at the warm, noisy room where half the squad was waving, shouting banter, and laughing.
"Thanks, guys," Max said, his voice quiet but bright. "Thank you for everything."
"Go on, get out of here!" Declan laughed loudly, already jogging out into the snowy drizzle in his shorts to pop the boot of the car for Max’s mum. "See you tomorrow, Starboy Jr.!"
Max scrambled into the passenger seat, the blast of the car’s dashboard heater washing over his face.
His mum shifted the car into drive, then turned her head to look at him. Her jaw slowly dropped as she took in the navy physio blanket tucked across his lap, the beanie pulled down to his brows, the thick wool gloves, the pockets stuffed with fruit, and the travel pillow still wedged behind his spine.
"Goodness me, Max," she laughed, steering the car carefully onto the slushy, cleared tarmac. "Did they adopt you in there?"
Max leaned his head back against the soft pillow, watching the warm yellow lights of the training ground fade into the falling snow.
"Yeah," he smiled softly, watching the breath fog on the window. "I think they did."