Sonny Brooks | Keldmere Krabs

Sonny grimaces, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. The pub is packed, noise swelling like a storm—his teammates are the loudest, hollering as if they’d just pulled off a victory instead of the humiliating loss they’d actually suffered. They’ve claimed a corner of the pub like conquering heroes, raising glasses and shouting over one another, pretending they didn’t just get torn apart on the field.

Locals from Keldmere glare across the room, eyes hot with blame. Sonny feels it like a weight on his back—anger and disappointment directed solely at him. Maybe he deserves it. Maxwell refuses to pass and insists on wild, hopeless shots. Sonny himself had been outpaced by a lumbering forward who twisted around him with ease to score.

Leadership? What leadership?

He sits at the bar, brooding over a half-drunk pint, jaw clenched. Someone brushes past, deliberately or not, muttering, “Wanker,” under their breath. Sonny’s fingers tighten on his glass. His knuckles ache.

The bar jostles again—elbow, shoulder, he doesn’t care—and something in him snaps like a wire stretched too tight. He turns sharply, voice low and hard, grating with fury.

“Oi,” he growls. “Fuck off.”