Speed demon

Jace Holloway had always been fast. Not just quick but blisteringly, unbelievably fast. The kind of speed that made crowds gasp and others give up before the race even started.

By the time he turned 15, he was already being scouted for England's youth athletics programme, tipped to be one of the country's next great sprinters.

At Harrow Sixth Form College in North London, his reputation preceded him.

Everyone called him "The Speed Demon", a nickname earned after he ran the 100 metres in 10.7 seconds at the English Schools Championships.

His coach, Mr. Warren, had seen the future in him, so he decided to take Jace under his tutelage.

"Jace," Warren had said after training one day, shaking his head in disbelief, "you don't just have talent—you've got something special. Stick with this, and in a few years, you'll be wearing the Team GB kit."

And Jace believed it.

He lived for the race, for the feeling of leaving everyone in his dust. The feeling of seeing the world blur around him as he pushed himself to the limit but fate, if you beleived in it, had a way to fuck things up.

---

It happened on a cold, grey October afternoon at an intercollegiate meet in Birmingham. The 200 metres, his best event.

Jace was flying, eating up the track, his body moving like it was built for this—until he felt it.

A sharp, white-hot pain in his right knee.

It happened in a split second—his leg buckled, and before he knew it, he was crashing to the ground.

He lay there, stunned, as rain drizzled down. His teammates rushed over, his coach shouting his name, but Jace already knew. Something was wrong.

They carried him off the track. At first, it was his season but a thought came into his mind that this might be over.

---

The diagnosis wasn't the worst—a severe ligament strain. It wasn't a complete tear, but it was enough.

"You can still run," the doctor told him, "but you'll never quite be the same."

The words sank into his chest like lead.

For weeks, he went through the motions—physio, stretching, light training—but it was different now. He couldn't explode off the blocks like before. He couldn't push himself without fear.

He watched his old rivals pull ahead of him, runners he used to leave behind. He tried to keep going, but the truth was undeniable. The Speed Demon was gone.

...

"Why don't you try football?" Marcus, his best mate, asked one afternoon as they sat outside a café in town.

Jace frowned. "Football? You know I've never played seriously."

"Yeah, but you're still rapid," Marcus said. "I swear, if you learned how to use it, you'd be unstoppable. Loads of top wingers started as sprinters. Sterling, Mbappé—pure pace, mate. And look where they are now."

Jace scoffed. It wasn't that simple. He didn't know the tactics, the movement, the skill. He wasn't a footballer.

But deep down, a thought started forming.

What if speed wasn't the only thing that defined him?

What if this was his way back to doing what he did best?

The next week, Jace found himself standing at the edge of the pitch during Harrow Sixth Form's football tryouts. He wasn't there to play—just to watch.

At first, it all seemed chaotic. Voices shouting, boots scuffing against damp grass, the sharp smack of the ball against the crossbar. He spotted Marcus among the trialists, darting around defenders, calling for the ball.

The game was different from the track. It wasn't just about speed—it was about control, timing, decision-making.

But as Jace watched a winger burst down the flank, cutting past a defender with a sudden change of pace, something stirred in his chest.

He came back the next day.

And the next.

He told himself he was just curious. That he wasn't serious about playing.

But with each passing session, as he watched the way the game flowed, the way moments of raw acceleration changed everything—he started to wonder.

Could he really do this?

Could football be his way back?

Jace didn't have an answer yet. But for the first time in months, he wanted to find out.