Chapter Text
05:35AM.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
God knows who would be up at this hour?! On a Monday, IN SUMMER! Only nocturnal animals should be awake right now, scavenging and scrounging for food…
Well, if you’d like to class Jordan Brian Henderson as a nocturnal creature, be my guest, I’m sure he’s been called worse.
A hand slams on to the top of the screeching black box, silencing the sound with a loud crack of hand on plastic. It’s on days not unlike this Jordan wonders why he didn’t give in to temptation and buy one of those ‘sun rise alarm clocks’ that wake you up without the sheer panic and immense anxiety. But hey ho, what’s a Monday morning without a little bit of fear?
Opening his eyes was slight torture, the off-white curtains picked out by his sister always fail to keep the summer Sun from streaming in through the window. But at least they match his reading lamp; ‘beauty is pain, Jordie,’ he remembers his sister saying, ‘don’t think that includes interior design, Bells.’ But Bella Henderson has never been one to disagree with, not about interior design anyway, he learnt that the hard way. Jordan lightly chuckles at the memory as he pushes himself up off of the plush striped sheets and sits upright in bed.
He has three hours until the car picks him up, driving him to the airport to meet the rest of the squad. His bags are packed, devices are charged, passport is out: everything is in order. So Jordan has around three hours to do absolutely fuck all.
Perfect.
He’s always been wired that way, though. Early is on time and on time is late, and all that good stuff. And, honestly, this is why Jordan thrives, constantly a few steps ahead with a meticulous plan and several fall back options, you know, just in case. He’s always been a bit of a mother hen too, checking everything over, ensuring it to be a-ok before letting anyone to proceed. In England, some of the lads need that, whatever you want to call it, guidance, supervision, encouragement, or sometimes, a thwack on the back of the head if they’ve done something wrong. Jordan will always be there with a level-head and a wise word (or two if they’ve done something bad). All the younguns on the team know that, even if H is their captain, Jordan will always be there as their skipper, cheering them on from the sidelines.
‘World Cup 2026,’ he thinks, arm reaching to grab his phone off of the night stand, ‘what a bloody dream?’
Never did Hendo ever think that he would be in SEVEN major tournaments, only man in English history to play in four world cups. What a statistic that is!? Wayne, Harty, Stevie, not even David fucking Beckham played that many! All Jordan can think, is just how lucky he is to do this, and maybe, just maybe, his dreams will come true.
The wood floor is cold, a soothing glaze to combat the humidity in the air. His grandad would never believe England could reach 34 degrees, but he can feel it clear as day on his bare chest. He opens the curtains swiftly and stares out into the field space surrounding the house, the grass banks dusted in hazy sunlight. As much as Jordan prefers a drizzle, like the true Mackem he is, he’s found himself growing fonder and fonder of the summertime heat. Who knows why?
The rest of his routine goes as follows: open curtains, make bed, check phone, shower, do skincare (he classes his moisturising suncream as a skincare routine but who am I to judge?) and make breakfast. Simple and systematic: you can’t fault it. And, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? Especially not on a day like today, when he’s getting shipped off to the United States to bring football back, to home and country. Not nerve-racking at all, no?
Jordan thinks about all of this in the shower, whilst Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind sways as a backing to his internal monologue. ‘How could anyone survive a day like this without a routine?’
That’s something Jordan will never know….
06:58AM
Adam Levine’s voice belting ‘Moves like Jagger’ can be heard for miles as it tries to wake Jack Grealish up for the forth time.
“Ugh,” Jack grumbles, pulling his phone out from underneath his pillow, finally hitting stop instead of snooze (it’s true, miracles can really happen). Waking up has never come easy to Jack Grealish, he was always the last one up out of the family for any sort of occasion, Christmas had to start around 09:30, once Jack could bother his arse out of bed. He always ran down the stairs after remembering it was Christmas, though, and today was no different from Christmas Day.
The realisation hit him like a freight train, filled with puppies and rainbows and whatever else creates the joy that young children feel when they realise Father Christmas has brought their presents. Leaping out of the navy sheets has been a skill acquired over many years, and today it was put to use. His blinds were ripped open vivaciously to reveal a glistening sky and a blinding Sun. Jack’s favourite weather.
He’s still for a moment, peering up at the cloudless sky into a vast sea of cerulean, and everything is quiet. For a second, it all stops for Jack to take a deep breath in.
And back out again.
Wow, he’s going to play in the World Cup for England, today. His first call up, and he can’t wait. Literally.
Flying past his unmade bed, pillows laying helplessly, strewn all over the carpet sporadically. His plaid pj pants and T-shirt are shucked off quickly in the 15 meter dash to the shower in a careless pile on the floor. Jack has an hour to pack his bag, charge his phone and find his passport before the car comes to get him. ‘Plenty of time,’ he thinks, mindlessly shampooing his hair.
England is different for Jack, he didn’t grow up in the U16s or 18s or 21s, he played for Ireland. And, as much as he loves that part of his family, there’s always been this voice calling him back to home. ‘Probably has a Mackem accent,’ Jack laughs in his head, springing a random accent from the back of his mind. But seriously, he loves England, and this vocational light always guiding him back to the St George’s Ground will be a mystery, but one of the ones Jack’s grateful for. The chance to play for England in a World Cup is wild, but Jack gets to do it with his best friends too. Honestly, who could ask for anything better?
Towelling off his hair, Jack takes the opportunity to re-read the list of names given to him by Southgate. He wants to see who he’s playing with, but selfishly, he wants to see who he’s up against for that starting squad slot.
Jordan Pickford
John Stones
Trent Alexander-Arnold
Marcus Rashford
Jordan Henderson
Jude Bellingham
Jack takes a double look. Henderson? Isn’t the guy like forty, or something?
He tries to remember the few times he played against him, until a eureka moment occurred. Villa vs Liverpool when he smashed them 7-2, that was a fun time. Seeing the blood rush up to his face, steam coming out of his ears, shouting and balling at whoever he could. ‘He looks fit when he’s angry,’ Jack’s brain supplies.
“What?” He questions himself out loud. Where did that come from? It must be the sleep deprivation, being a night owl like Jack isn’t for the weak, or mentally sane it seems. So, like many others, that thought is pushed into the back of Jack’s mind, not to be thought about again. Because, come on, Jack had more important things to worry about than Jordan Henderson and his perfectly styled caramel hair or his stormy blue eyes or his muscular arms that bulge in his jersey or the way he speaks on the pitch in his authoritative tone. God, that voice.
Shit. Jack needs to forget about this Jordan guy and focus on his task at hand, being organised. If only someone like Jordan was here, keeping him in line, not letting him get distracted…
No.
He will not think of Jordan Henderson anymore. Jack needs to pack his kits now anyway, and he only has twenty minutes, great prior planning Grealish.
A small cluster of fluffy, white clouds crowded the north west on Monday morning June 1st, drizzling some much needed rain onto the land below. ‘I wonder if Jordan likes the rain?’ Jack thinks, zipping up his battered, sticker-covered suitcase. “All ready to go, and early too!” He says with some glee, checking off the final task on his notes app.
Bags packed, phone charged (to 73% but beggars can’t be choosers) and passport… fuck.