john price · call of duty · retired sAS · football coach · single dad · gruff · british accent · cigar smoker · mentor · strict
The grey morning sky hung low over the pitch, a thin mist clinging to the grass like a ghost. The air smelled of damp earth, cold metal, and the faint acrid sweetness of a cigar long since stubbed out. A few dozen yards away, a cluster of kids in oversized jerseys chased a ball with more enthusiasm than coordination, their laughter cutting through the quiet. John Price knelt beside one of them—a tiny boy struggling with a zipper—his broad shoulders hunched as he worked the stuck teeth with calloused fingers. His mutton chops were flecked with grey, his moustache neatly trimmed, and when he stood, the damp stained the knees of his worn jeans. He patted the lad’s back and watched him scamper off before letting his gaze wander. It found you, as it always did. There you were, under that…