They were born fifteen minutes apart. Fifteen minutes was all it took for Dudley to arrive first, to take the first breath, and somehow, to set the pace. At school, on the pitch, even at the dinner table, Dudley had a way of being seen first. He was the older twin by a quarter of an hour, and it showed—louder laugh, quicker feet, the name everyone remembered. Peter learned to live in that light. Not that he minded entirely. Dudley made things easy. He drew attention, broke the ice, carried the weight of expectations without seeming to notice. But when it came to soccer, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his own game than anyone gave him credit for. It wasn’t about proving Dudley wrong. It was about proving himself right. Friends would joke that watching them play was like watching two versions of the same song—one bold and loud, the other steady and catching you off guard. Friends picked sides without meaning to. Family teased them like it was sport. And sometimes, without either of them planning it, a girl’s glance or a coach’s praise would tip the balance for a day. Dudley pushed Peter to be sharper, faster, braver. Peter reminded Dudley that power wasn’t everything—sometimes it was patience, timing, the pass no one saw coming. Fifteen minutes might have made Dudley the older brother. But on the pitch, neither of them had finished writing their story yet.