Victor's eyes peeled open, blinking in the soft morning light seeping in through the thin curtains. His head felt heavy, like he hadn't slept in days and his limbs ached but not from exhaustion. Like jet lag… except without the travel.
The familiar blare of his alarm echoed beside him.
It annoyed him just as it did every day.
He groaned and reached for his phone, thumb sliding across the screen to silence it.
7:42am
'Why is my alarm on this early? I set is for 9am didn't I'
He was slightly confused but mostly annoyed. Mistakes happen sometimes. And he was pretty distracted by his thoughts on the match once he had gotten home.
But then he saw it.
Sunday, May 3rd, 2015
He stared at the date.
May… 2015?
'WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE F*CK IS GOING ON???'
Victor sat up, heartbeat quickening. His eyes darted around the room.
His old football posters covered the walls.
Wait, no, they looked … new?
The Crystal Palace poster that had been beside his shelf for years was now devoid of its stains, wear and tear.
The bedsheets were unfamiliar as well, they were ones he hadn't used in years. His boots sat neatly by the door, not the freshly new black and red Adidas ones he'd worn the day before, but the scuffed white Predators he remembered wearing when he was fifteen.
Victor glanced at his phone again. The screen hadn't changed. But the size felt different in his hand.
A dinged up silver iPhone 6s Plus. Not his navy blueiPhone X.
"No way… I'm dreaming, right?"
Then, a faint sound. A mechanical, digital ding. Like the sound of a notification in a video game.
He turned.
There, floating just a few feet above his desk, was a semi-transparent screen. Pale blue, softly glowing, like something from a sci-fi movie or in those manhwas he read occasionally (basically every day).
The text shimmered in front of him:
[SYSTEM INITIALISING – 2%]
Victor's mouth went dry.
He blinked. The screen didn't disappear. He rubbed his eyes again, harder this time. Still there. Still pulsing.
"What… the hell is that?" he whispered.
No answer. No sound. Just the quiet hum of the world outside.
And then it hit him.
This wasn't a dream. Or if it was, it was one he couldn't wake from.
But the strange thing was... he wasn't scared. Not really. Just confused.
Victor could still feel the slight soreness on his legs from the match the night before, or well not the night before anymore- he wasn't completely sure.
Maybe he'd gone mad. Maybe the pressure from the match, the debut, the miss, the crowd, had cracked something in his brain. Or maybe he was just still asleep. He looked again.
The screen read the same.
"Forget it," he muttered. "Imma just get on with the day."
He stood slowly and stretched. Everything felt real.
Too real maybe.
The slight creak in the floorboards, the way the sunlight hit the edge of his desk. This wasn't some simulation.
Downstairs, the aroma of warm butter drifted through the house. Victor made his way into the kitchen and stopped for a second to take in the smell.
His mother, Emily, was gently placing a tray on the table. A baguette tartine with butter and fresh apricot jam on it. Sausages and cubed pan fried potatoes on the side. A nice mix of British and Belgian breakfasts but Victor was used to it and knew how good it would taste.
His father, Arthur, was sitting at the table in a loose grey shirt, reading The Sun, one foot bouncing absently under the table.
"Morning," Emily said with a smile, not looking up as she adjusted the chopsticks on the tray.
"...Morning," Victor replied slowly.
Arthur gave him a glance over the edge of the paper. "You alright son? You look like you've seen a ghost. Multiple of them. Told you not to stay up late playing games but you didn't listen"
Victor forced a chuckle and slid into his seat. "Yeah I shoulda listened. Didn't sleep great. Had a weird dream."
Emily sat beside him, pouring herself tea. "C'était encore une question de football ?" (Was it about football again?) ,she teased.
'Weird doesn't even begin to describe this sh*t' he thought to himself.
Victor gave a small nod, poking absentmindedly at the salmon.
Feeling his stomach rumble, he stood up to reach over the table and served himself the sausage and potato combo, and cut off a piece of the baguette without the jam on it. Carbs and protein - the perfect meal to start a day.
Everything was exactly how it used to be.
After breakfast, Victor quietly excused himself and went upstairs to change. He slipped into his old academy tracksuit, pulled on his socks, tied up his boots and put his Sony headphones around his neck.
His helmet and bike sat in the hallway, They were new.
The Fuji Absolute 1.5 he got for his birthday when he turned 15 on April 10th.
He unlocked the bike and began pedaling slowly down the street.
As he picked up speed, wind brushing his cheeks, his mind spun.
Was he dreaming? Time traveling?
Why did he not look like how he did 3 years ago then? Granted he hadn't changed that much, just that he was now 6 foot 3 and some change, not 6 foot 2 like he was at 15. And being clean shaven was a dead giveaway.
A second chance. Maybe that was what this was.
Either way, the training grounds were half an hour away; plenty of time to try and come to grips with whatever the hell was going on.
And figure out what that glowing panel is, because 1 thing for sure,
He hadn't imagined that noise.
…..
Crystal Palace Manager's Office – 2 days prior
Alan Pardew sat in his office with a fresh cup of tea, flipping through academy scouting reports. Pages rustled under his fingers, each one stamped with the crest of Crystal Palace, listing player names, traits, and coach comments. Most of it read the same: 'Energetic. Technical. Shows promise.' The usual safe language to cover their arses if the player wasn't truly ready.
But none of it answered the question in his head.
Who was ready for the Premier League?
Across from him, John Carver leaned on the desk, sipping on his latte. The two had worked together long enough for silence to be comfortable but Pardew was clearly mulling something over judging by the expression on his face. Or maybe he was just constipated- Carver didn't know.
"You ever feel like these reports are just... safe?" Pardew muttered finally.
Carver raised an eyebrow. "Safe?"
"Yeah," Pardew said, tossing one report down. "It's all potential this and future that. Bunch of nonsense. No one's willing to just say, 'This kid's shite. This one's the real deal. Obviously not in those words but you get it.'"
Carver nodded slowly. "You think the academy's overselling again?"
"Not even that," Pardew said, rubbing his temples. "I just don't trust paper. Every youth coach thinks their lad's the next Messi or Rooney. They get too close to these boys. You lose objectivity when you watch 'em every day."
He paused, tapping the desk with his index finger. Then he had an idea.
"I need a fresh set of eyes."
Carver straightened up a bit, leaning forward out of his office chair. "You want me to take a look?"
Pardew nodded. "Yeah. Last U18 game of the season's this weekend. I want you to go. No bias. No pressure. Just tell me if anyone out there's worth pulling into senior pre-season."
"You want the names the academy didn't mention," Carver said knowingly.
"Exactly." Pardew smirked. "I've seen too many academy darlings vanish the second they touch senior football. But every now and then, one shows something else. A bit of arrogance. Hunger. Intelligence. You know the type."
"The ones who don't just want to play," Carver added. "The ones who need to."
Pardew nodded. "There's a spot on the bench next season if one of those boys is real. And I don't care if he's 18 or hasn't even filled out yet -if he's got the edge, we're putting him in to train with the first team."
Carver leaned back, swirling the last of his tea. "Any names you've got your eye on already?"
Pardew shrugged. "The usual ones. The coaches are big on Wan-Bissaka. Young right back, disciplined. Omrore's been mentioned. Few others too.
But again… I want to see it. And I want to hear it from someone who's not already sold."
Carver stood up, stretching a bit. "Alright. I'll go. No club badge, no clipboard. I'll watch from the stands and pretend to be one of the little tyke's parents. See who rises and who hides."
Pardew gave him a pointed look. "And if none of them look ready…"
"I'll tell you straight."
Pardew smiled faintly. "That's why I asked you."
Carver nodded and made for the door. Just as he stepped out, Pardew called after him:
"Keep an eye on the body language too. Not just the ball work. I want to know which one thinks he belongs in the prem."
Carver didn't look back, but stuck his thumb up in acknowledgment.