It's exactly four thirty-seven in the afternoon. The sun is beginning to dip behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the field. The scent of grass and sweat fills the air. Kelvin's breathing grows uneven, sharp, and rapid. His heart pounds in his chest like a war drum, steady and relentless. Not just from physical exertion, but from something deeper. The pressure. The weight of everything riding on this moment.
He shivers. It's not from the cool breeze sweeping across the field, but from the overwhelming sensation rushing through his veins. And yet, despite the wave of emotions, he keeps his eyes locked on the ball in front of him, unmoving.
The game is nearly over. Just minutes remain. The score is 1–0. His team is down, and that realization squeezes his insides tighter with every tick of the clock. There's still a chance. A slim one. But that's what makes it worse. Knowing there's still hope, knowing he could be the one to change everything.
He stands still at midfield, the number 11 jersey clinging to his back with sweat, the ball resting obediently at his feet. His eyes dart around, scanning for a teammate to pass to, someone, anyone, who could take the pressure off. But every teammate is locked down by defenders. No space. No options. No escape.
He looks at the ball, then the empty space ahead. His legs tremble, not from exhaustion, but from something more primal. I could go for it. I could be the one to score. The idea claws at his chest. If he made it, he wouldn't just tie the game, he'd be remembered. For once, he could be the hero. The one who changed the outcome. The one who made the crowd stand.
But then it hits him.
Fear.
That cruel, paralyzing emotion that poisons every dream. Fear of losing the ball. Fear of making the wrong move. Fear that if he tries and fails, he'll be remembered not as the savior, but as the one who blew it all. The one who cracked under pressure.
His mind spirals. What if I mess up? What if they blame me? What if I never recover from this moment?
And at that very moment, the striker from the opposing team starts charging toward him, his footsteps fast and thunderous.
- Kelvin, pass it to me!
Says a voice, cutting through the noise. It's the goalkeeper, surprisingly out of position but trying to help. Kelvin turns reflexively. Without thinking, without aiming, he pushes his foot toward the ball.
Too weak.
Much too weak.
He immediately realizes the mistake. But it's too late. The ball barely rolls a few meters before the opposing striker slices through midfield like a bullet, snatching the ball away with ease. Kelvin watches in horror, frozen, as the player speeds past him. He tries to chase, tries to redeem himself, but his legs won't move fast enough. They feel like concrete.
The striker doesn't hesitate. One quick motion, and the ball rockets toward Kelvin's team's goal. A flash of movement, a blur, and then…
A thud. Silence.
Then the crowd erupts.
A chant rises, not Kelvin's name, but the striker's. His arms raised in victory, fists pumping. The final nail in the coffin. A moment of triumph for them, and humiliation for Kelvin.
Two–nil.
Kelvin falls to the grass. Not from contact, but from disbelief. His hands claw at the turf, trying to lift himself, but the weight of guilt is too strong. He failed. In front of everyone. In front of his team, his friends, the crowd, maybe even scouts watching from the stands.
- Kelvin, get up, man…
The voice of a teammate reaches his ears. But there's no anger in it. Only defeat. Disappointment. Like everyone knew the game was over the second he missed that pass. The air is thick with quiet judgment.
Kelvin rises, face blank, soul crumbling.
The whistle blows. Game over.
Back in the locker room, Kelvin doesn't speak. He gathers his things in silence. No one says a word to him, but they don't need to. He can feel the judgment in the air, thick and heavy. Each second feels like an eternity, each glance like a dagger. He changes out of his kit with robotic movements.
When he gets home, he barely hears his parents asking how the match went. He doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at them. He storms upstairs and closes the door behind him.
His room is a shrine to football. Jerseys hang on the wall. Posters of famous players and inspirational quotes stare down at him. There are trophies from small local tournaments on a shelf near his bed. But none of it matters now. None of it feels real. It's like staring at another person's life. One he no longer recognizes.
Kelvin sits on the edge of his bed, shoulders shaking. And then the tears come. Quiet at first. Then uncontrollable. His chest tightens as sobs wrack his body. His dream, his only dream, feels shattered. He's convinced he'll never be good enough. That he was foolish to ever believe he could make it. Professionals don't choke. Professionals don't get scared…
But he did.
Then, something appears.
A sudden flash. A ding.
[Player Progression System Activated]
Kelvin flinches, nearly falling off the bed. His eyes snap open, staring at the blue-green interface hovering in midair.
- What… What is this?
He whispers, eyes wide, throat dry.
A message unfolds before him.
[Welcome to the Football Player System, Host]
[Name: Kelvin Santos]
[Style: None]
[Level: 0]
[Tutorial Mission: Show Potential]
[In two days, score 10 goals in the top-right corner of a regulation goalpost.]
[Rewards:]
<1. Increased Shot Accuracy>
<2. Random Style Card>
<3. Increased Shot Speed>
He stares, stunned. Is this a joke? A dream? Some kind of stress-induced hallucination?
The panel doesn't disappear.
[Accept Mission?]
> Yes > No
His hands tremble. He wipes the tears from his eyes, but the glowing screen remains. His gaze lingers on the word "Potential." Is this real? he wonders. Even if it's not… what do I have to lose?
Memories of the match flash through his mind. The failed pass. The goal. The silence from his team. The weight of regret.
He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with a sharp, cold breath. He holds it, then lets it go slowly.
He taps "Yes."
The screen pulses.
[Mission Accepted. Starting Timer.]
[Time Remaining: 47 h 59 m 59 s]
Another line appears:
[System Note: Success Rate Exceeds 95%]
Kelvin's heart skips. "Two days… ten goals… top-right corner."
Grabbing his worn-out cleats, he bolts out of the room and down the stairs. His parents shout something, but he doesn't hear. His mind is focused. Laser-sharp.
And this time, he doesn't plan on failing.