After the coach walked away, Claire remained sprawled on the grass, staring blankly at the sky with an expression of utter despair.
By now, he finally understood why his system—*"Score a goal, get a song"*—was so bizarrely specific.
The original Claire had loved football and dreamed of being a singer. So of course, the transmigrated version got stuck with this ridiculous hybrid system.
As for the body's violent reactions earlier…
Claire decided to call them "Bonds."
He'd been in this world for days now. On Day 1, he was ecstatic—who wouldn't be after a second shot at life? But by Day 2, his excitement crumbled when he realized his "protagonist template" was actually "orphaned with a tiny apartment."
Frustrated, he tried to flee the hospital—only for his body to collapse in protest, knocking him unconscious. Luckily, no one noticed. His uncle, his only relative, hadn't even visited.
On Day 3, forced to stay for observation, Claire stayed silent to avoid suspicion. He secretly scoured the original's social media and match footage, piecing together his new identity.
But one problem remained: the body's muscle memory and lingering emotions.
Try to run away? Body shuts down. See a rival team win? Hands sweat, heart races. Hear news about his "childhood sweetheart"? Chest tightens like a vice. And now, a heart attack over a damn through ball.
It all led to one conclusion:
"Bonds are irreversible."
They were like game mechanics—break the rules, and the system might just kill him.
Claire had no idea how many "Bonds" he'd inherited. But lying there, a thought struck him:
"What if… I just played along?"
The moment the idea formed, a warm surge flooded his veins. His muscles twitched, and he let out an involuntary groan as energy spread through him.
By the time it faded, he sprang up effortlessly—no fatigue, no pain.
"Holy shit," Claire muttered, flexing his arms. "So this is what a 19-year-old body's supposed to feel like? I was locked down before!"
Giddy, he dashed across the field, stealing balls mid-drill and pulling off slick one-twos.
From across the pitch, Ball whooped, "Hell yeah, Claire!"
Teammates swarmed him, adjusting his jersey and headband. But when Ball reached for his arm sleeve, Claire instinctively flinched back.
Ball snorted and kicked his ass. "Dumbass. I know that tattoo's your 'Megan.' Why're you hiding it?"
Claire froze.
Right. Another Bond.
The sleeve covered a tattoo of his "childhood sweetheart's" name. The original Claire had dreamed of becoming a star—just so she would recognize him.
But right now, Claire didn't care about Bonds. His mind was locked onto the system.
It projected real-time player holograms and passing trajectories, letting him nail 100% accurate through balls.
"Still, if there's no opening, even this skill's useless," he grumbled, slapping his cheeks.
Noticing Ball still watching, Claire waved him off. "Captain, I'm not—"
"Claire." Ball gripped his shoulder. "If you impress Ferguson today? You will get to stand in front of that girl and say you love her."
[Dog Lover's Diary]
"She's not an echo in the valley. I don't blame her for not answering."
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