Chapter 1: Drowning in the Rain
Rain lashed Southampton's youth academy pitch, a muddy patch behind St Mary's Stadium, soaking Ethan Cole's kit. The 16-year-old attacking midfielder-or winger when Coach mixed it up-chased a ball, his boots slipping in the muck. His cross veered wildly, splashing into a puddle beyond the cones. The U-17 squad groaned, their shapes blurred in the drizzle, breaths fogging the cold air.
"Cole!" Coach Marcus Reid's shout cut through the storm. His cap shadowed his weathered face, but his glare was sharp.
"That's a punt, not a cross. Sort it."
Ethan, all gangly limbs, mumbled, "Sorry, Coach," his voice lost in the wind. Two years at Southampton's academy, and he was still the weakest-passes off, shots weak, stamina a joke. He kept his head down, avoiding the team's stares.
Ollie Price, a ginger winger with rain-slicked hair, jogged over, grinning. "Mate, that ball's halfway to Bournemouth. Blame the weather, yeah?" Ollie's warmth was a lifeline, the only teammate who didn't shun Ethan. Ethan gave a shy nod, his lips twitching.
Drills dragged on-passes, sprints, shots.
Ethan's legs burned, his chest tight as his shot rolled to the keeper's feet. Coach's silence stung worse than any shout. When the whistle blew, the squad huddled under flickering floodlights, shivering. Coach's face was grim, his clipboard soaked.
"Lads,listen up," he said, voice low and heavy. "The club's in trouble. Sponsors-Nike, Adidas- are pulling funds. We've got too many players. Next Friday, we play Bournemouth's youth team. It's a friendly, but it's your last shot. Play like you belong, or you're cut. No exceptions."
Ethan's stomach twisted, a cold knot tightening. He was only 16, not 18 like most cuts, but he knew he was the weakest. No goals, no assists, no spark as a midfielder or winger. His dream of the Premier League, of changing his mum's life, dissolved in the rain.
He shuffled to the locker room, head down, Coach's words echoing like a death knell.
The walk home was a cold trek through Southampton's streets. Ethan trudged along Portswood Road, rain soaking his hoodie, his bag thumping his back. Neon signs flickered
-kebab shops, a laundrette, a Nike ad with a smirking pro. The wet pavement reflected streetlights, each step a reminder of his dad, who'd walked this route post-match, raving about Saints' wingers. The car accident six years ago stole him, leaving Ethan with a promise-to make Dad proud, to save Mum.
He was failing both.
At their Portswood flat, the air smelled of damp and stew. Sarah, his mum, stirred a pot, her patched apron loose. At 38, her hands were quick, but her eyes carried Tesco's toll. "Dinner's ready, love," she said setting plates.
Ethan dropped his bag, forcing a smile.
"Smells good." He couldn't tell her about the cuts, not when she looked so worn, her fingers calloused from scanning groceries.
Over stew, Sarah chatted about a rude customer, her laugh tired but warm. Ethan picked at his food, silent, his mind on the pitch. She set down her fork. "Tough day?"
"Just drills," Ethan said softly, staring at his plate. "Wet out there." He couldn't burden her, not when she'd sacrificed everything for his dream.
Sarah's hand found his, warm and steady.
"Your dad said you've got his fight. You'll find your way, Ethan."
He nodded, throat tight, but her words felt empty. Fight didn't make you a winger who could outrun defenders.
In his room, under curling posters of De Bruyne and Hazard, Ethan collapsed onto his creaky bed. The stained ceiling mocked him.
I'm letting them down, he thought, the ache sharp. Mum, Dad, myself. He pictured quitting, stacking shelves at Tesco, trapped in Southampton's grey. His eyes burned, no tears coming.
A low buzz broke the silence, like a faulty bulb. Ethan sat up, heart pounding. Blue text glowed before him, sharp as a stadium screen.
[Football Prodigy System Initiated. Host:
Ethan Cole. Objective: Become the Greatest of All Time. First Quest: Run 2 miles before dawn. Reward: Sprint Speed +1.]
Ethan's breath hitched. "Bloody hell," he whispered, scrubbing his eyes. The text stayed. A neutral, coach-like voice spoke in his head: Complete the quest to unlock your potential.
"I'm going mad,"going mad," he muttered, voice cracking. Too many late nights, too much pressure. "Not real." He lay back, eyes shut.
Sleep. It'll fade.
But sleep wouldn't come. His mind churned
-Coach's warning, Mum's tired smile, his uselessness. The voice lingered: Run.
Desperation clawed at him. What if it's real?
He sat up, shaking. "Just stress," he said, half-convincing himself. "Need to move." He grabbed his trainers, crept past Mum's door, and slipped into the night. The rain had stopped, Southampton's streets slick and gleaming. Ethan ran, trainers slapping puddles, breath sharp in the cold. He wove past a shuttered chip shop, a flickering pub sign, legs heavy, lungs burning. The first mile was agony, calves cramping. The second was worse, vision blurring. He stumbled into a park, collapsing onto a wet bench as dawn crept in, gasping like he'd run a marathon.
The screen flashed: [Quest Complete. Sprint Speed +1.]
Ethan's legs trembled, but they felt sharper like they could push harder.