Chapter 2: first sparks of greatness
Ethan Cole sat on the wet park bench, chest heaving, dawn's grey light creeping over Southampton's skyline. His legs trembled, not just from the 2-mile run that had left his lungs screaming, but from something else—a sharpness, like his muscles had been rewired. The glowing blue text still hovered in his vision, unblinking
[Quest Complete. Sprint Speed +1.]
"Bloody hell," Ethan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. His breath fogged in the chilly air, and his trainers were caked in mud from Portswood's puddles. The Football Prodigy System—whatever it was—felt too real to be a hallucination. He stood, shaking his head. "Just sleep deprivation," he told himself, but the words sounded hollow. The voice in his head, calm and coach-like, had promised potential. He wasn't sure he believed it, but the ache in his legs felt… different.
The walk back to the Portswood flat was quiet, Southampton waking slowly. A milk van rumbled past, its headlights cutting through the mist. The neon sign of a kebab shop flickered, half-dead, and a Nike billboard loomed, taunting him with a pro's smug grin. Ethan's mind churned—Coach Marcus's warning about cuts, his mum's tired eyes, his own uselessness on the pitch. If this system's real, maybe… He stopped himself. Don't be daft.
At home, the flat smelled of damp and last night's stew. Sarah was already up, tying her Tesco apron, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She glanced up from her tea, her smile soft but strained. "Early start, love? You're soaked."
"Couldn't sleep," Ethan said, dropping his bag. He didn't mention the run—or the glowing text. She'd worry he was cracking under pressure. "Just needed air."
Sarah's eyes lingered on him, reading the weight he carried. "You're pushing yourself too hard, Ethan. Take it easy today, yeah?"
He nodded, throat tight, and grabbed a towel to avoid her gaze. In his room, under posters of De Bruyne and Hazard, he collapsed onto his bed, the springs creaking. The ceiling's stains stared back, a map of his doubts. He closed his eyes, willing sleep, but the buzz returned, sharper now. The blue screen materialized, crisp as a stadium scoreboard:
[Football Prodigy System. Host: Ethan Cole. Objective: Become the Greatest of All Time.]
Ethan jolted upright, heart thudding. "Not again," he whispered, but the screen expanded, showing a FIFA-like interface with his face—pale, lanky, unremarkable—and a stat block:
Name: Ethan Cole
Age: 16
Profession: Footballer
Status: Youth Academy Player
System Evaluation: One of the Worst Players
Player Rating: 50
Position: Attacking Midfielder/Winger
Potential: 100
[STATS]
Acceleration: 54
Sprint Speed: 57
Agility: 58
Balance: 56
Jumping: 49
Reaction: 49
Stamina: 58
Strength: 57
Positioning: 50
Vision: 57
Ball Control: 55
Crossing: 55
Dribbling: 55
Finishing: 50
Short Pass: 54
Long Pass: 45
[SKILLS POSSESSED]
None
Ethan stared, his mouth dry. "This is mental," he said, voice low. His stats were garbage—50 overall, barely above a Sunday league scrub. But Potential: 100? That had to be a glitch. The voice spoke again: View your daily task, host.
A new screen popped up:
[Daily Task: Complete 50 push-ups. Reward: Stamina +1, 300 Goat Points.]
"Push-ups?" Ethan scoffed. "What's this, a gym app?" But his legs still buzzed from the run, sharper than before. He glanced at his phone—6:15 AM. Training wasn't until noon. Might as well. He dropped to the floor, the carpet rough under his palms, and started. His arms shook by the 20th, sweat beading, but he pushed through, counting under his breath. At 50, he collapsed, gasping. The screen flashed:
[Task Complete. Stamina +1, 300 Goat Points. System Shop Unlocked.]
Ethan's chest heaved, but his body felt lighter, like he could run another mile. "This can't be real," he muttered, yet he couldn't look away. A new tab appeared: System Shop. It listed skills—La Croqueta: 1500 GP, Cruyff Turn: 1000 GP —but his 300 GP was nowhere near enough. Another tab caught his eye: Snooping Function. Scan a player's stats to compare abilities.
"Like FIFA Ultimate Team," he said, half-laughing. He didn't trust it, but the idea of sizing up Ollie or Coach Marcus was tempting. The voice spoke: Complete tasks to earn Goat Points and unlock your potential.
Ethan shook his head, shutting his eyes. "I'm not buying it." But he couldn't unsee the screen, couldn't unfeel the sharpness in his legs. He showered, the hot water barely calming his nerves, and headed to training, his bag thumping against his back.
At the academy, the pitch glistened from last night's rain, the air sharp with wet grass and mud. Ollie was already there, juggling a ball, his ginger hair bright under the floodlights. "Oi, Ethan! You look knackered. Up all night dreaming of goals?"
Ethan managed a grin. "Something like that." He didn't mention the system. Ollie would think he'd lost it. During drills, Ethan tested the system's "boost." His passes were crisper, one threading through cones to Ollie's feet. Ollie raised an eyebrow. "Blimey, mate, you on energy drinks or what?"
"Just focused," Ethan said, but his heart raced. Was it the system? He activated the snooping function, focusing on Ollie. A screen appeared:
Name: Ollie Price
Age: 16
Profession: Footballer
Status: Youth Academy Player
Player Rating: 60
Position: Winger
Potential: 80
[STATS]
Acceleration: 65
Sprint Speed: 68
Agility: 62
...
Ethan blinked. Ollie was better than him—way better. But Potential: 80 versus his 100? He shook it off. "Rubbish," he muttered, but he couldn't ignore the cleaner pass he'd just made.
Drills ended with Coach Marcus barking orders, his clipboard tucked under his arm. "Bournemouth's Friday, lads. No slacking." Ethan's stomach knotted. The cut loomed, and he was still the weakest link. As the team dispersed, the system pinged:
[Match Quest: Provide an assist in the Bournemouth match. Reward: +3 Stat Points, 1000 Goat Points.]
Ethan froze, the screen glowing in the locker room's dim light. An assist? He'd barely touched the ball in matches. "Not happening," he said under his breath, but the system's voice was calm: Complete the quest, host.
He trudged home, the sky bruising purple. At the flat, Sarah was back from her shift, unloading groceries—cheap bread, tinned beans. Ethan grabbed a bag to help, the weight grounding him. "Good day?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Yeah," he lied, setting out plates. "Just training." He couldn't tell her about the cut—or the system. Not yet.
As they ate, Sarah's laugh filled the room, recounting a customer's rant about soggy chips. Ethan smiled, but his mind was on the quest. An assist. Bournemouth. The screen. He cleared the table, his hands steady but his chest tight. In his room, he stared at the ceiling, the system's glow lingering in his mind. What if it's real?