Saturday morning light, thin and pale, spilled through Leo's window.
He'd been awake for an hour, lying in bed with his eyes closed, watching the ghost-game replay of his defeat against Rin on the back of his eyelids.
But the replay always ended the same way: with him on the grass, and Rin walking away.
Enough.
He pushed the covers back and opened the window. A cool, pre-dawn breeze flooded the room, carrying the smell of damp earth and distant traffic. The perfect, quiet emptiness of a weekend.
A quick, cold shower shocked the last of the ghosts away. He rifled through his drawer and pulled out his one decent training jersey
It was a bright, synthetic yellow thing with a cartoon energy drink logo splashed across the chest. He'd won it for being the 100th customer at JK Beverage last month. It was lame, but it was clean. He threw a worn grey hoodie over it, the fabric soft from a hundred washes.
Before leaving, his eyes drifted to the wall beside his desk. On a nail he'd hammered in just last night, the pristine blue and white school kit from Hal's shop hung like a promise.
Next to it, in a simple wooden frame, was a photo of his father young, laughing, one arm around a teammate, the other holding a trophy aloft.
The two items side-by-side created a silent, electric tension in the room. A legacy, and a debt to it.
He smiled, a small, private thing.
At his desk, he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper: "Gone to train. Back by lunch."
He padded to his mother's room. The door was ajar. She was asleep, one arm flung over her forehead, the lines of worry smoothed away for a few precious hours. He placed the note under the chipped 'World's Best Mum' mug on her bedside stool, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She stirred but didn't wake.
In the kitchen, Leo slapped together a sandwich; peanut butter, the last of the bargain-brand jelly. He wolfed it down, and grabbed his football and phone. As his hand closed on the front doorknob, a sleepy voice called from the hallway.
"And where do you think you're running off to?"
He turned. His mother stood in her robe, squinting at him.
"Morning, Mum. I told you yesterday. Training with Hal's daughter, Maya."
She tapped her temple, a slow, dawning recognition on her face. "Right. Right. I totally forgot." She yawned, then her eyes sharpened on the bulging trash bag by the kitchen entrance. "Do you mind taking the recycling out on your way?"
"Course." He hoisted the bag, its glass bottles clinking softly.
He stepped out into the crisp morning, the bag in one hand, ball under his other arm. He nudged the wheeled bin open with his foot. And froze.
Leaning against the green plastic, as if it had always been there, was a long, slender box. It was unmarked, but he knew its shape. His heart gave a single, hard knock against his ribs.
Slowly, he set the trash bag down. He lifted the lid.
Nestled in grey tissue paper were a pair of football boots. They weren't the flashy, neon-colored predator blades the pros wore. They were classic. Black leather, white accents, clean lines.
His father's words replayed in his head. "Jaguar boots are my fav. Any player who uses 'em has my respect."
He turned, the box clutched to his chest. His mother was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed, a soft smile on her face.
He rushed to her, burying his face in her shoulder, the box pressed between them. "Mum… you didn't have to."
"I know," she murmured into his hair. Her hand came up, patting his back. "Consider it an early tryout present. A good luck charm." She pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, and aimed a kiss at his forehead, which he, in his excitement, dodged. She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet street. "Good luck! And say hello to Maya for me. And to Hal."
"I will," he said, his voice thick. "Thank you."
He carefully placed the boots into his backpack, the weight of them a thrilling anchor. He shouldered the bag, picked up his ball, and took a deep breath of the morning air.
Then, with a ritualistic slowness, he put on his father's glasses.
The world sharpened, the colors deepening. A familiar, cool chime sounded in his mind.
[GOOD MORNING, APPRENTICE REED.]
[SYSTEM OPTIMAL. BIOMETRICS NOMINAL.]
He sighed, a sound of readiness. It was still early. The main roads would be quiet, but the busier paths might have joggers, dog-walkers. The last thing he needed was to look like a lunatic, flinching at holograms no one else could see.
He chose a longer, more deserted route. A cut through the old industrial park, its warehouses silent and looming.
Once safely shrouded in the concrete canyon, he gave the mental command. "Status."
His stat screen materialized, hovering just below his eyeline.
USER: REED, LEO
- STR: 06
- AGI: 08 -> 08.1
- VIT: 07 -> 07.1
- INT: 84
- PER: 92
The tiny, incremental increases from the park match were still there. 0.1. It was nothing. It was everything. It was proof the grind worked.
[DAILY CONDITIONING PROTOCOLS AVAILABLE.]
[OBJECTIVE 1: JOG TO DESTINATION - HAL'S SPORTS GEAR. DISTANCE: 2.3 KM.]
[OBJECTIVE 2: COMPLETE 30 STANDARD PUSHUPS.]
[ACCEPT DAILY CONDITIONING? Y/N]
A grin spread across his face. "Yes."
A new, pulsing green path lit up on the pavement before him, not the fastest route, but one with optimal incline and surface. A small, glowing timer appeared in the corner of his vision: [EST. TIME: 14:22].
He broke into a steady jog, the system subtly correcting his posture in real-time with text prompts. [HEELS HIGHER]. [ARM SWING SYMMETRICAL].
After a few minutes, his breath starting to cloud in the air, he decided to multitask. He let the ball drop to his feet. In his mind, he summoned the replay of Rin's effortless, close-control dribbling from their match.
[SKILL MIMICRY MODE: ENGAGED.]
A translucent, blue-footprint path appeared on the ground, showing the precise sequence of steps. Leo tried to follow, tapping the ball from his right foot to his left.
The ball skidded too far. He overcorrected, tapping it back too hard. It ricocheted off his shin and rolled toward a chain-link fence. He scrambled after it, a flush of heat rising to his neck.
He tried again, focusing on the ghostly footprints. This time, he tripped over his own trailing foot and nearly went sprawling.
[RECOMMENDATION: DRILL 'STATIC BALL TAPS' UNTIL MUSCLE MEMORY ESTABLISHED.]
He looked up, puffing. On the other side of the street, an elderly man walking a tiny, judgmental-looking dog had stopped to stare, his expression a blend of confusion and concern. To him, Leo was just a kid in a hoodie, clumsily kicking a ball at a fence and then almost eating pavement.
Leo's face burned. He yanked his hood up, pulled the drawstrings tight until only his glasses were visible, snatched up his ball, and broke into a faster, mortified jog, abandoning the dribble drill entirely.
By the time the familiar sign for Hal's Sports Gear came into view, his hoodie was damp with sweat, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
The timer in his vision blinked: [OBJECTIVE 1: COMPLETE. TIME: 15:47.]
He slowed to a walk, pulling the hood down and unzipping the jacket, the cool air a relief on his heated skin.
He was just reaching for the shop's back-alley door when it swung open. Hal stood there, a ring of keys in his hand, a thermos under his arm. He took in Leo's flushed face, heaving chest, and the sweat-damp hair at his temples.
A slow, approving nod. "You ran."
"Yeah," Leo managed between breaths.
"Good." Hal jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Through here. She's already warming up."
Hal led him through a cluttered stockroom smelling of rubber and cardboard, to a heavy metal door. He pushed it open.
Sound and light flooded in. Leo stepped out onto the edge of a pristine, compact artificial turf field, enclosed by high mesh fences. It was a private training ground, lit by the rising sun.
And it was full of girls.
They moved with a purpose and a grace that made his park drills look like a toddler's tantrum.
One was weaving through a set of cones with blistering speed. Two others practiced one-touch passes, the ball a sharp, cracking sound between them. A goalkeeper in bright pink gloves dove full-stretch, parrying a shot.
There were clipboards on the walls, too far to read but he could tell what was on it. The girls weren't playing for fun.
From the center circle, a girl with a fierce ponytail of dark brown hair received a pass. She took one settling touch, then unleashed a shot. It wasn't just powerful; it was a declaration.
The ball rocketed off her laces, a blurred white streak that curved viciously in the air, kissed the inside of the far post, and ripped into the net with a sound like a gunshot.
GOAL!
The keeper in the pink gloves threw her hands up in despair. The shooter didn't celebrate. She just watched the net settle, nodded once to herself, and turned to retrieve the ball.
Hal's hand landed on Leo's shoulder, heavy and warm.
"Leo," he said, his voice a low rumble of pride. "That's Maya."
Leo watched as she jogged back to the center spot, all coiled power and focused intensity. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone completely dry.
All he could do was whisper. "I have a long way to go."