Ethan woke up before his alarm.
That should've been a good sign.
It wasn't.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, body stiff in places he didn't remember injuring, trying to work out why his neck hurt more than his legs. He rolled onto his side, winced, then rolled back.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "I'm nineteen and I've slept wrong."
He reached for his phone, stopped himself halfway, and stared at his hand.
Don't check the system.
Don't check social media.
Just get up.
He swung his legs off the bed and immediately regretted it.
His calves protested. His hips complained. Even his ankle—his good ankle—felt like it wanted a word.
He shuffled to the bathroom and turned the shower to cold, because some part of him still believed elite athletes did that.
Three seconds later he yelped and jumped back out.
"Yeah," he said to his reflection, dripping and shivering. "Elite."
He pulled on his Millwall training kit, grabbed a banana he didn't really want, and headed out, still feeling oddly… watched.
The system said nothing.
That somehow felt worse.
On the way to training, he stopped at a petrol station. As he paid, the guy behind the till squinted at him.
"Millwall, yeah?"
Ethan nodded. "Yeah."
"Thought so," the guy said. "You're the young one."
Before Ethan could respond, the man was already leaning over the counter. "Mind a quick photo? My lad'll go mad."
Ethan agreed, half-awake, eyes barely open. The flash went off right as he sneezed.
"Perfect," the guy said cheerfully.
Ten minutes later, as Ethan sat in his car, his phone buzzed.
A fan account had already posted it.
Future star 🔥
The photo showed him mid-sneeze, eyes shut, mouth open.
Ethan stared at it for a long moment.
"…nice," he said.
Training started normally enough. Rondos. Movement drills. Short passing in tight spaces.
Ethan received the ball, took a touch—and hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Enough to notice.
He passed sideways instead of forward.
The system reacted instantly.
INEFFICIENT DELAY DETECTED
Ethan flinched internally.
On the next sequence, he tried to speed up. Too much. He forced a pass that wasn't on. It bobbled, intercepted.
Alex Neil's voice cut through the noise.
"Ethan."
Not loud. Calm. Surgical.
Ethan jogged over.
Neil looked at him for a second, arms folded. "You planning a thesis, or are you playing football?"
A couple of players snorted. Not malicious. Familiar.
"Sorry," Ethan said.
Neil nodded once. "Relax. You're allowed to make the simple choice."
As Ethan jogged back into position, the system logged again.
MENTAL OVERPROCESSING: CONFIRMED
Ethan exhaled.
He used to do this without thinking.
Now he was thinking about not thinking.
Which made it worse.
Matchday came quickly.
The Den was restless. Not hostile—expectant. Ethan could feel it as he warmed up, the low hum of attention following him.
Template active.
Expectations elevated.
Kickoff.
His first touch was heavy.
Nothing disastrous. Just… off.
A murmur rippled through the stands.
Second involvement, he saw two options—held it too long trying to choose the "right" one—and lost it.
SYSTEM PENALTY APPLIED
STAMINA EFFICIENCY: TEMPORARILY REDUCED
Ethan felt it instantly.
Not pain. Weight.
Like his legs were running through sand.
Brilliant, he thought. Even my body's disappointed in me.
Alex Neil noticed before the crowd did.
He caught Ethan's eye, gestured him over during a stoppage.
"Forget whatever you're trying to be," Neil said quietly. "Be useful."
That was it.
No talk of systems. No mention of efficiency models. Just football.
Ethan nodded, breathing hard. "Yes, gaffer."
Back on the pitch, he simplified.
One touch. Two touch. Move.
No forcing. No searching for the perfect moment.
In the sixty-eighth minute, the ball broke loose in midfield. It wasn't pretty. A scramble. A bounce.
Ethan reacted before thinking, poked it wide, kept running.
The cross came in messy. He didn't stop to admire it—just arrived at the right time, nudged it into space, and the striker finished.
The crowd roared.
Not delayed this time.
SYSTEM UPDATE
PENALTY LIFTED
TEMPLATE SYNC: +1%
TOTAL SYNC: 4%
Four percent.
Ethan almost laughed as he jogged back.
All that stress… for one percent.
But it mattered.
The game ended in a win. Nothing headline-grabbing. Solid. Professional.
In the changing room, one of the senior players clapped him on the shoulder.
"Kept at it," he said. "That's what counts."
At home later, Ethan collapsed onto the sofa, phone in hand. His bank app updated.
Performance Bonus: £1,500
Less than last time.
Not nothing. But noticeable.
He stared at it, then opened a food delivery app. Scrolled. Closed it. Opened it again.
Ten minutes later, he ordered the exact same thing he always did.
Some habits survived everything.
That night, lying in bed, the system finally spoke again.
CONSISTENCY THRESHOLD RAISED
FUTURE PENALTIES: AMPLIFIED
Then, one last line appeared.
Elite players fail less often—
not because they're perfect,
but because they recover faster.
Ethan locked his phone and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow mattered more now.
He wasn't scared.
But he was paying attention.
END OF CHAPTER 26
Author's Comment
This chapter was about friction.
Progress isn't clean. Growth isn't comfortable. And elite standards don't wait for you to feel ready.
Quick question for readers:
Should Ethan trust the system more when things go wrong — or lean back into instinct?
Let me know.