The referee's whistle echoed across the lush green field at Cobham training ground, where Chelsea U17 was locked in a fierce friendly match against Arsenal's youth team. At the 50th minute, the scoreboard flashed cruelly: Chelsea 0 - 1 Arsenal. The foolish goal conceded from a corner in the 30th minute still haunted the entire team, weighing down the atmosphere on the pitch like lead. The blue-shirted players darted around like a swarm of disturbed bees, drenched in sweat, but nothing was progressing. Arsenal's defense held firm, while Chelsea's attack seemed as if they were playing with their left feet entirely. Coach Mark stood on the sideline, his face flushed red with anger, waving his arms wildly and shouting at the top of his lungs to rally his team.
"Pass the ball! Don't play like you're sleepwalking!"
"Hurry up, boys! We're losing here!"
On the bench, Cris sat leisurely, legs crossed, casually chewing gum and occasionally blowing a loud "pop" bubble to pass the time. This 17-year-old lad, with his messy black hair, sharp blue eyes, and a strikingly handsome face—the kind that made female fans in the stands turn their heads—didn't look like a promising talent at all. But anyone familiar with Cris knew well: behind that "trollish" humor lay a razor-sharp strategic mind and magical feet capable of turning the tide of a match in an instant. Their parents had died early in a horrific car accident when Cris was just 13, leaving him and his younger sister, Anna—now 16—to fend for themselves in the harsh life of London's suburbs. Cris shouldered it all: from Anna's tuition fees to rent and daily groceries. Fortunately, football wasn't just a passion but also his "livelihood"—and he approached it with deadly seriousness, never letting emotions cloud his judgment on the field. Today, he wore his familiar number 7 jersey, the number he'd loved since childhood.
"Hey Cris, get in there! Sub for Jack!"
Coach Mark bellowed, pointing emphatically toward the pitch.
Cris stood up, popping his gum bubble with a resounding "pop," then turned to the teammate beside him with a deadpan expression.
"See? I told you, I'm the 'backup superhero.'"
"Now I'm heading in to save the world. You guys sit tight and watch—don't get jealous!"
One teammate burst out laughing, slapping Cris on the shoulder.
"Come on, old man, get on the field and play seriously—stop clowning around!"
Cris winked.
"Yeah, yeah, I clown around, but the goals are for real. Watch this!"
The teammates erupted in laughter, but Cris wasn't joking. He jogged onto the field with nimble steps, his eyes quickly scanning the situation: the team lacked speed on the right wing, and Arsenal's defense was loose on the left after one of their defenders suffered a cramp. Cris took a deep breath, focusing intensely, forgetting everything around him except the ball.
At the 55th minute, Cris received the ball from a long pass by a teammate. He dribbled past an Arsenal defender as if strolling through a park, his left foot deftly controlling the ball while his right was poised to shoot. The defender lunged in to block, but Cris needed only a slight feint to send his opponent sliding. Then, suddenly, he unleashed a curling shot from outside the penalty area. The ball whistled over the goalkeeper's head, slamming into the top corner of the net. 1-1! The stadium erupted in cheers from the sparse crowd in the stands. Cris ran circles around the pitch, pretending to clutch his knee as if injured, then abruptly leaped up.
"Ouch, heavens, I'm hurt!"
"Who's got a medal for me? I just saved the team!"
Teammates rushed over, one of them laughing hysterically.
"You lunatic, you had me fooled for real! Awesome—keep it going!"
Coach Mark shook his head, muttering under his breath but with a voice full of pride.
"This little devil, overdoing the comedy. But great job, Cris! Maintain the momentum!"
It wasn't over yet. At the 70th minute, Cris shone once more. Receiving a pass from midfield, he charged forward like a rocket, his blistering speed making the wind whistle in his ears. He bamboozled two Arsenal defenders with lightning-quick feints, then delivered a pinpoint cross tailored perfectly for his teammate striker. The ball arced beautifully, and... goal! 2-1! The team pulled off a stunning comeback. Cris grinned widely, flashing a thumbs-up to the sky.
"See? I'm not a superhero—I'm a superstar!"
"You lot better learn from this; tomorrow when I'm up in the first team, who's gonna replace me?"
One teammate clapped.
"Yeah, go for it—I'll keep the bench warm for you!"
The match ended with that score, and Cris was the undisputed hero. The whole team applauded thunderously as he left the field, his shirt soaked in sweat but his smile radiant.
After the game, in the musty locker room reeking of sweat and energy drinks, Coach Mark patted Cris's shoulder warmly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Brilliant, kid. You played like a seasoned pro."
"I think it's time you moved up to the first team. Better perks, higher pay—enough to take care of your little sister without a worry."
"Think it over carefully; this is a huge opportunity. You deserve it."
Cris nodded, his eyes lighting up, but his voice still laced with humor to mask his emotion.
"Oh, higher salary, boss? Enough to buy a car so I don't have to walk home anymore?"
"I'm in right away! But promise me, boss—don't leave me warming the bench forever in the first team."
Coach Mark laughed heartily.
"Ha ha, you rascal! Don't worry—with your talent, bench-warming would be a miracle. Meet me in the office tomorrow to hash out the details."
But deep down, Cris was more serious than ever. This was a life-changing chance—for him and Anna. He envisioned days without scrimping on every penny, Anna attending a better school, and him focusing on his Premier League dream.
The London afternoon was chilly, with autumn winds sweeping through the familiar streets, carrying the damp scent of the nearby Thames River. Cris walked home along the stone-paved sidewalk, bag of training gear in hand, whistling a cheerful old pop tune as he thought about dinner for Anna.
"Won the match today—gotta celebrate with her favorite spaghetti."
"Add a bit of cheese to make her happy."
Suddenly, from a dark corner of the street, a massive truck barreled out at terrifying speed. Its tires screeched on the rain-slicked road, the driver seemingly having lost complete control amid the light drizzle. Cris whipped around, eyes wide in terror, his heart pounding like a drum.
"Damn it! Why now?"
"I haven't even made it to the first team! What about Anna?"
The truck hurtled straight at him, its blinding headlights illuminating the entire street, horn blaring deafeningly. Cris tried to leap aside, but everything unfolded too quickly. His body was flung, pain surging through him, and darkness enveloped everything in an instant.
Boom! The impact rang out ear-splittingly, smoke and dust engulfing the area. Cris felt his body shattering, his consciousness fading.
"That's it... I'm really dead."
"Anna... I'm sorry, sis..."
...But no. As the smoke dissipated, Cris blinked his eyes open, sprawled on the sidewalk, clothes rumpled, limbs aching but... intact, without a serious scratch. The truck had smashed into a pole just centimeters away, snapping it in half with wires dangling. The driver clambered out of the cab, face ashen, hands trembling as he clutched his phone.
"Sorry! I lost control because of... this damn phone!"
"I'll call an ambulance right now! Are you okay?"
Cris sat up slowly, patting himself down to check, then suddenly burst into hearty laughter that echoed through the empty street.
"Heavens, I thought I was done for!"
"Lucky me—still got my life to play football. Next time, I gotta learn to fly; walking's too dangerous like this!"
He waved at the driver, his voice still shaky but trying to sound calm.
"It's alright, sir! Just be more careful! I'm fine—just a slight headache."
Then he continued home as if nothing had happened, though the image of the charging truck still haunted his mind. "Gotta tell Anna, but don't make her worry too much..."
Arriving at the small suburban house with its faded white walls and tiny weed-filled garden, Anna—his 16-year-old adorable sister with pretty features, long flowing hair, and big round eyes, possessing a gentle personality, always scrimping on every penny and worrying about her brother but rarely showing it outwardly—was seated at the kitchen table, reading under the dim yellow light. Hearing the door open, Anna looked up, her face showing joy but maintaining composure, with only a fleeting worry in her eyes.
"You're back. How was the match today? Are you tired?"
"I saw it was raining; walking home must've been cold. Why didn't you take the bus? Saving money, but... health matters more."
Cris smiled, ruffling his sister's hair affectionately, trying to conceal his fatigue from the match and the recent shock.
"I'm fine, Anna—I even won the match! The team turned it around thanks to my goal. It was awesome!"
"The bus costs money; I'm used to walking. Don't worry—I'm as strong as an elephant."
Anna shook her head lightly, her voice gentle yet firm, her thrifty nature evident without being overly insistent.
"You're always like that. Let me brew you some hot tea? We have leftover leaves from yesterday—don't waste them."
"Tell me the match details. Did you get hurt? I notice you're walking a bit unevenly."
Cris sat down, grinning widely.
"Uneven? Nah, I just dodged a truck. Alright, here's the story: At the 50th minute, we were down 0-1, I subbed in..."
He recounted the match in detail, sprinkling in humor.
"...Then I shot, the ball zoomed past—the keeper just watched without jumping! My teammates called me a superstar."
Anna smiled faintly, but worry flickered in her eyes, though she masked it by shifting the topic.
"Sounds great, bro. But... a truck? Why were you dodging a truck? Did something happen?"
Cris waved it off quickly, not wanting to heighten her concern.
"No biggie—just a near miss. The truck lost control; I evaded in time. Don't worry—I'm all here in one piece."
"Anyway, I'm hungry. Let's raid the fridge for something. Have you eaten?"
Anna stood up, opening the old fridge with its familiar creaking hum.
"I had some bread—saved the cold cuts for you. Let me make you a sandwich? Don't eat it cold; it's bad for your stomach."
"Promise me you'll be more careful walking next time. I... don't want to worry, but you're my brother after all."
Cris looked at his sister, his heart warming yet tinged with guilt.
"Yeah, I promise. You worry about me all the time, even if you keep it bottled up now that you're grown. But thanks, Anna. I'll be careful."
The siblings sat down to eat, chatting casually about the match, Anna's school, and their savings plans for the next month. Anna shared about landing a part-time job at a nearby coffee shop, her voice enthusiastic but still gently reminding her brother to rest.
"Go for the first team—higher salary means less hardship for us. But don't push yourself too hard, okay?"
Cris nodded.
"I'll consider it. I'm beat now—heading to bed. You hit the books, and don't stay up late."
After eating, Cris headed to his cramped little bedroom, with its single bed and walls plastered with Chelsea player posters. He collapsed onto the bed, his body utterly drained from the long day.
"What a long day... Gotta think about the boss's offer tomorrow."
"Anna worries too much—I need to step up my game."
He drifted off quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep, the pattering rain outside the window lulling him.
Outside, the sky was pitch black, thick dark clouds gathering. A bolt of lightning suddenly flashed, ripping through the heavens, accompanied by ear-splitting thunder that illuminated the area in an instant. Cris jolted awake, his head throbbing sharply as if pricked by needles, his body shivering from the cold.
"Huh, what the heck is this?"
"The match... the truck... Anna..."
He opened his eyes, but instead of the familiar ceiling with its old cracks, he saw... dense foliage, thick forest leaves obscuring the sky, and an unfamiliar howling wind mingled with distant bird calls. Cris bolted upright, glancing around in confusion, his hands groping the damp ground covered in decayed leaves.
"This... where the hell is this?"
"Am I dreaming? Or... did I really die?!"