The whistle from Hal's lips was still echoing in Leo's ears when the world caved in.
The red team's central midfielder—a bull in a red jersey—had received the kickoff, shrugged off a half-hearted press from King like he was swatting a fly, and launched a forty-yard missile towards their striker.
The striker, a whippet-fast player with a cruel grin, had already spun past Maya, who was caught ball-watching.
Rin was a step slow to close him down. Leo saw it all unfold in the harsh, glowing geometry of the G.O.A.L. System.
[STRIKER TRAJECTORY CALCULATED. INTERCEPTION POINT: YOUR POSITION.]
[SOLUTION: STEP LEFT 1.5 METERS, CUT PASSING LANE.]
Leo moved. He stepped exactly where the system told him. But the striker didn't pass. He took one vicious touch, driving the ball forward with the outside of his boot, and exploded past the spot Leo had just vacated.
He was moving at a speed that made Leo's AGI of 8 feel like a death sentence.
The striker slotted the ball casually into the bottom corner of the free post.
"GOAL!" the red team roared, a single, unified bark of triumph.
Hal, with a sigh, flipped the small scoreboard propped against the fence. The number from 0 to 1. Less than a minute had elapsed.
Silence descended on Leo's team. The air was suddenly very cold.
King spat on the turf, saying nothing. Rin's face was a placid mask, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his shorts. Maya rounded on Leo, her eyes blazing.
"What the hell was that? You just opened the door for him! You have to commit!"
Leo opened his mouth, the explanation on his tongue—the system said to cut the passing lane, he was following the optimal defensive solution—but the words died.
To them, it just looked like he'd shuffled out of the way. He'd seen Puzzle A (the pass). The striker had chosen Solution B (the dribble). He had been out-thought by instinct.
"Sorry," he mumbled, the word ash in his mouth.
"Don't be sorry. Be better," Maya snapped, turning her back on him.
Hal blew the whistle for the restart. Leo, his stomach a knot of ice, kicked off to Maya. The system immediately offered a solution.
[TEAMMATE MAYA ISOLATED. OPPONENT PRESS HIGH.]
[SOLUTION: LOFTED PASS OVER PRESS, INTO SPACE AT COORDINATES 12, 07. SUCCESS PROBABILITY: 72%.]
It was a good pass. A proactive pass. The kind of pass his father's playbooks diagrammed in elegant arrows. Leo struck it, aiming for the empty patch of turf behind the pressing defender where only Maya could run onto it.
Maya didn't run.
She stayed rooted, waiting for the ball to come to her feet, to shield and turn. The lofted pass sailed over her head and rolled harmlessly out of play for a goal kick.
The red team midfielder laughed, a short, derisive sound.
Maya turned on Leo, her frustration boiling over. "What kind of pass is that? Are you trying to make me look stupid? Give it to my feet! Let me work!"
The heat of shame climbed Leo's neck. But beneath it, a colder realization crystallized.
"She can't see it. She doesn't see the space before it exists. She needs the ball first to create it. I'm reading the game two steps ahead, and she's playing one step at a time."
He didn't apologize this time. He just gave a stiff nod, his jaw tight.
The goal kick was taken short. The red team, smelling blood, pressed with coordinated aggression. Leo received a tense pass from King with his back to goal, a red shadow already bearing down on him. The system flashed.
[PRESSURE FROM REAR. OPTION 1: SHIELD & LAYOFF TO KING (RISK: HIGH). OPTION 2: FIRST-TIME PASS TO MAYA'S FEET (SUCCESS: 85%).]
He chose Option 2. He didn't turn. He just tapped the ball sideways to where Maya was asking for it, to her feet.
It was the safe, but expected pass.
The red team's other midfielder had read it before Leo even made contact. She stepped in, intercepted the lazy service, and played a quick one-two with her striker. In two touches, they'd sliced through the stunned defense.
The striker finished again, this time with a vicious, dipping shot that would have beaten any keeper.
2-0.
Hal flipped the scoreboard. Maya didn't even look at Leo this time. She just stared at the ground, her shoulders slumped in disgust that was worse than any shout.
King called for a water break, his voice a low growl. The other team agreed.
As they trudged to the sideline, Leo's mind raced, the system churning through failure data. He was trying to plug holes in a dam that was already shattered. He was playing their game, and losing.
His eyes landed on Rin, who was sipping water, his expression unreadable. An idea, desperate and clear, formed.
He remembered a clip his dad had shown him once, of an old lower-league English team. Their manager, a mad tactician named Trevor Smith, would famously swap his best passer with his target man mid-attack, creating chaos.
Leo caught Rin's eye. He pointed subtly at Rin, then at himself. He then mimed swapping positions, and mouthed two words: Trevor Smith.
Rin's eyes, usually so languid, sharpened. A spark of understanding, then a flicker of dark amusement. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
As they walked back onto the field, Leo drifted deep, towards where Rin had been playing. Rin, without a word, moved up into Leo's linking role. Maya shot them a confused, irritated look but said nothing.
Hal blew the whistle. Rin passed to Maya.
She received the ball with grace, her vision cut through the red team. She focused on the goalpost, but as she made to sprint the ball left her feet.
Rin had tackled her. He sprinted dancing past the shocked bull-like midfielder with a feint so smooth it looked like the man was rooted in concrete. He drove at the heart of the red defense, drawing two players towards him.
At the last second, as the bulky defender closed in from behind, Rin turned on a dime and slid a pass back across the penalty area.
It landed at the feet of Maya, who had continued her run. Her touch was firm, her shot was fierce, low, and precise.
2-1.
Hal whooped and flipped the board.
They reset. Maya, breathing heavily, glanced at Rin. "That was something."
Rin's face was serious, his gaze already on the opposing kickoff. "You haven't seen anything yet."
The red team, furious now, kicked off. Their second midfielder didn't mess around. She took two steps and launched a high, looping ball towards the halfway line.
Their striker was already a blur of motion, zigzagging between a wrong-footed King and a flat-footed Maya. He timed his sprint perfectly, meeting the falling ball on his chest, killing its momentum dead.
In an instant, he was through. The only person between him and an empty post was Leo, standing on the edge of the area.
The system worked overtime.
[OPPONENT STRIKER: VELOCITY HIGH. FAVORS SHOOTING NEAR POST (87%).]
[PREDICTED SHOT TRAJECTORY: LOW, LEFT CORNER.]
[SOLUTION: BLOCKING LANE AT 45-DEGREE ANGLE. REACT IN 0.2 SECONDS.]
Leo saw the future. He saw the striker's plant foot dig in, the slight drop of the shoulder. He knew exactly where the ball was going.
His body refused to obey.
He lunged, his leg stretching in a desperate, too-slow arc. The striker's shot was a thunderclap of power, a white streak that tore past the space where Leo's shin should have been a fraction of a second earlier. The net billowed.
3-1.
The striker didn't celebrate. He just jogged back, smirking, and slapped hands with the midfielder who had launched the pass. The message was clear: This is real football. This is power.
The rest of the half was a brutal, grinding stalemate. Leo was a ghost, bypassed by both teams. The whistle for halftime was a mercy.
They gathered around the water cooler, panting. King looked at the scoreboard, his face grim. "This isn't good."
"We need to change the kickoff," Rin said, his voice calm. "Let me take it with you. We'll go direct."
King shook his head, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he tested his weight on his left foot. "Can't. Ankle's been barking since this morning. Sprained it in training yesterday."
Rin closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. Leo's system pinged, confirming what he'd vaguely sensed: [TEAMMATE ANALYSIS: KING VANCE - LEFT ANKLE STABILITY 68%. MOVEMENT COMPROMISED.]
Hal looked at the clock on the wall, took a swig from his thermos, and blew the whistle for the second half.
They resumed the grim fight. Leo kicked off to Maya and made a run, only to be bodied aside by the bull midfielder. He was a spectator as Maya, isolated, tried to take on two defenders. The ball squirted loose from a tackle, rolling into empty space.
From the depth of their own half, a blue blur erupted. King, his sprint visibly lopsided, his face a mask of pain, gritted his teeth and pushed. He reached the loose ball a heartbeat before a red defender, shoved him aside with pure upper-body strength, and with the last ounce of his momentum, scooped a lazy, looping chip over the stranded last defender and into the empty net.
3-2.
The goal was pure willpower. King collapsed to his knees afterwards, gripping his ankle.
The game went on and soon after, Maya scored a lucky goal.
3-3
Seven minutes were left. Leo's heart hammered. They needed one goal. He needed to be the one to make it. To claim something from this brutal game.
A soft chime echoed in his mind, a notification amidst the fatigue and adrenaline.
[DAILY OBJECTIVES REVIEW...]
[SCORE AGAINST GOAL-IE: COMPLETE.]`
[RUN 1KM: COMPLETE.]
[ALL PRIMARY OBJECTIVES MET.]
[BONUS REWARD UNLOCKED: 'GRIT MODE' - 60 SECONDS OF ENHANCED PAIN SUPPRESSION & FOCUS.]
[APPLY NOW? Y/N]
A wild, desperate hope surged in him. He didn't hesitate. Yes.
[GRIT MODE: ACTIVATED. DURATION: 60 SECONDS.]
A cooling sensation washed through his muscles. The faint throbbing in his nose, the ache in his legs, the sting of failure—all receded, pushed to the edge of his awareness.
His vision, already sharp, seemed to vibrate with a new intensity. He went forward to kickoff with Maya and subtly put a hand behind his back and raised a thumb.
Rin, from across the field, saw it. His eyes narrowed in understanding.
The kickoff was a blur. Maya passed to Leo who sent it to Rin.
Rin received the ball and immediately, instead of playing safe, turned and sprinted directly at the right touchline, pulling the bull midfielder with him in a desperate chase.
The distraction worked. Maya, suddenly with more space, drove forward and received a cross from Rin.
She beat the striker with a quick step-over, but the second midfielder was closing in fast. Trapped, with options evaporating, she did the only thing she could. With a sigh of profound reluctance, she passed the ball sideways.
To Leo.
It was a hospital pass, slow and across his body. He nearly fumbled it, his first touch clumsy. The stumble, however, was a blessing in disguise. It caused the defender lunging at him to overcommit.
Leo, his body moving with a strange, efficient clarity from Grit Mode, simply let the ball roll past the defender's outstretched leg and accelerated after it.
He was through. A vast expanse of open turf lay before him, and an empty goal.
The system painted the world in golden light.
[1v0 WITH GOAL.]
[OPTIMAL FINISHING SOLUTION CALCULATED.]
[STRIKE LOW, LEFT CORNER. SUCCESS PROBABILITY: 99.9%.]
[OBJECTIVE: SECURE VICTORY. CLAIM YOUR MOMENT.]
This was it. The redemption. The proof. He drew his foot back, the perfect angle computed, his body aligned.
From the periphery of his left vision, a blur streaked into the shooting lane.
It was Rin.
There was no tackle, no violent collision. It was a clean and utterly ruthless piece of football. Rin simply hooked his foot around the ball as Leo began his shooting motion, pulling it smoothly away from him. Leo, his weight committed, tumbled to the turf.
Rin didn't break stride. He took one settling touch and caressed the ball into the open net with the outside of his boot. A finish of contemptuous ease.
"GOAL!" King roared, pumping his fist. Maya whooped, running to join him.
Leo pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, the synthetic turf biting into his skin.
The cooling effect of Grit Mode vanished, replaced by a fire that raced up his veins—a fire of pure, undiluted rage. He stared at Rin, who was already being clapped on the back by King.
Rin met his gaze as he jogged back. He didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He just offered a small, professional smile—the smile of a craftsman who had used the right tool for the job—and walked past him.
[GRIT MODE DISABLED. FATIGUE DEBUFF REAPPLIED.]
The final minutes were a formality. They defended in a numb, shocked huddle. Hal's final whistle was a release for everyone but Leo.
The red team muttered curses, gathered their things. Their striker stalked over to King and slapped a wad of cash—$400—into his palm. King counted it with quick, efficient flicks of his thumb.
He peeled off two hundred for himself. Then he handed a crisp $100 bill each to Maya and Rin. They took it without a word, the transaction as natural as breathing.
King turned to Leo, his smile warm, appreciative. "Thanks for joining us, Reed. Seriously. You held your own."
Leo stood there, empty-handed, the phantom weight of the stolen goal still in his foot. He forced his lips into something resembling a smile. "Yeah. So… regional finals, then."
Maya, tucking her cash into her sports bra, looked up. "Yeah. Thanks, Leo. You played well. So you'll get a free ticket to come watch the competition next month."
The words didn't compute at first.
King nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Front row. Our treat."
Rin was wiping his face with a towel, his back to them.
Leo's forced smile froze, then died. "Watch?"
Maya looked at him, a flicker of something that might have been pity in her eyes before it hardened. "Yeah. You didn't think we were gonna let you play, did you?"
A short, sharp laugh burst from King. Rin's shoulders shook silently.
The sound was a physical blow. It shattered the last illusion.
"And if it makes you feel any better," Maya added, her voice softening with false consolation, "we weren't gonna add Daisy either."
Something cold and hard solidified in Leo's chest, encasing the fire of his rage. He didn't speak. He turned and walked stiffly to the bench where he'd left his folded jeans, shirt, and sneakers. He picked them up.
"Hey!" Rin called out, finally turning. "My jersey."
Leo stopped. He didn't look back. His voice, when it came, was flat and carried perfectly across the quieting field. "I'll send them."
Hal, from his chair, watched the transaction. His eyes, old and wise, went from the cash in King's hand to Leo's stiff, retreating back. He didn't say a word. He just took another long sip from the thermos, his expression unreadable.
Leo continued walking, through the heavy metal door, into the dark stockroom of Hal's shop. The heavy metal door shut behind him with a final, echoing clang, cutting off the sound of their celebrating voices. In the sudden, dusty silence of Hal's stockroom, the only sound was the ragged pull of his own breath.
He sighed and stepped out into the chill of the evening. The borrowed blue kit felt like a prisoner's uniform against his skin.
He walked, the echo of their laughter chasing him down the empty street. The $200 in King's pocket. The $100 in Rin's and Maya's. The 99.9% probability shot that wasn't his. The free ticket to watch.
Tools. He had been a tool. A disposable lens they'd looked through to see a victory they then claimed for themselves.
The rage didn't boil. It settled, heavy and cold, in the pit of his stomach. A new objective, not from the system, but from a place deeper and darker, formed in his mind with absolute clarity.
He would make the school team. He would become undeniable. And then, he would make every single one of them watch him.