Leo woke with a start, his cheek stuck to a page of his father's notebook.
The room was a battlefield of his ambition. Scattered papers formed a snowdrift of calculus derivatives and English comprehension passages.
Empty mugs stood sentinel.
He had slept at his desk again. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. He rubbed them, then reached to take off his father's glasses.
His hand froze an inch from the frame.
Something… flickered. A faint, persistent pulse of crimson in his lower peripheral vision. He saw it almost every morning and had dismissed it as sleep-ghosts, the afterimage of equations burned onto his retinas.
Hesitantly, he pushed the glasses back up his nose.
The world snapped into focus, and with it, three lines of urgent, red text, pulsing like a slow, patient heartbeat in the corner of his vision.
[DAILY OBJECTIVES - OUTSTANDING]
1. 30 PUSHUPS (3 SETS)
2. 1 MINUTE PLANK (CORE STABILITY)
3. 20 SECOND DEAD HANG (2 SETS) [GRIP STRENGTH/ SHOULDER INTEGRATION]
STATUS:OVERDUE
REWARD:NONE (TIME ELIMINATION BONUS EXPIRED)
ATTEMPT?[Y/N]
Leo stared. He'd been so lost in tryouts and trigonometry, he'd ignored the system's most basic command: maintain the machine.
No wonder his body felt like rusted clockwork.
"Yes," he whispered, the word a surrender.
The red text cleared, replaced by a stark, white counter: [SET 1/3 - PUSHUP COUNT: 0].
He pushed his chair back, creating a small clearing on the floor between textbooks. He got into position, hands shoulder-width apart on the cool hardwood.
The system's ghostly outline corrected his form: [ALIGN SPINE. ENGAGE CORE.]
One. Two. Three. Four.
The count was merciless. By six, his triceps were burning. Seven. Eight. A shaky, breathless laugh escaped him at nine—a sound of pure, pathetic strain.
On ten, his arms buckled. He didn't lower himself with control; he collapsed, his chest hitting the floor with a soft thump, his shoulders screaming.
He lay there for ten minutes, facedown on the floor, breathing in the dust and defeat. The system's counter blinked patiently: [SET 1: 10/30. RESUME?]
"Later," he grunted, pulling off the glasses. He cleaned the lenses with his shirt, as if wiping away the evidence of his failure, before heading for a shower so cold it made his teeth chatter.
Dressed and marginally more human, he cleaned his room with his military efficiency. The chaotic scholar replaced by the ordered athlete.
He folded the yellow JK Beverage jersey and buried it in his bag. His father's leather-bound notebook and a pen went into his jacket pocket, a talisman and a tool.
Downstairs, Clara was a silhouette against the dawn-grey window. She glanced at her watch. "Hal's doesn't open 'til eight."
"Not going to Hal's," Leo said, filling his water bottle at the sink. The clunk of the lock was a definitive sound. "The park. It's quiet this early."
"Supervision?" she asked, the mother's code for is it safe.
"Twenty-four seven," he recited, grabbing two slices of bread and shoving them into the toaster.
The bread popped. He grabbed the hot, dry toast. "Okay, bye."
"Leo, you can't just have—" The door clicked shut behind him.
Clara sighed, listening to his fading footsteps. Her gaze drifted to the photo of David. "He's just like you," she whispered to the ghost. "All fire, no fuel." She picked up the second slice of toast. "And just as stubborn."
───────────
The park at dawn was a cathedral of mist and muted sound.
As predicted, a group of young men—college-aged, by their look—were playing a sharp, laughing game of monkey in the middle.
The 'monkey', a red-faced guy, was lunging desperately as the ball pinged around the circle with crisp, one-touch passes.
Leo sat on a dew-damp bench, pulled out his father's notebook, and began his real work.
[OBSERVATION MODE: ACTIVE. SIDELINE PERSPECTIVE - ENGAGED.]
His gaze became analytical, dissecting. The way Player A opened his body to receive. The lazy, telegraphed back-lift of Player B before a pass. Most were decent. One was exceptional.
A younger guy with a mop of dark curls, wearing a simple jersey with just a #7. His movements were economical.
Every first touch killed the ball's momentum, setting it perfectly for the next action. His passes were firm, crisp, and always to the right foot. His boots were sleek, black predators—easily a month's grocery money to Leo.
The current monkey finally intercepted a sloppy pass, whooping with relief. "Aha! It's your turn Macready."
Macready looked directly at Leo on the bench. "Hey, kid! Wanna play?"
Leo, his analyst's mind already mapping their patterns, nodded without thinking. "Sure."
A groan from the circle. "C'mon, Mac, you can't just draft the spectator so you don't become the monkey."
"It's fine," Leo said, already moving. In seconds, his t-shirt was off, the yellow jersey on."
"Boots?" one asked.
Leo shook his head, a flush of shame he thought he'd buried rising. "Left 'em at school."
Macready rummaged in a duffel bag and tossed over a pair of pristine, white-and-gold boots. "Wrong size for me. Might fit you."
"Thanks," Leo mumbled, lacing them up. The fit was perfect.
"I guess college guys aren't all bad." He thought to himself.
For the first sixty seconds as the monkey, Leo was a ghost. He lunged, he scrambled, he pressed. The ball was a shimmering, untouchable idea, always three thoughts ahead of him.
He heard the laughter—not cruel, but amused at his frantic energy.
But he wasn't just chasing. He was running the Sideline Perspective scan. His eyes flicked across the circle, tagging weaknesses.
[Player D: Requires two touches to settle. High panic threshold.]
He feinted towards the ball-carrier, herding him. Flustered, he passed to Player D.
As the ball arrived for the inevitable heavy first touch, Leo was already a yellow blur. He slid, not at the man, but at the space the ball would occupy a half-second later. His toe connected, poking it free. It rolled to Macready's feet.
The laughter turned to shouts of surprise. "No way! Clean steal!"
Leo left the circle after ten minutes. Ten minutes that had stretched into a lifetime of futile pursuit.
"Again," he said, breathless, stepping back into the center. "I'll be monkey."
They exchanged looks but allowed it. Eight minutes this time. He identified another tell—a player who always looked down before passing. Interception.
He asked again. And again. Each time, his exit from the circle came faster. Five minutes. Three. He was no longer just observing; he was predicting, a chess piece learning the rhythms of the board.
Then, he saw his chance. Macready, received the ball. For the first time, he took a slightly lofted pass out of the air. A micro-second of adjustment.
Leo, reading the trajectory of the pass before it was made, had already committed. He exploded forward, not at the ball, but at the passing lane. He arrived as the ball did, intercepting it cleanly from the air before #7 could fully control it.
Silence.
The circle froze. Leo stood, panting, the ball at his feet. He looked up and met #7's gaze. The young man's eyes, a sharp hazel, held no anger. Only a deep, assessing curiosity.
"Enough," #7 said, his voice calm. He waved a hand. "Clear out, lads. Take five."
The others drifted to the benches, muttering. It was just the two of them on the dew-jeweled grass.
"Name?" #7 asked.
"L-Leo."
A slow, confident smirk. "Julius O'Connor. Captain, Crossfield United Under-21s."
The name didn't just hit Leo; it rewired the air around them. The misty park wasn't a park anymore; it was a training ground for a future Leo had only seen on TV.
The laughter of the other players took on a different timbre—not college kids goofing off, but professionals warming up.
Julius pulled out his phone, tapped, and showed Leo the screen. The trash can video. 3.7 million views. "This is you, isn't it?"
Leo could only nod, a strange pride warming his chest.
Julius pocketed the phone. "You've improved since you and Hikami played."
"Hikami?"
"My mistake. I meant Rin. Saw his live stream. Wondered what kind of lame duck he was wasting his time with." Julius's smirk didn't widen, but his eyes glinted. "But you're not so bad."
He raised a hand. "Ball!" A pass was fired at him. Julius killed it dead, then proceeded to give Leo a thirty-five minute masterclass in humiliation.
If King was a hill of polished granite and Rin a razor-sharp cliff, Julius O'Connor was a mountain. And not a static one—a flowing, living landmass.
His dribbling wasn't about flashy step-overs; it was about shifts of balance so subtle they were almost imperceptible. He used Leo's momentum against him, guiding him like a matador, the ball a permanent, invisible satellite orbiting his feet.
Leo threw everything at him—system-suggested tackling angles, pressure points gleaned from highlights. Nothing worked.
Julius moved through the suggestions, as if the system's logic was a language he spoke fluently and had already evolved beyond.
Finally, with Leo gasping, sweat-drenched and dizzy, Julius simply rolled the ball past him and curled a flawless shot into the top corner of the goal. He wasn't even breathing heavily.
A red and yellow bus with a fierce griffin logo and CROSSFIELD UNITED in bold letters rumbled to the curb nearby.
The players on the bench gathered their things, utterly nonplussed. This was just another morning for them.
Julius gave Leo's soggy shoulder a firm pat. "Thanks for the exercise, mate." He turned to leave.
"Your boots!" Leo called out, stumbling after Macready.
Macready didn't look back, just raised a hand in a casual wave as he boarded the bus. "Keep them."
The bus pulled away, leaving Leo standing alone, the impossible boots on his feet, the scent of cut grass and his own exhaustion in his nose.
He collapsed onto the bench. He checked his watch. 8:25 AM.
He felt hollowed out, rebuilt, and shattered all at once. He took a long drink of water, then forced himself through his second set of ten push-ups on the damp grass. They were agony.
After, lying on his back, he replayed Julius's moves in his mind. The flowing turn, the drop of the shoulder that meant nothing and everything. He grabbed a ball and tried to imitate it, his body a clumsy puppet.
[SYSTEM SYNTHESIS DETECTED: ADVERSARIAL PATTERN 'JULIUS_OCONNOR - FLUIDITY'.]
[PROPOSAL:GENERATE HOLOGRAPHIC TRAINING PARTNER TO SIMULATE PRESSURE & TECHNIQUE.]
[WARNING: PROLONGED USE CONSUMES 'FOCUS' RESOURCE. CRITICAL DEPLETION MAY TRIGGER MIGRAINE/PERCEPTION DEBUFF.]
[CREATE HOLOGRAM?Y/N]
"Yes," Leo breathed.
A shimmering, translucent blue figure materialized before him, a mirror image of himself, but with the poised, relaxed stance of Julius.
Leo tried a simple feint. The hologram didn't react to the fake; it read his center of gravity and gently toe-poked the ball.
[TRY AGAIN.]
He tried again. And again. For twenty minutes, he was schooled by a ghost of light, each failure a lesson in economy of motion. He was so absorbed he didn't hear the soft footsteps on the grass.
"Bravo!"
He turned, wiping sweat from his eyes. Daisy sat on the bench, holding his father's notebook. She looked charmingly disheveled in a oversized hoodie and a skirt, a smile on her face.
Leo killed the hologram with a thought and jogged over, suddenly acutely aware of his sweat-soaked state. "That's my dad's," he said, sitting beside her. "He was the real student."
"I can see that," she said softly, tracing the worn leather. "I was on my way to Maya's. You didn't pick up." She held up her phone.
Leo checked his bag. Three missed calls. "Sorry. I was… in the zone."
She nodded, then placed her hand over his on the bench. Her skin was warm. Leo felt his heart perform a frantic, system-overloading stutter.
"Sorry I've been quiet," she said, her voice earnest. "This week… it's a lot. Finals, and the scouts are hovering like vultures. Makes even a fun game feel like a life-or-death trial. It's stressing everyone out. Even Maya."
"Maya?" Leo couldn't hide his surprise.
Daisy nodded. "The girls at CU High are under massive pressure. The Crossfield United women's under-21 team is stuck in the Bronze League. They're desperate to get promoted. They keep scouring schools for any diamond, no matter how rough. If you can kick a ball straight, you're getting looked at." She offered a wry smile. "It's exhausting."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, her hand still on his. Then she stood, brushing grass from her skirt. "Maya and I are grabbing pizza. Want to come?"
The word yes was a buoyant, immediate feeling. But he thought of the hologram, the unfinished push-ups, the calculus final, the mountain named Julius he now had to climb.
He smiled, a real one, tinged with regret. "Thanks. But I have to… keep studying the game."
She smiled back, understanding or at least accepting. "Okay. Don't work too hard, trash-can champion." She gave his hand a final squeeze, then walked away, flagging down a taxi.
Leo watched her go, her perfume lingering in the air—a scent of flowers and a life that felt momentarily, tantalizingly close. He exhaled a long, shaky breath.
Then he turned back to the empty field, put his father's glasses on. His head was beginning to ache, but he still summoned the blue hologram once more.
[SESSION RESUMED. TRY AGAIN.]
He had a mountain to move, one imperfect, sweat-soaked repetition at a time.