The Finals was a war of attrition fought in silence. Leo's pen was his sword, each solution a desperate parry, every sentence a thrust against the clock.
He wrote until his hand cramped into a claw. Every time the dismissal bell rang, it felt less like a victory and more like a surrender. He had given all his ammunition.
On Thursday, he stumbled into the hallway, the world a blur of buzzing fatigue. A heavy arm slung around his shoulders.
"You look like death warmed over, man." Kevin grumbled, steering him towards the lockers. "But death doesn't have a Sociology final in ninety minutes. Move. We'll quiz each other."
The next two days passed in a watercolor wash of stress and highlighter ink. Map readings bled into watercolor paintings.
The structure of a sonnet felt as complex as a 4-3-3 pressing trigger. Through it all, his small circle—Kevin, Max, a reluctantly helpful Thomas—formed a study trench, passing notes, firing questions, sharing silent, thousand-yard stares over textbooks.
The system, for once, was silent on football. Its only prompt was a persistent, pale blue reminder in the corner of his vision: [BIOMETRIC STATUS: CRITICAL. RECOMMENDED ACTION: 6+ HRS UNINTERRUPTED SLEEP.]
He ignored it. Sleep was a currency he couldn't afford.
The final exam ended not with a bang, but with the soft sigh of his pen dropping onto the desk. A profound, hollow quiet filled him. The academic siege was over.
As he walked out of the hall, the weight that lifted was immediately replaced by another, heavier and more focused: the Griffin Cup.
───────────
Returning to Arkady's training ground after exams was like stepping from a library into a steel mill. The quiet tension of study was replaced by the loud, brutal certainty of physical law.
The team was already there, a symphony of sharp whistles and pounding feet. And there, pulling on a luminous green goalkeeper jersey with the authority of a king donning his robe, was Miller.
Leo stopped, watching him. Miller's movements were economical, powerful. He pounded his gloved fists together, a sound like two bricks meeting, and let out a roar that silenced the nearby drills. "Let's go! I wanna see you try and score, you maggots!"
Seeing him, so dominant and central, triggered a memory. The hulking, tattooed 'Goal-ie' from the Score for Cash place, picking Leo's first few shots out of the air with ease.
The sting of those failures, and then the sweet, vindicating swish of his final, system-guided shots finding the net.
After the tournament, Leo promised himself, the thought a quiet spark in his tired mind. I'll go back. When I have real money. I'll see if he remembers the kid who beat him.
Diaz, the sleek, handsome prodigy, lounged on a nearby bench, scrolling through his phone.
He was the understudy, but his expression held no resentment, only a cool, amused observation. He was a Ferrari in the garage, confident he'd be needed for the big race.
"Reed! You're late!" Arkady's voice, like a whip crack, severed his thoughts.
"Sorry, Coach. Arts exam."
Arkady's icy gaze didn't thaw. "The only exam that matters begins today. Get your kit on. You're in the gauntlet."
The "Gauntlet" was Arkady's new favorite torture device.
The starting back four and Miller in goal formed a living, breathing defensive unit. The attacking players, Leo included, would take turns being fed into a pre-set attacking scenario with two passive midfielders.
Three touches to score. Fail, and you ran a punishing suicide sprint.
Leo watched the first few attempts. A speedy winger was muscled off the ball by the Scottish left back. A technical midfielder's clever chip was plucked from the air by Miller with infuriating ease.
Then it was Leo's turn.
[SIDELINE PERSPECTIVE: ENGAGED. SCANNING DEFENSIVE SCHEME 4-4-2-STABLE.]
The ball was rolled to him at the edge of the box, his back to goal. A defender's heat-signature pressed into his back. A system-generated passing lane to a "teammate" flickered and died as a covering defender stepped in.
First Touch. He received it, feeling the pressure. The system offered a solution: [OPTION: ROLL LEFT, QUICK TURN, SHOOT NEAR POST. SUCCESS PROBABILITY: 18%]. Too low.
Second Touch. He shielded, buying a millisecond. His real eyes, aided by the glasses, saw what the system's pure logic didn't: the center-back, Perez, had a tell. He dropped his right shoulder a fraction before committing to a tackle.
Third Touch. Perez's shoulder dipped. Leo didn't turn. He simply back-heeled the ball blindly through the gap that tell had just advertised.
It wasn't a shot. It was a pass into empty space, a bet on a runner that didn't exist. The ball rolled harmlessly to Miller.
"TIME!" Arkady barked. "Reed. What was that?"
"A read, Coach," Leo panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Perez had a tell."
Arkady's stare was impassive. "You read a tell. You exploited a weakness. But you had no teammate. You solved for 'y' when the equation demanded 'x'. You are not a midfielder. You are the end of the equation. Your three touches are: Control. Create. CONCLUDE." He pointed to the sideline. "Sprints. Now."
As Leo's lungs burned on the suicide runs, he replayed it. Arkady was right. He'd seen the heartbeat, but he'd sung the wrong note. He needed to merge the observation with the striker's ruthless finality.
After the brutal session, as they gulped water, Arkady didn't dismiss them. The assistant coach wheeled in a large, black equipment trunk.
"The school provided the canvas," Arkady said, his voice cutting through the tired murmurs. "I provided the specifications."
The trunk was opened. Inside, nestled in tissue, were their tournament kits.
A ripple of awe went through the team. These weren't the standard, thin replicas. These were player-issue quality.
The fabric was a dense, kinetic weave of deep navy blue, with lightning-bolt slashes of white racing from the shoulders down the sides. The school crest was embroidered, not printed, over the heart.
On the back, their names and numbers were set in a sleek, modern font.
It was armor.
One by one, Arkady called them up. King received his #9 with a nod. Max grinned at his #7. Thomas hefted his #11. Frank took his #8, a midfielder's number, with a look of grim satisfaction. Perez collected his #4 passing the #5 to the other player beside him.
"Reed."
Leo stepped forward. Arkady held out the jersey. Leo took it. The fabric felt cool and substantial. He turned it around.
REED. #19.
The classic substitute striker's number. The number of the super-sub, the impact player, the afterthought.
The bitter sting was instant, a cold needle in the gut. But as his fingers traced the raised silver embroidery of his name, a counter-current of fierce, defiant pride surged against the disappointment. It was his name. On this kit. He was here.
He looked up. Arkady was watching him. "A number is a slot in a roster, Reed," the coach said, his voice low enough for only Leo to hear. "What you do with the minutes attached to it… that is your signature."
───────────
That night, in the silent fortress of his room, Leo didn't sleep. The navy blue kit hung on his wall, a shadowy banner above his Jaguar boots. Before it, he worked.
He opened to Clipgram, and typed: #WilliamsHighFootball #GriffinCup
A flood of grainy, shaky footage filled his screen: highlights from school news channels, clips filmed by proud parents on phones, arrogant edits set to aggressive music.
He put on his father's glasses.
[INITIATE OPPONENT ANALYSIS PROTOCOL: WILLIAMS HIGH SCHOOL, ROUND 1.]
[SYNC WITH USER-RETRIEVED VISUAL DATA... COMPLETE.]
The system began to overlay his chaotic, civilian footage with cold, analytical data. It stabilized shaky shots, tracked player movements, and drew vector lines.
His target crystallized: their defensive core. The system pulled multiple clips, compositing them into a rotating 3D model of a massive, scowling player.
[TARGET ACQUIRED: #5 - LOGAN TURNER. DESIGNATION: 'THE WALL'.]
[PHYSICAL PROFILE: HIGH STRENGTH, HIGH AGGRESSION, LOW TURNING AGILITY.]
[BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS FROM 7M 22S OF FOOTAGE:]
· [PATTERN 1: AFTER AERIAL DUEL LOSS, EXHIBITS 3.2 SECONDS OF STATIC FRUSTRATION. VULNERABLE WINDOW.]
· [PATTERN 2: PRE-FOUL TELL: LIPS PRESSED THIN, NOSTRILS FLARE. OCCURS 0.8 SECONDS BEFORE ILLEGAL CONTACT.]
· [PATTERN 3: WHEN FACING TECHNICAL DRIBBLER, PLANT FOOT WIDENS BY 12%. COMMITMENT TO TACKLE BECOMES IRREVERSIBLE.]
Leo leaned closer, a hunter studying his prey. He cross-referenced this with his father's notebook, where David Reed had scribbled: "Anger in a defender is a lever. Find it, and you can move mountains."
Logan "The Wall" Turner wasn't just a physical obstacle. He was an emotional one. A puzzle with a temper. And yet his entire team's defence was on his shoulders.
Leo's eyes flicked to his kit, #19 gleaming in the lamplight. He wasn't the starting scalpel. He was the specialized tool. The lever.
He minimized the model. A new window opened, showing the Williams High goalkeeper warming up, casually swatting away powerful shots.
[SUBSIDIARY TARGET: GK #1. STRONG ON HIGH SHOTS, REACTION TIME TO LOW, HARD GROUND SHOTS DECREASES BY 22%.]
He began typing, compiling his notes into a brutal, personal playbook. Not just stats, but a battle plan. 'How to break Logan. When to run. Where to shoot.'
He worked deep into the night, the only sound the click of his keys and the quiet hum of the system in his mind. The forge of exams was cold.
Now, in the quiet, he was tempering a very specific, very sharp weapon.
He was no longer just preparing to play. In the quiet, he was assembling a blueprint for demolition. #19 wasn't just a number on a kit. It was becoming a targeting code.