"In the end, this is all I amounted to."
Tyler scoffed as he flung his duffel bag over his shoulders and walked away from Preston North End's under sixteens training facility. It was the last time he would ever make that walk. The building sat behind him like a tombstone, silent and cold, the same way he felt inside. He had just finished a meeting with his coach. He had been released.
He was tired of it. The look in the coach's eyes as he's trying his best to feel sorry for you. The whispers of his teammates as he cleared his locker from the last time, and the disappointment in his grandma's eyes as he came to tell her what happened. That stupid chair he always had to sit in. The words that came after. "We think you're a great kid." "You gave it everything." "You're one of the hardest working lads we've had." All that nonsense. None of it changed the fact that they didn't want him. None of it ever changed that.
He was tired of football. Tired of chasing it. Tired of fighting for it. Tired of being told that his best wasn't enough.
What did football ever bring him? Hurt. That was all it ever gave. Hurt, disappointment, and just enough hope to keep him going before it all came crashing down again.
Tyler wasn't the most talented. Everyone knew that. But he had something. He had work ethic. More than anyone else. Coaches always said it. Teammates sometimes admitted it. He didn't have flair or that effortless first touch some kids had. He had to grind for everything. Every improvement was fought for. Every gain was earned.
And yet here he was. Back at square one.
Everyone always said talent wasn't everything. They said it over and over again. They told him hard work would win. That hunger and discipline could close the gap. That desire mattered more. He believed them. He wanted to believe them.
He laughed bitterly. They lied. They all lied. Talent was everything. If you didn't have it, you weren't going anywhere. Hard work was something coaches said to push average players. A motivational tool. A false promise. He saw it now. It was all fake.
Tears pricked at his eyes. He tried to blink them away but they kept coming. There was no stopping them. Not now. Not after everything. He had given his childhood to this. He had trained in rain, snow, wind, everything. Early mornings. Late nights. Missed parties. Skipped holidays. And for what? To be told, again, that he wasn't good enough?
No. He had to stop thinking like that. It wasn't healthy. He had to move on.
He walked with no real direction, just letting his feet guide him. The streets around the academy were quiet. The sky above was grey, not dark enough for rain but dull enough to feel heavy. His breath came out shaky and uneven. He tried to calm himself.
Eventually, he found himself at a park. It had a grass football pitch that was half-worn from overuse. A single goalpost stood at one end, the net hanging low and untied at the bottom.
He dropped his bag by the touchline and opened it slowly. Inside was a football. Nothing else. He took it out and started juggling it lazily. Nothing fancy. Just touches. Left foot, right foot, knee, shoulder, chest, then let it fall. Picked it up again and started over.
It was strange. Football had caused him so much pain. So many tears. So much self-doubt. And yet, here he was. Using the same football to try and forget what it had done to him. He let out a small laugh. Not a happy one. Not a loud one. Just enough to break the silence.
It was a paradox, of sorts. A twisted cycle. Football hurt him, but football also healed him. Or at least tried to. It broke him, but also gave him pieces to hold on to. Maybe that was the most painful thing of all.
He dribbled the ball forward. One touch at a time. He kept his head low, watching the ball closely, as if that would help him forget everything else. He reached the edge of the box and took a shot.
The ball lifted gently, rising and then dipping fast. It sailed just over the goalpost.
"I never could get how to take a finesse shot," Tyler muttered. He let out another laugh. It sounded more like a cough this time.
He walked over to collect the ball. It had bounced off the fence and landed by a patch of weeds growing near the edge of the field. He picked it up and stared at it for a second before laughing again. Then the tears returned.
He wiped them quickly. He didn't want to cry. Not out here. Not where someone could see him. There was no rain to hide them. No hoodie to cover his face. He didn't want to look weak. Not now. Not after everything.
He carried the ball back to where he had dropped his bag, only to find that the bag wasn't there.
"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Fucking great."
He looked around, hoping maybe he just forgot where he placed it. He retraced his steps. Walked up and down the side of the field. Nothing.
He sighed. It was stolen. His kit was inside. Even though he had been released, the club still expected him to return the training gear. If not, he would have to pay a fine.
"Fuck me," he muttered again.
There was no way his grandma would pay for it. She had done enough already. Rent was already a problem. Adding a kit fine on top of that was out of the question.
He kept searching, even though he knew it was pointless. The park wasn't big, and he had already checked every corner. It was gone.
He sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. He was just about to bend down to pick up the football again when he suddenly froze.
A sharp pain struck his head. Not like a headache or a migraine. This was something else. It felt like someone had shoved something hot and electric straight through his skull. It wasn't just pain. It was pressure. It built fast, spreading across his brain like fire.
He dropped the ball and clutched his head. He couldn't scream. The pain was too strong. His voice caught in his throat. His knees buckled. He fell into a crouch, arms shaking.
And then, just like that, it was gone.
He blinked rapidly, trying to regain focus. The pain had vanished as suddenly as it came. His breathing was uneven. His chest rose and fell fast.
And then he saw it.
Right in front of him.
Floating in the air, impossible to miss.
[Unlimited Potential System activated]
[Scanning host's body]
[Integrating system information]
[Calculating host's stats]
[Downloading host's stats]
[Download complete]
[Name: Tyler Wilson]
[Age: 16]
[Status: Unsigned]
[Market Value: --
[Position: Left Winger || Right Winger/Attacking Midfielder/Central Midfielder]
[Attributes]
[Speed: 55]
[Acceleration: 60]
[Pace: 51]
[Control: 39]
[Stamina: 31]
[Strength: 22]
[Physicality: 21]
[Passing: 34]
[Shooting: 34]
[Vision: 41]
[Long Passing: 20]
[Long Shots: 23]
[Defending: 19]
[Overall Player Rating: 29]
[Overall Player Potential: 69]
[Skills]
[La Croqueta
[Titles: none]
[Awards: none]
"What the…"