Ethan Reid leaned back in his ergonomic gaming chair, a half-eaten bag of crisps teetering precariously on his desk.
On his triple-monitor setup, the virtual roar of a stadium swelled, then faded into the familiar, slightly melancholic strains of the league runner-up anthem.
His team, the 'Pixel Pioneers,' had done it again.
Second place. Again.
"Unbelievable, Ethan!" his best friend, Liam,'s voice crackled through his headset, a mix of genuine admiration and playful exasperation.
"Another season, another silver medal. You're like the king of almost-there!"
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair.
"Tell me about it. It's a curse, I swear. Every tactic, every substitution, every training regimen… perfect. And then Leroy Stone's 'Dynamo Destroyers' just… exist."
The game's global chat, a chaotic river of emojis and passionate football jargon, was already buzzing.
"Leroy Stone, pure genius! #GOAT," someone typed, followed by a flurry of clapping hand emojis.
Then, a few lines down, "Ethan Reid's Pixel Pioneers: consistently convincing at second place. Solid effort!"
Convincing at second place.
The phrase, innocuous as it seemed, pricked at Ethan like a thousand tiny needles.
It wasn't a slight, not really. It was praise, even. But it was the kind of praise you gave to a well-behaved child who tried their best.
Not to a tactical mastermind who could dissect formations in his sleep and predict player fatigue with unnerving accuracy.
He wanted to be the genius, the GOAT. Not the perennial bridesmaid.
He closed the game, the vibrant digital pitch replaced by his desktop background – a slightly blurry photo of Old Trafford.
For years, this virtual world had been his sanctuary, his proving ground.
He'd spent countless hours meticulously crafting his strategies, poring over player stats, and even developing his own custom training drills within the game's robust engine.
He knew the virtual game inside and out, every bug, every exploit, every hidden mechanic. He was, by all accounts, a virtual coaching prodigy.
But outside the glow of his monitors, in the real world, he was… just Ethan.
A twenty-six-year-old with a degree in Sports Management he'd barely used, working part-time at a local sports shop, mostly reorganizing football kits.
A week later, the sting of second place had dulled, replaced by the usual hum of daily life.
Ethan was deep into a new save, meticulously scouting a promising young striker, when a pop-up ad, garish and unskippable, flashed across his screen.
BREAKING NEWS! LEROY STONE APPOINTED MANCHESTER UNITED MANAGER!!
The words hit Ethan like a rogue football to the gut.
Leroy Stone. His virtual nemesis. The man whose digital shadow he'd lived under for years, now stepping onto the biggest stage in real-world football.
Ethan stared at the screen, the vibrant game world suddenly feeling hollow and insignificant.
He abruptly quit the game, the familiar desktop background reappearing. His finger hovered over the power button, then clenched into a fist.
"That's it," he muttered, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"No more virtual second place. It's time for the real thing."
It was a fateful decision, born of a potent cocktail of frustration, envy, and a deep-seated, unacknowledged desire for genuine recognition.
He was going to be a real football manager.
Weeks of futile attempts followed. Ethan polished his CV, which, admittedly, was heavy on "extensive experience in football management simulations" and light on "actual professional coaching badges."
He spent hours researching clubs, from the Premier League giants.
(a pipe dream, he knew, but a man could hope) down to the semi-professional outfits in the lower leagues. He called dozens of clubs, big and small, his voice growing hoarse with each increasingly desperate pitch.
Every response was a flat-out rejection. Often, they were laced with thinly veiled mockery.
"A video game manager, you say?" A gruff voice from a League Two club had chuckled down the line.
"Son, we deal with real players, real budgets, and real relegation battles. Not pixels and cheat codes."
Another, from a non-league team, had been even blunter.
"Look, kid, we appreciate the enthusiasm, but we're not running a charity here. Go back to your console."
Ethan felt the familiar sting of not being fully recognized, amplified by the harsh reality of the rejections.
He was good, he knew he was good.
But how do you translate virtual genius into real-world opportunity when no one would even give you a chance?
He eventually found himself sitting in a small, unassuming café, the kind with mismatched chairs and the faint scent of stale coffee, staring out at the perpetually grey English sky.
A fine drizzle misted the windowpanes, mirroring the dampness in his own spirit. He picked at a crumbly scone, contemplating a return to his virtual life.
At least there, he was almost the best. Here, he was just a joke.
His phone buzzed, startling him. An unknown number. He almost ignored it, assuming it was another telemarketer or, worse, another rejection.
But something, a tiny flicker of hope, made him answer.
"Ethan Reid, please?" A deep, resonant voice, tinged with an unmistakable air of authority, came through the speaker.
"This is Ethan," he replied, his voice a little shaky.
"Ethan, my name is Sir Alfred Baines. I'm the chairman of Rochdale United Football Club."
Ethan nearly dropped his phone. Rochdale United? They were in League One, the third tier of English football, and currently fighting relegation mid-season.
They were a struggling team, a mess, by all accounts. Definitely not a Premier League dream. But… it was real.
"Sir Alfred," Ethan stammered, trying to sound professional despite his racing heart.
"It's an honour."
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Reid," Sir Alfred continued, his voice surprisingly warm.
"Our current manager… well, let's just say we're looking for a fresh approach. Your name came up through… an unusual channel. I understand you have a rather unique background in football strategy?"
Ethan swallowed.
"Yes, Sir. I've dedicated years to studying the game, tactics, player development…" He carefully omitted the word "virtual."
"Indeed. Well, we're desperate, Mr. Reid. And sometimes, desperation leads to unconventional solutions. I'd like to offer you an interview. Can you be in Rochdale by Friday?"
Ethan's mind raced. Rochdale United. A team fighting relegation. It was far beneath his "virtual genius," a step down from the grand stadiums he'd envisioned. But it was a foot in the door. A real door. He was desperate too.
"Yes, Sir Alfred. Absolutely. I'll be there."
He hung up, a breathless laugh escaping him. He had an interview. A real one.
He was going to Rochdale.
"..."
Two days later, Ethan stepped off the train in Rochdale, a small, grey town nestled in the Greater Manchester area.
The air was damp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of industry and damp stone.
He pulled his worn trench coat tighter, his small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
The club, he'd learned, was a short walk from the station.
As he walked through Rochdale's modest, brick-lined streets, a faint headache began to throb behind his eyes. It wasn't a usual headache, though. It felt… different.
Like a pressure building, a hum beneath his skin. He passed a woman walking a small terrier, then a group of teenagers kicking a worn football against a wall.
The headache intensified, a strange, almost electrical sensation.
Suddenly, the surroundings lit up with a soft, ethereal glow. It wasn't blinding, but rather like the world had been overlaid with a translucent, shimmering filter.
The brick walls seemed to pulse faintly, the damp pavement gleamed with an inner light.
Ethan blinked, rubbing his eyes, convinced he was just tired or stressed.
But then, a shimmering, transparent digital interface materialized directly before him, floating in the air, perfectly aligned with his vision.
It was sleek, minimalist, and utterly impossible. His jaw dropped.
On the interface, small, discreet boxes began to appear above the heads of the ordinary passersby.
Each box contained a name and a series of numbers and symbols.
The woman with the terrier.
Sarah Davies – Agility: C+, Endurance: B-, Charisma: A-.
The teenagers.
Liam O'Connell – Ball Control: B, Pace: A-, Vision: C+.
Chloe Evans – Dribbling: B+, Passing: B, Composure: B-.
Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs. These weren't just random numbers.
They looked like… stats. Player stats. But these were real people!
A larger message, in crisp, elegant font, then appeared at the center of the interface, glowing with a soft, inviting blue.
[Environment Scan Complete.]
[Football Manager System 1.0 Ready for Training.]
Ethan's hand, trembling uncontrollably, reached out. His finger, almost of its own accord, touched the shimmering surface of the interface.
It felt cool, like glass, but yielded slightly to his touch.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished.
The ethereal glow faded, the streets returned to their mundane, grey reality.
The headache subsided, leaving behind a strange sense of clarity, a buzzing energy.
He stood there, alone on the pavement, the faint scent of damp earth and distant traffic filling the air.
He looked around, half-expecting someone else to have seen it, to be pointing, shouting.
But the passersby continued their strolls, oblivious.