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Chapter 6 – FA Youth Cup Kickoff
15 December 2003 – Arsenal U18s, London Colney Training Ground
The December air bit at Jeremy's face as he pulled his Arsenal tracksuit tighter. Floodlights cut through the early winter darkness. Tonight wasn't training, it was the real deal: the start of the FA Youth Cup.
He sat in the dressing room surrounded by the other lads. Fabrice Muamba laced his boots, Ryan Smith stretched in the corner, and a young Cesc Fàbregas — already spoken about like the next big thing — was calm, unreadable.
Jeremy tilted forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his own boots. The system's glow suddenly appeared before his eyes, invisible to everyone else.
DING!]
Egoist System Weekly Shop Refreshed.
He blinked. The list scrolled:
Prime R9 Shooting – 1 Match: 1,000,000 credits
Stamina +10% (Permanent): 50,000 credits
Injury Recovery Kit: 200,000 credits
Speed Burst +3 (Permanent): 75,000 credits
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "Bruv… one mil for R9 shooting? Safe, man. They think I'm Bill Gates or suttin'."
A sharp voice cracked in his head, cutting his smirk.
"Stop whining. Real egoists pay any price to be the best. If you can't afford it yet, then grind until you can. A king doesn't complain about the throne being heavy."
Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you, old man." But his hand twitched with temptation. Just one match with R9's finishing… he'd bag hat-tricks for fun.
The gaffer, Steve Bould, walked in, clapping his hands. "Alright lads, focus up. Gillingham tonight. One game at a time."
Jeremy leaned back, a grin tugging at his lips. Gillingham's kids didn't know what was coming.
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The match kicked off under freezing floodlights at Barnet's Underhill Stadium. Jeremy started on the left wing, gloves pulled up over his wrists.
From the first touch, he felt sharper. His legs were light, his balance crisp. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe the extra hours he'd been sneaking after training. The ball stuck to him as he dragged past the fullback.
"Oi, Lynch, don't lose it there!" Muamba barked from midfield.
Jeremy ignored him, cutting inside. Ego's voice echoed again:
"Don't you dare pass. Passing is for followers. You're not a follower. You're a predator."
He shifted, opened up, and lashed a shot from 25 yards. The keeper barely moved as it smacked the top corner.
The crowd — mostly parents and a few Arsenal diehards — let out a gasp. Jeremy spread his arms, ice in his veins, and stood still with his finger to his lips. Cole Palmer's cold celebration, twenty years early.
"Man thinks he's a superstar already," one of the Gillingham lads muttered.
Jeremy just winked back. "You're not wrong, mate."
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The game ended 3–0. Jeremy scored twice, set up another. By the time the lads hit the dressing room, some were buzzing, others looked at him sideways.
Fàbregas gave a short nod — his version of respect. But Ryan Smith muttered under his breath, "Show-off."
Jeremy pulled his shirt off and laughed. "Don't hate, mate. Just try to keep up."
The system chimed again:
[Proficiency +2 – Dribbling]
[Proficiency +1 – Finishing]
[Credits Earned: 10,000]
He smirked. Ten thousand was nothing compared to the one mil he needed, but it was a start.
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Over the next weeks, Arsenal rolled through the Youth Cup. Norwich, Sheffield Wednesday, then a tight game against Charlton. Each time, Jeremy made a difference. A late winner, a ridiculous assist, a solo run that left defenders in knots.
Each time he hit the Palmer celebration, even when it wound up his own teammates.
The whispers started. Some said he was selfish. Others said he was Arsenal's secret weapon. Jeremy loved both.
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After the Charlton game, a few of the lads dragged him to a party. A cramped north London house, music blasting from cheap speakers, bottles being passed around, phones with grainy cameras flashing.
Jeremy leaned against the wall, chatting up a girl in a denim skirt, his grin wide. The system's voice broke through the noise.
"Good. You're learning. An egoist doesn't disappear after the whistle. Own the room. Take the spotlight. Make every space yours."
Jeremy sipped from a plastic cup, smirking. "Man, I'm fifteen. Shouldn't even be here."
Doesn't matter. Age is for normal people. You're not normal. You're an egoist."
A mate nudged him. "Oi Lynch, come on, they want you to try that trick from training."
Jeremy pushed off the wall, juggling the ball someone handed him, pulling a few freestyle moves before flicking it onto his shoulder. Laughter and cheers filled the room.
He felt it. The eyes on him, the buzz of being the centre of attention. On the pitch or off it, he was addicted to that feeling.
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By February, Arsenal were in the quarterfinals, further than they'd been in years. Jeremy was the top scorer, his name buzzing around youth scouts.
You're climbing. But don't get lazy. An egoist who rests is just another player. Tomorrow, dominate again — or you'll be forgotten."
Jeremy grinned at his reflection in the mirror, pulling his dreads back. "Forgotten? Nah, mate. I'm just getting started."
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