WebNovels

Chapter 4 - Back Home

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Chapter 8 — Back Home

The bus ride from the youth cup quarterfinal was loud, music blasting, teammates laughing, and reliving the goals. Jeremy leaned back in his seat, phone buzzing in his pocket with messages he hadn't even checked yet. Everyone wanted a piece of him now.

By the time he reached North London, the streets were quiet. He slipped through the front door, still in his Arsenal tracksuit, a medal hanging from his bag.

"Jeremy?" his mum called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, I'm back," he said, trying not to sound too hyped.

The smell of fried chicken and chips hit him straight away. He hadn't realised how hungry he was. His mum looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"You played good, didn't you?" she asked, already smiling.

Jeremy grinned. "You know me, Mum. Man of the match."

She shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. "Just don't get too full of yourself, eh? Ball can love you one day and hate you the next."

Ding!

[System Notice: Your mother's words are irrelevant. The egoist does not live for caution. He lives to dominate.]

Jeremy twitched, hiding a smirk as he sat down at the table. He grabbed a chip and popped it in his mouth. The voice in his head didn't stop.

[Even here, off the pitch, you must be the main character. Teammates are friends only when you shine brighter. Girls, parties, attention — all fuel for the egoist. Accept it.]

Jeremy coughed lightly and reached for a drink, covering the small laugh that slipped out. His mum looked at him suspiciously.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just—thinking about the match."

Later, upstairs, Jeremy threw his bag in the corner and glanced in the mirror. His 15-year-old reflection stared back. The dreadlocks sat heavily on his head.

"Man, these dreads look goofy," he muttered, shaking his head. "What was I thinking back then?"

His phone buzzed again. A couple of teammates wanted to hit a party, celebrate the win. He could picture it already: lights, music, people hyping him up for that left-foot strike he buried earlier.

Ding!

[New Directive: Choose dominance outside football as well. The ego is not trained only on the pitch. Accept the party. Accept the eyes. You are him.]

Jeremy leaned back on his bed, a smirk curling on his face. "I'm only fifteen, bruv. But nah… You might be right."

Downstairs, his mum called up, "Don't stay up too late, Jeremy. You've got training tomorrow!"

"Yeah, yeah!" he shouted back, though his mind was already elsewhere.

He unlocked his phone, fingers hovering. The messages blinked back at him, an open invitation.

One foot in the home. One foot in ego.

And Jeremy Lynch knew which direction he was leaning.

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