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Chapter 11 — The Party After Highbury
March 2003 – North London
Night after the Youth Cup semi-final
The adrenaline of Highbury still clung to Jeremy as he stepped off the team coach. Hat-trick hero, Wenger watching from the stands, his name bouncing around the academy corridors. But the system's words lingered louder than the applause.
"Be more selfish. On and off the pitch."
He didn't head straight home"Be more selfish. On and off the pitch."
Instead, his phone buzzed. A mate from the academy—Jordan—dropped a pin. North London estate. Big house party.
"Perfect," Jeremy muttered, tugging his hoodie over his head and sliding his boots into a rucksack. If I'm the man on the pitch, I'll be the man off it too.
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The Party
The place was packed. Loud garage beats rattled the floorboards, kids shoulder to shoulder, the air heavy with sweat, cheap aftershave, and smoke. A few bottles passed around, everyone shouting over the music.
"Lynch! The hat-trick man himself!" Jordan clapped him on the back. "Mate, you were unreal."
Jeremy grinned, already in his element. "Course I was. Who else was gonna win it for us?"
The crowd loved that. Word of the match had spread fast. A couple of lads he didn't even know came up, shoving drinks in his hand. Girls lingered too, curious, smiling, tugging him into photos on their old Nokias.
Jeremy leaned back against the wall, eyes scanning the room. Yeah… this feels right.
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The System's Whisper
The voice cut in, even here, over the bassline.
"This is ego too. Dominating the room. Make sure they all look at you, Lynch. A striker doesn't just score goals—he takes the spotlight."
Jeremy smirked. He raised his drink, letting the music thump around him. "Oi, Jordan, play that back, mate!"
Someone had a grainy camcorder hooked to the telly—his first goal replaying from a dodgy broadcast. Jeremy pointed, half shouting.
"See that, lads? Cold finish. And nah, don't chat to me about passing—I am the play."
The room roared. A few "Lynch, lad!" chants broke out. Girls laughed, pulling him onto the dance floor. He didn't resist.
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A Glimpse of Excess
Hours blurred. The house steamed up, people spilling into the garden, music still blaring from tinny speakers. Jeremy was in the centre of it—arms around two girls, bantering with mates, reliving every touch of the ball.
But under it all, the system pinged:
[Ego +3]
[Instinct +1]
The voice again:
This is fuel. Every eye here feeds you. But remember—none of them matter tomorrow. Only your goals do. Use them, then forget them."
Jeremy blinked, glass in hand. For a second, the noise dimmed. He looked at the room—everyone laughing, shouting, spinning around him. All on his wavelength.
He chuckled to himself. "Yeah… I get it. Off the pitch, I'm the same as on. Centre of it all."
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4 AM
By the time the party died, Jeremy staggered out into the cold London night, jacket zipped up, trainers crunching on wet pavement. His phone buzzed again—a message from a teammate:
"U were insane 2nite mate. Wenger was definitely watching."
Jeremy grinned at the screen, head buzzing, body heavy. He muttered under his breath:
"Course he was. And he'll see more."
The system gave one last chime before he crashed into bed at home:
[New Trait Unlocked — Social Presence: Your reputation off the pitch can influence how people see you on it.]
Jeremy smirked into his pillow. "Man's building more than goals now."
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