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Chapter 17 – First Test
London Colney, May 2003
Jeremy laced up his boots in the away corner of the senior dressing room. This time there was no silence when he walked in. Some of the players looked up, but they didn't stare like yesterday. They'd already judged him once.
Ashley Cole was chatting with Sol Campbell about England duty. Henry leaned back, headphones on, tapping his fingers on his thigh. Vieira stretched his long legs across two benches, casual but watchful.
Jeremy sat down, calm. He wasn't nervous. He couldn't be.
Bould came over, handed him a bib. "You're with the reserves. Opposite the first team. Wenger wants a proper look."
Jeremy smirked. "Good. I don't want easy."
Bould didn't reply, just gave him that stone-face coach look and moved on.
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Warm-ups were sharp. Passing drills, two-touch in tight grids. Jeremy kept it crisp but never too safe, slipping in nutmegs or disguising his passes. A few caught the eye.
But when the teams lined up for the eleven-aside, Jeremy felt the difference.
Red bibs: Henry, Bergkamp, Pires, Vieira, Gilberto, Cole, Campbell.
Yellow bibs: Jeremy, two reserves, Kolo Touré, Jermaine Pennant, Ray Parlour, a trial keeper.
The whistle blew.
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From the start, Jeremy demanded the ball, drifting between lines. First touch, he spun, drove at Campbell. He tried a step-over, burst inside, shot from range. Wide.
"Early, innit?" Parlour barked. "Set us first, lad!"
Jeremy waved him off, already jogging back.
The ball came again. This time he skipped past Kolo, but Vieira slid in, long legs sweeping the ball clean. Jeremy hit the grass.
"Too light," Vieira muttered, offering a hand but not waiting for him to take it.
Jeremy pushed himself up, jaw tight.
The system chimed coldly:
> "Defensive duel lost. Suggestion: adapt body use. Increase physicality."
Jeremy gritted his teeth. "Yeah, yeah. I'll fix it."
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The game rolled on. Henry was gliding. Every touch looked casual, yet he carved chances. Bergkamp's passes sliced through like knives. Jeremy watched, studied, then tried to answer.
Midway through, the ball dropped loose near the edge of the box. Jeremy pounced, shoulder to shoulder with Gilberto. He leaned, shoved, wriggled free, snapped a shot low.
Keeper parried.
Close. But not enough.
From the sideline, Wenger's voice cut sharply: "Jeremy! Decision making!"
Jeremy turned his head. "It was the right decision!"
Henry chuckled mid-jog. "This boy's stubborn."
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As the half wore on, Jeremy's frustration grew. Every time he tried something, a giant was there. Vieira's tackle. Campbell's block. Bergkamp's brain.
The system pinged again:
> "Defensive duel lost. Suggestion: adapt body use. Increase physicality."
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "No. I'll break through."
And finally, it came.
Pennant beat Cole down the wing, whipped a cross. Jeremy darted front post, ghosting in behind Campbell. He flung his right boot, redirecting the ball near-post.
Bang. In.
He wheeled away, arms wide, grin sharp. "Told you I score goals."
Campbell shook his head, smirking despite himself. "One time, kid."
Henry clapped slowly, sarcasm thick. "Bravo. One."
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Second half, Wenger switched the sides. Jeremy now played with Henry and Bergkamp.
The difference was night and day.
Bergkamp dropped deep and was fed perfectly weighted balls. Henry stretched space. Jeremy found pockets.
First chance: Bergkamp slid him through. Jeremy cut inside, ignored the square pass to Henry, and blasted. Over.
"Oi!" Henry barked. "That was mine!"
Jeremy jogged back, smirk never fading. "Next one's mine too."
Henry shook his head. "You're mad."
Next chance: same move. Bergkamp again, threading the line. Jeremy, one touch, rifled low. Goal.
He pointed at Henry. "Told you."
Henry just laughed, jogging back to halfway. "You're gonna be trouble."
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Training wrapped. Players stretched, some joked, others left. Jeremy stayed, juggling by himself.
Bergkamp approached slowly.
"You're brave," Bergkamp said. "But bravery without trust… in football, it isolates."
Jeremy caught the ball under his sole. "Trust slows you down."
Bergkamp studied him with those calm blue eyes. "Sometimes. But without it, you'll be alone."
He walked off, leaving the words hanging.
The system's voice came again, cutting cold:
> "Warning. Path of isolation confirmed. Allies limited. Result: dependence on self increases."
Jeremy smirked, flicking the ball into the air. "That's the point."
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That night at home, Jeremy sat with a betting slip in hand. AC Milan had beaten Juventus, just like he'd said. His payout was fat.
Ryan rang again.
"You see? Milan did it, bruv! You're on fire with these calls."
Jeremy leaned back, cash on the table. "Told you. I see the game clearer than they do."
"You gonna put on the Prem final too?"
Jeremy's grin widened. "Of course. Arsenal'll smash Southampton. Henry scores. Easy."
The system's voice whispered, sharp as glass:
> "Prediction correct. But arrogance is exposure. Hide knowledge. Use profit, not prophecy."
Jeremy's eyes narrowed, still smiling. "Nah. Let 'em all see. They'll know I was right."
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When he went to bed, his body ached, legs sore from tackles with giants. But his mind was alive.
Henry had tested him. Vieira had flattened him. Bergkamp had lectured him.
And he'd still scored.
Tomorrow, he thought, he'd do more.
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End of Chapter 17