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Chapter 20 – London Nights
Hackney, May2003
The bus back from Cardiff dropped Jeremy near Holloway Road just before midnight. He pulled his hood up, headphones over his ears, and cut through the quiet streets. London had that damp summer chill, the kind that clung to your clothes. Streetlights flickered off wet pavement, kebab shops still open, groups of lads hanging outside chicken shops.
At home, the front door creaked. His mum was asleep already, telly light still flashing through the living room. Jeremy slipped into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter. The FA Cup replay flickered on the little TV. Arsenal is lifting the trophy again. Henry smiling, Pires holding the medal.
Jeremy's eyes stayed locked on the screen. He whispered to himself: "Not theirs forever. Mine soon."
The system's voice slid through the quiet, cold, and blunt.
> "Ambition acknowledged. Delay tolerated. Progress is inevitable if focus is maintained."
Jeremy drained the glass and killed the telly.
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The next afternoon, he met Ryan and a few academy mates on Mare Street. They crowded into a betting shop, all fake confidence and oversized jackets. The place smelled of old carpet and stale cigarettes. A couple of old geezers glanced at them like they didn't belong.
Jeremy strolled up to the counter like he owned it. Champions League final odds flashed on the screen above. Milan is a slight underdog, Juve is the favourite.
Ryan nudged him. "So, genius, who's your pick?"
Jeremy smirked. "Milan. Shevchenko to score. Game's going pens."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Man's talking like he's Nostradamus."
One of the other lads laughed. "He's been right every time, though."
Jeremy slapped his cash on the counter. "It's not guessing. You lot just don't see the game properly."
The cashier, a bored middle-aged woman, raised an eyebrow at him. "You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"
Jeremy didn't blink. "Old enough to know football."
The woman shook her head, took the money, and printed the slip. Jeremy pocketed it with a grin.
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That night, back in Hackney, he played cage football under the floodlights. Concrete pitch, rusty metal fence, graffiti on the walls. Older boys were there, quick feet and heavy challenges. Jeremy thrived. He dribbled three, flicked it through another's legs, and rifled it into the wire netting.
"Mate, you don't pass," one of the lads shouted.
Jeremy just shrugged. "Passing's for when you can't score."
The game turned rougher. Kicks flew late, shoves at the fence. Jeremy never backed down. He wanted the ball every time, wanted to humiliate whoever stepped in front of him.
When the game broke up, sweat pouring, he walked home under the glow of orange lamps, ball under his arm. His body ached, but his mind buzzed. First team training. FA Cup final. Bets waiting on Milan. Everything was lining up.
The system cut in again, voice like steel.
> "Observation: Street environment accelerates instinct. Chaos sharpens the ego. Continue exposure."
Jeremy smirked, whispering to himself. "Yeah. Chaos is mine."
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Back in his room, with posters of Henry and Zidane on the wall, he lay on the bed, ball resting on his chest. His mum knocked softly before poking her head in.
"You're back late again."
"Training," Jeremy lied smoothly.
She sighed, shaking her head, but didn't push. "Dinner's in the fridge. Heat it up."
When she left, Jeremy pulled the betting slip out of his pocket, holding it up to the light. Champions League final. His prediction. His certainty.
"First Milan," he muttered, eyes burning. "Then Arsenal. Then the world."
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End of Chapter 20