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Chapter 22 – Milan, Money, and the Street
London, May 28th, 2003.
The sun had barely dipped when Hackney was alive with noise. Kids still kicked balls against walls, little shouts echoing down the estates, but Jeremy wasn't in the mood for another street run-out tonight. He had something else lined up.
Inside Ryan's flat, the telly was already on, tuned to ITV. A small group of boys were crammed around the screen: Ryan, Marvin, a couple of other academy lads, plus Jeremy with his hood up, a betting slip sticking out from his back pocket. The air smelled of crisps, cheap takeaway, and that faint must of damp carpet.
"Champions League Final, bruv," Ryan said, voice buzzing. "Milan–Juventus, it doesn't get bigger than this."
"Unless Arsenal were there," Marvin added, stretching out on the sofa. "One day, innit."
Jeremy smirked. "One day I'll be there, not you lot."
"Lynch, you're mad," Ryan laughed, tossing him a can. "You ain't even sixteen yet."
Jeremy cracked it open, calm. "Age doesn't matter. Goals matter. That's why I put my money on Milan."
He waved the slip casually. Ryan snatched it, eyes widening. "Fam, you put fifty quid down?!"
"Fifty?" Marvin nearly choked on his chips. "Bruv, that's rent money."
Jeremy leaned back. "Investment. Milan is winning this, I told you weeks ago. Shevchenko's too sharp. Inzaghi sniffs goals out of nothing. Buffon can't save everything."
Ryan shook his head. "Man's brave. You know Juve's defence is a wall? Thuram, Montero, Ferrara… proper hard men."
Jeremy shrugged. "Walls crack."
The system's voice cut through, sharp and cold.
> "Prediction is ego's weapon. You stake a belief. You prove them wrong, you rise above them. If you fail, you are nothing."
Jeremy smirked into his can. Fail? Not me.
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Kick-off came, and the room tensed. Old Trafford looked packed on the screen, red seats drowned under Italian flags. The commentary rolled: "A first-ever all-Italian Champions League Final, Milan versus Juventus…"
The opening minutes were cagey. Seedorf probed, Pirlo pulled strings, but chances were scraps.
"This is dead," Marvin groaned after twenty minutes. "No one wants to make a mistake."
"Proper chess game," Ryan said, nodding like a pundit.
Jeremy leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Milan is dictating. Watch. They're making Juve run."
By half-time, it was still 0–0. Groans filled the room. Marvin switched to mocking Jeremy. "Oi, Lynch, your 'investment' is looking shaky. Milan doesn't look like scoring."
Jeremy just grinned, sipping his drink. "Relax. Sheva's waiting. The man's ice cold."
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Extra time. The flat felt stuffy, air heavy with tension. Every misplaced pass drew groans. Even Jeremy felt the tightness now, though he'd never admit it.
Then came the penalty shootout.
Ryan covered his face with his hands. "I can't watch, bruv. This is mad."
Jeremy didn't blink. "Milan take it. Trust me."
Sérgio Conceição stepped up for Juve. Dida saved. The boys roared.
"Oi Lynch, if this comes off…" Marvin muttered.
It dragged on, every kick stretching nerves. Then it came to Shevchenko, the last penalty.
Jeremy leaned forward, whispering under his breath. "End it."
Sheva ran up, calm, and buried it low past Buffon. 3–2 Milan. The players exploded, red and black shirts swarming.
The flat went mental. Ryan jumped up, spilling his drink. Marvin yelled like his team had won.
Jeremy stayed seated, smirk wide, hands folded. "What'd I say?"
Ryan pointed at him, half-annoyed, half-impressed. "Nah, you're some witch, fam. How'd you know?"
Jeremy shrugged like it was obvious. "I see it clearer than you. That's the difference."
The system's voice followed, blunt.
> "Correct. Your foresight separates you. Repeat it until they no longer question, only follow."
Jeremy stood, tugging the betting slip from his pocket, waving it in Ryan's face. "That's money, bruv. I told you, it ain't luck—it's me."
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Later that night, after collecting his winnings from the shop down the road, Jeremy walked back through the estate, hood up, trainers squeaking on wet pavement. Kids were still out, kicking a battered ball under the lampposts. He stopped, watching them for a moment.
One of the little ones recognised him. "Oi Lynch! You're the one who scored in the final, innit?"
Jeremy smirked. "That's me."
The kid booted the ball towards him. Jeremy trapped it with one touch, rolled it under his foot, then pinged it back perfectly into the boy's stride. The kids cheered.
"You're gonna be like Henry!" one of them shouted.
Jeremy's smirk widened. "Nah. Henry's Henry. I'm me."
He carried on walking, a slip of cash heavy in his pocket.
The system whispered once more.
> "This is ego. Not luck, not fate. Knowledge, goals, dominance. Keep stacking wins, and the world bends."
Jeremy clenched the notes tighter. "Good. Let it bend."
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End of Chapter 22