Look, the system might not be giving him loot, but at least the boy can throw a punch. We take our wins where we can get them.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Zidane's hand, holding that legendary equipment—his jersey—just inches from mine.
The greatest loot drop in football history…
And the screen went black.
The nothingness that followed was absolute. A void without time or sensation. It wasn't sleep; it was a system shutdown.
And then, the system rebooted.
Ryan opened his eyes, expecting the familiar crack in his bedroom ceiling. He got the harsh, sterile glare of stadium floodlights on concrete.
He was in another tunnel. The air was cold and damp.
This time, there was no jolt of panic. No disorienting plunge. Just a deep, soul-weary sigh that seemed to come from the very core of his being.
"Again?" he mumbled to the empty air, his voice flat. It was a deeper, more resonant voice than his own.
He looked down. His hands—not his hands—were encased in thick, black goalkeeper gloves. They were larger, stronger. He flexed them, feeling the unfamiliar muscle and bone respond.
Goalkeeper. Really? he thought. Of course. Because getting skinned by Zidane wasn't humiliating enough. Now I get to be the literal last line of defense.
The blue crest on his chest felt familiar.
Huh. Lorient. Okay, at least I know the team this time.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Hey, at least I can curse them back in French now. Nice.
His eyes casually scanned the tunnel. They landed on the young left-back. The face was younger, but the sharp features were unmistakable.
Well, look at that. Baby Guerreiro. From having the great me in goal to Neuer. Talk about a downgrade. Oh, the tragedy.
His gaze drifted over his teammates, catching names on their backs.
Moukandjo. Mesloub.
The names tickled a memory—the kind you get from half-remembered highlight reels. He looked at their focused, determined faces and a wave of amused pity washed over him, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.
He spotted two defenders who looked like they ate rocks for breakfast.
Alright guys, buckle up, he thought. You have no idea what kind of ride you're in with me tonight . God help us all.
He rolled his shoulders in a loose, easy circle. Huh. Wait .Poor me. I'm the VIP for tonight, he thought, bouncing steadily to the rhythm of the impending catastrophe.
As the line of players began to shuffle forward towards the pitch at the Stade du Moustoir, he saw the opposition in their iconic green kits. Saint-Étienne.
Okay, system. Last chance. Abort mission. Anybody home?
Nothing. No divine intervention. No glitch in the matrix.
He stepped out of the tunnel. The stadium lights hit him like a physical blow, and the roar of the crowd washed over him. He squinted, a single, resolute thought cutting through the noise.
Alright. If I don't punch a ball tonight, I'm punching someone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next thing he knew, the shrill beep of his alarm was dragging him from sleep—six-thirty, like clockwork.
Ryan didn't move. He just lay there, staring at the familiar crack in his ceiling. Goalkeeper. They made me a fucking goalkeeper. I don't even trust these hands to carry eggs from the market.
The thought kept him paralyzed for a solid ten minutes, right up until his door creaked open. His mother peered in, finding him in the exact same position, eyes wide open.
"Oh! I thought you were still asleep! Yalla, Ryan, get up! You're going to be late!"
He moved through his morning routine in a daze. The warm coffee and baguette with butter and jam tasted like ash. The walk to school with Bilal and Samir was a blur of their usual chatter about video games and football.
"—and then I scored a perfect hat-trick!" Bilal was saying, miming the shots.
Midway through Samir's retort, Ryan cut him off, his voice utterly serious. "Hey. Is the police station still, like, a ten-minute walk from here?"
Bilal and Samir stopped dead, staring at him.
"Yeah... why?" Samir asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"I'm gonna go report an assault," Ryan stated flatly, already beginning to veer off in a different direction. "A mental assault."
"Mental assault? What is that?" Bilal exclaimed, grabbing him by the shoulder and steering him firmly back on the path to school. "Forget it, man. Come on, you're going to be in trouble. First class is Arabic literature, you know how that teacher is. A real pain in the ass."
The Arabic literature teacher's voice was a distant hum, explaining the deep philosophical meaning behind some ancient poet's lines about destiny.
Oh, you know what he meant? Are you him? Did you chat with him last night? Ryan thought, his pen already starting to doodle chaotically on the corner of his notebook. Alright, forget that guy. Let's start from the beginning.
Fact one: I was a different person. Not just once. Twice. First, that guy Emilio against Real Madrid. And that goalkeeper from Lorient.
Fact two: Last night. I was playing with Guerreiro. And he wasn't at Bayern yet... I remember him being in the Bundesliga around, what, 2018? So this was before that. And who the fuck was that first team? I don't even remember seeing them play in La Liga.
He scribbled a huge, messy number 3 on the page, pressing down so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.
And three... why don't I have any motherfucking control?! I cant chose the teams , can't chose the player nothing .
He leaned back, the frustration cooling into dark humor.
Where's HR? I want to file a complaint. One match was a trial. Two is unpaid overtime. A midfielder and a goalkeeper? What is this, a multi-level marketing scheme for football roles? Where's my compensation?
System? Reward? Inventory? Hello? Do I at least get a fucking energy drink for this?
The thought stuck with him for the rest of the day, a dull hum of irritation beneath every lesson and conversation. All that... for free? I didn't get a single thing. Not even a pat on the back. The injustice of it cycled in his head like a broken record.
He was still turning it over in his mind when he walked through the front door of his house. His mother looked up from the kitchen. "So, how was school?"
"It was fine," Ryan said, dropping his bag by the door. "You know, I realized something today, Mom. I can really throw a mean upper-cut." He demonstrated with a sharp,
practiced motion.
His mother's head snapped up, her eyes wide with alarm. "Ryan! What happened? Did you get in a fight at school?"
"No, no," he said, waving a dismissive hand as he headed towards his room. "It was in a dream I had last night."
He left her standing in the kitchen, utterly bewildered, as he closed his bedroom door behind him.
"Maybe we should enroll him in a boxing club..."