The sharp, approving clap came from the shop's back door. "Bravo!"
Hal stood there, a broad grin splitting his weathered face. The girls, the game over, began to drift toward the water bottles lined up on a shelf against the fence. Hal strode onto the field, his eyes on Leo.
Maya reached Hal first. She gave him a brief side hug. Then she was past him, heading for the water.
Hal's heavy arm settled around Leo's shoulders, pulling him into a real, hearty hug. "That," Hal rumbled, his voice full of genuine awe, "was one hell of a play, kid. The only other player I've seen pull off a steal-and-strike like that, cold as ice, was King. Back when he was just a scrawny kid with a cannon for a leg, coming in here for his first pair of proper boots."
Leo's head jerked up. "King? As in... King Vance? From my school?"
Hal blinked, then laughed, a short, surprised sound. "Yeah! King Vance. Wait, you go to Apex High?" He rubbed his bald head, connecting the dots. "Ohhh. So that's why you came in for a blue and white kit. Makes sense now. You're gunning for a spot in the 7th Annual, huh?"
From the water station, Maya's voice cut through, clear and dismissive. "What? No way you're trying out for that." She took a long drink, then smirked. "You won't even make the practice squad."
"Now, Maya," Hal said, his tone a gentle warning. "Leo's gonna do great. He's got the stuff."
Leo's shoulders slumped under Hal's arm. The euphoria of the goal was cooling, replaced by the familiar chill of doubt. "We'll see," he mumbled, extracting himself from Hal's grip.
He needed water. He grabbed a bottle, his fingers trembling slightly from the fading adrenaline. Instinctively, he touched a finger to his throbbing nose. The bleeding had stopped, but a sharp, sickening pain lanced through his face when he gingerly wiggled it.
It's definitely broken.
Gritting his teeth, he took a breath and, with a quick, brutal motion, shoved the cartilage back into place with a soft crunch.
A hiss of pain escaped his clenched teeth. The plastic bottle slipped from his other hand, clattering to the turf.
He blinked away the tears of pain. The system's temporary numbness was gone, but so was the dizziness. In its place was a cold, clear focus. The price of entry.
Before he could bend, a freckled hand swooped in and picked it up. Daisy. Her face was a portrait of lingering guilt and newfound awe. "I am so sorry about your nose. Again. But... that shot? I've never seen anything like it. I'm supposed to be the scorer, but all I'm good at is passing."
Leo accepted the bottle, managing a weak smile. "At least you're good at something. You're way better than me out there."
They shared a small, understanding laugh, the tension easing.
"Daisy! Let's go!" Maya's call was a whip-crack.
"Gotta run," Daisy whispered. As she turned, her hand brushed his. A small, folded square of paper was pressed into his palm. She met his eyes, gave him a quick, shy smile, and jogged away to join Maya.
Leo stared at the paper. He unfolded it. A phone number was written in neat, looping script.
"Leo! A word!" Hal called from the shop door.
Quickly, Leo stuffed the paper into his pocket and followed.
Inside the cluttered stockroom, Hal gestured to a stack of cardboard boxes. "I've got a big client coming any minute, can't slip out. Need a favor. Deliver these practice kits to the community center on Elm. List is on top. You can use my old bike out back—rack's still good. You can go home from there."
"Sure, Mr. Hal," Leo said, the request a welcome distraction.
He packed the boxes according to the list, securing them with bungee cords on the bike's rusty rear rack. He went back for his forgotten hoodie, shrugging it on over his stained jersey.
Most of the girls had left. A few stragglers stretched or chatted in small groups. But on the main field, a curious scene held his attention.
Three girls had spaced themselves out as makeshift defenders. And in front of them, a look of intense, furious concentration on her face, was Maya.
She was trying to recreate his goal.
Dribble. A sharp cut. A feint. She blew past the first "defender" with ease. The second, she navigated with a slick step-over. But on the third, the final move before the shot, her touch was a fraction too heavy. The ball rolled too far ahead, and she overran it, stumbling to recover.
Leo couldn't help it. A grin split his face. Leaning against the fence, he cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Keep trying!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the quiet yard. "You'll get it one day!"
He didn't wait for her reaction. He pulled his hood up, swapped his prized Jaguar boots for his sneakers, and kicked the bike stand up. As he pedaled out of the gate, he risked one glance back.
Maya had frozen, the ball at her feet. She wasn't looking at it. She was staring straight at him, her expression unreadable from this distance, but the set of her shoulders spoke volumes.
Leo chuckled, the sound lost to the wind, and turned onto the street.
[NAVIGATION PROTOCOL ENGAGED.] A glowing, optimal route to the community center traced itself on the pavement before him.
He settled into the rhythm of the pedals, the boxes secure behind him. The system's route led him away from the sleepy suburbs, into a more vibrant, worn-down part of town. Graffiti decorated the walls, and the air smelled of fried food and exhaust.
The community center was a low, long building of yellowing brick. But it wasn't the building that caught his eye—it was the field behind it.
A full-sized, floodlit artificial pitch, surrounded by a high fence. And it was heavily packed.
A proper game was underway, players in matching kits moving with a pace and physicality that made Maya's training ground look tame. The stands were dotted with spectators. But along the near touchline, a different kind of crowd had gathered—denser, louder, more animated.
Leo leaned his bike against the rack, his eyes locked on the spectacle. There, just outside the fence, was a smaller, makeshift goal
A massive man with a thick beard and arms covered in tattoos stood guard in it, wearing a padded vest. In front of him, a line of guys—some in flashy gear, some in street clothes—were taking turns ripping shots at him from the penalty spot.
A hand-painted sign was propped against the fence:
PRECISION CHALLENGE
BEAT THE GOAL-IE!
$10 a shot. Score, win $50. Sink it top corner, win $100.
A collective groan went up as a lanky teen's powerful drive was swallowed by the keeper's massive gloves. "NEXT!"
This was it. The hustle. The "Shots for Cash" he'd overheard guys at school whispering about.
"You delivering or sightseeing, kid?"
Leo jumped. A woman with a clipboard and a stern expression stood in the community center's service entrance.
"S-sorry. Hal's Sports Gear. Practice kits."
She checked the boxes, grunted, and signed his slip. "Tell Hal the U-18s need new cones by Thursday." She then directed some men to take the boxes into a shed.
As Leo turned to go, his eyes drifted back to the challenge. A guy in an expensive-looking tracksuit stepped up, placed a crisp ten on a barrel, and pointed to the top right corner. He took a slow, measured run-up… and skied the ball over the bar. The crowd heckled good-naturedly.
The keeper, 'the Goal-ie,' just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound.
[ANALYSIS MODE: ENGAGED.]
[SUBJECT: 'GOAL-IE'. SCANNING.]
Text scrolled across Leo's vision, overlaying the huge keeper.
[ANALYSIS: PROFESSIONAL/EX-PRO GOALKEEPER. WEIGHT DISTRIBUTION FAVORS LEFT SIDE BY 8%. REACTION TIME ESTIMATE: ELITE.]
[PRIMARY WEAKNESS: HIGH, FAR POST (RIGHT SIDE). DIVE INITIATION TO UPPER CORNERS DELAYED BY 0.15 SECONDS DUE TO MASS.]
[ADVISORY: SHOT REQUIRES ELEVATION > 1.5M, VELOCITY > 80KM/H, PLACEMENT WITHIN 0.5M OF POST/ BAR INTERSECTION.]
A 0.15-second delay. A half-meter target. It was an impossible shot for anyone normal. But for the system? It was just a math problem.
He had no money. The ten dollars in his pocket was his lunch money for the week. His nose throbbed in agreement with his brain: This is stupid. You'll lose it all.
But then he saw it. Taped to the fence was a photocopied leaderboard.
WEEKLY TOP SCORER: K. VANCE - 8 GOALS.
King. He was already here. Already winning.
The fire that had ignited in his chest after scoring against Maya flared again, hotter now. This wasn't just about money anymore. It was a leaderboard. It was a score. And King Vance's name was on it.
He wouldn't try today. He couldn't. But he now had a target, a training objective more concrete than any system prompt.
He committed it all to memory: the keeper's tell, the angle of the goal, the precise sound of the ball hitting the back of the net on the rare occasion someone scored. The system quietly recorded everything, saving the data point.
[NEW LOCATION LOGGED: 'PRECISION CHALLENGE - ELM ST. PITCH'.]
[NEW RIVALRY DATA UPDATED: SUBJECT 'KING VANCE' - ASSOCIATED WITH LOCATION.]
[SYNTHESIS COMPLETE. PRIMARY CONSTRAINT FOR CHALLENGE: FINANCIAL & TECHNICAL.]
[LOGICAL PROGRESSION PATH GENERATED.]
Leo got back on the bike, the deliveries done. The ride home felt different. The world wasn't just a route anymore; it was a map filled with markers. Hal's shop. The training ground. And now, the challenge pitch.
He had a goal. A real, tangible, financial goal with a name attached to it. The grind had just found its focus.