Leo woke to the wrong ceiling.
The feeling was jarring. One moment, the last thing he remembered was stumbling through the front door, the weight of the day—the broken nose, the goal, the bike ride, the keeper's analysis—pressing down on him like a physical blanket.
He'd collapsed onto the living room couch, intending to rest his eyes for just a second.
The next, he was staring at the familiar, hairline-cracked plaster of his own bedroom ceiling, the morning light a pale rectangle on the wall. He was still fully dressed in his stained yellow jersey and jeans. A faint, dusty taste of blood lingered at the back of his throat.
He tried to sit up. A deep, systemic ache protested in every muscle, as if he'd spent the night carrying sacks of concrete. His nose gave a sympathetic, throbbing pulse. He sank back into the pillow with a groan, too heavy to move.
What time is it? He blinked, his father's glasses still perched on his face, the world in the sharp, unnatural clarity that had become his normal. He hadn't even taken them off.
A shrill, piercing electronic shriek tore through his skull.
It wasn't a sound heard with ears; it was a frequency drilled directly into his brainstem. He jackknifed upright with a gasp, hands slapping over his ears, but it did nothing. The pain was cognitive, absolute. It lasted one eternal, agonizing second.
And then it was gone, leaving a ringing silence and a cold sweat on his brow.
Flashing in the center of his vision, in urgent, punitive red text, was a system message:
[DAILY CONDITIONING PROTOCOL FAILURE.]
[OBJECTIVE: 30 STANDARD PUSHUPS - INCOMPLETE.]
[PENALTY: TEMPORARY STAT LOCK FOR 24 HRS & FATIGUE DEBUFF APPLIED.]
The memory hit him like a delayed blow. Last night. The system's daily objectives. He'd completed the run. He'd been so exhausted, so mentally full from the challenge pitch, he'd crawled home and forgotten. He'd broken the streak on the very first day.
He fell back onto the bed with a dull thud, a wash of cold frustration replacing the adrenaline. A new, softer notification pulsed in a regretful blue.
[MISSED REWARD CALCULATION:]
- STR: +0.15
- VIT: +0.1
- SKILL POINT: 'BASIC BODY MAINTENANCE'
Leo shot upright again, this time ignoring the protest of his muscles. "0.15 to Strength? A whole skill point?"
That was more progress than he'd made in a week of normal existence. He'd left it on the table because he was too tired to do thirty pushups.
A soft knock came at the door. "Leo? You awake in there?"
"Yeah, come in," he called, his voice rough. He quickly took off the glasses, the world softening into a merciful blur, and tucked them under his pillow.
The door opened, and his mother stepped in, holding a tray. The smell of butter and warm maple syrup cut through the stale air. She was already dressed, her hair pulled back.
"Found you dead to the world on the couch last night," she said, her voice warm with amusement as she set the tray on his desk. Pancakes, a tall glass of milk. "You didn't even make it to your room. Must have been some training." Her eyes, sharp as ever, caught the dried blood on his jersey collar. Her smile tightened, but she didn't comment. "I'm happy you're working so hard, sweetheart. Really. I've got to run some errands this morning. Eat up, okay?"
She leaned down, kissed his forehead, and was gone, the door clicking softly behind her.
The quiet of the house settled around him, punctuated by the distant sound of a lawnmower.
The fatigue debuff was real; moving felt like wading through syrup. He forced himself up, through a shower that did little to revive him, through brushing his teeth where he avoided looking too closely at the dark purple bruise blossoming across the bridge of his nose.
Back in his room, he picked up the filthy energy-drink jersey. As he tossed it toward the laundry basket in the corner, a small, folded square of paper fluttered out and spun to the floor.
Daisy's number.
Guilt, warm and immediate, prickled at him. She'd given this to him yesterday, and he'd completely forgotten. He'd been lost in systems and leaderboards and pain.
He picked it up, the paper soft from being in his pocket. He grabbed his phone from the charger, thumbing it on.
9:41 AM.
He'd slept for nearly fifteen hours. The shock was a minor jolt of energy. He opened Let's Chat app, a nervous flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with football. He carefully typed in the number from the paper.
Contact: Daisy.
He sent a simple: Hi. It's Leo. From yesterday.
Almost immediately, three dots appeared. He picked up the glass of milk, his throat suddenly dry.
Daisy: Leo! Hi! I'm so glad you texted. :)
Daisy: Are you free today?
Leo: Yeah. Just woke up, actually.
Daisy: Perfect! Me and some of the girls from the field are going to watch Crossfield United vs. Diamond Palace. It's a huge derby! I have a spare ticket… want to come?
Leo stared at the message. A professional match. He'd not been to one for long while. Tickets were expensive. He wasn't a fan of any particular team; his fandom had always been theoretical, based on his father's stories and stats.
But Daisy had a spare ticket. And she was asking him.
Leo: Seriously? That would be amazing.
Daisy: It's settled then! Meet you at the main gates at 11? <3
The heart emoji was small and innocent on the screen. Leo's own heart did a funny, hopeful little skip. He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. Don't read into it. She probably uses those with everyone.
Leo: See you then. Thanks.
He ate the pancakes, which were cold but still delicious, the sugar a welcome fuel. He changed again into his one nice outfit—dark jeans and a simple, grey shirt that wasn't stained or ripped. He made his bed with military precision, a small act of order.
As he was about to leave, a memory surfaced, clear as his system's display. His father, patting his jacket pocket before heading out the door. "A real student of the game never goes to a match without something to write with."
Leo turned back. He grabbed a small, leather-bound pocket jotter and a pen from his desk drawer. And after a moment's hesitation, he retrieved his father's glasses from under the pillow and slipped them into his jean pocket. The familiar weight was a comfort.
The bus ride was a study in ordinary life. Leo found a seat by the window, watching the city blur past. Then, on a billboard near a rundown sports bar, he saw it.
A faded, decades-old poster for a local football clinic. In the center, younger, vibrant, caught mid-laugh, was his father, David Reed. He was demonstrating a technique to a group of kids. Beside him, in bold, cheerful letters, was a quote: SOCCER IS FUN!
A lump formed in Leo's throat. The sentiment was so simple, so antithetical to his own grinding, painful, system-driven experience of the sport. He fumbled with his phone, raised it, and took a picture through the grimy bus window, capturing the ghost of his father's joy.
The Crossfield United stadium was a roaring beast of noise and color. A river of people in brown and white scarves flowed toward the gates. Leo felt suddenly out of place, a spectator in a world of devotees.
The noise of the crowd was a physical wall of sound, a bass rumble of chants and stomping feet that vibrated in his chest.
"Leo! Over here!"
He saw her. Daisy, waving energetically, flanked by two other girls from Hal's field—a defender named Chloe and the goalkeeper, Jess, still sporting her bright pink wristbands. They were all wearing Crossfield scarves.
"You made it!" Daisy beamed as he approached. She looked different out of kit—in a cozy sweater, her freckles standing out against her smile. "You look nice."
"Thanks," Leo said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You too."
The other girls grinned. "What about us, Leo?" Jess teased.
"Uh, you all look… very supportive," he managed, and they all laughed, the sound easy and welcoming.
They moved with the crowd through the turnstiles, the smell of hot dogs and beer and damp concrete filling the air. The roar of the stadium swelled as they emerged into the bowl of light, finding their seats halfway up the stand, with a perfect, panoramic view of the lush green pitch.
As the teams finished warming up, Leo felt a ritualistic pull. He put on his father's glasses. The world focused, the players' numbers snapping into clarity, the patterns of their walkouts becoming discernible. He opened his jotter, pen poised.
To his left, he heard a similar click. He glanced over. Daisy had opened her own, much more decorated notebook, filled with colored tabs and neat handwriting.
They caught each other's eyes and shared a silent, knowing smile. Students of the game.
The whistle blew.
[OBSERVATION MODE: ACTIVE. PROFESSIONAL MATCH ANALYSIS SUITE LOADED.]
For the next forty-five minutes, Leo Reed experienced football in a way he never had before. It wasn't just a game. It was a live data stream.
With the glasses on, he didn't just see a midfielder receive the ball. He saw the angle of his first touch that opened up three passing lanes while closing two others. [NOTATION: TOUCH TO OPEN BODY - CREATES OPTIONS.]
He didn't just see a defender make a tackle. He saw the precise moment the player committed his weight, the fake that made the striker bite, and the clean, sweeping motion that won the ball. [OBSERVATION: COMMITMENT TIMING. FAKE BEFORE ENGAGEMENT.]
When Crossfield's star striker missed a sitter, blasting over from six yards out, the crowd groaned. Leo's vision, however, highlighted the striker's plant foot, placed a half-inch too far behind the ball, causing his body to lean back. [ANALYSIS: PLANT FOOT ERROR - CAUSES SKYED SHOT. FUNDAMENTAL.]
He scribbled furiously, notes on spacing, on trigger movements, on the way Diamond Palace's defensive line stepped up in unison like a practiced dance.
The system offered no directives, no overlays for play. But it turned his Perception into a superpower, allowing him to dissect the professional chaos into understandable, learnable components.
At halftime, the score was 0-0, a tense, tactical battle. Leo sat back, lowering his pen. His jotter was filled with dense, tiny script and crude diagrams. His mind buzzed with new concepts, his own failures from yesterday reframed by the masterclass he'd just witnessed.
Daisy nudged him with her elbow. "You're intense," she said, nodding at his notes. "See anything good?"
"Everything," Leo said, and he meant it. The fatigue debuff was forgotten. The ache in his nose was background noise. For the first time since putting on the glasses, he felt a pure, undiluted spark of what his father must have felt.
Not the grinding need to win, or to prove himself.
But the simple, overwhelming joy of seeing the game.
"Thanks for inviting me, Daisy," he said, his voice sincere.
She smiled, a genuine, happy smile that reached her eyes. "Anytime."
As the players emerged for the second half, Leo Reed, the apprentice with the broken nose and the impossible system, felt a profound sense of belonging. He was in the right place. He was on the right path. The grind had a purpose, but today, just for this moment, the game was also, undeniably, fun.