The halftime buzzer was a distant echo. Leo barely registered Daisy pressing a warm, greasy corn dog into his hand. He took it with an absent smile, his eyes glued to the field.
The match went on, no side was able to score the other.
"Thank God I skipped my anniversary party to watch this phenomenal match." The commentator said after Diamond Palace's stiker shot was blocked once again.
But with just few minutes to extra time, Crossfield United right winger received a hopeless pass, pinned to the touchline by two defenders. In one fluid, impossible motion, he'd flicked the ball up with his heel, let it bounce once off his shoulder, and with his back to goal, hooked a looping, outside-of-the-boot volley that curled over the stranded keeper's fingertips and dipped just under the crossbar.
The stadium had erupted. Daisy and her friends were screaming, hugging. Leo just sat, frozen. His eyes giant screen replaying the moment.
He saw it. Not the miracle, but the mechanism. The precise angle of the hip twist. The way the striker's standing foot pointed away from the target to generate the wicked spin. The point of contact on the ball: low and to the side, not the laces.
It wasn't a finesse shot. It was a physics hack.
And the G.O.A.L. System, in Observation Mode, had just downloaded the blueprint.
A new, urgent objective burned in his vision, overlaying the celebrating crowd.
[SKILL ACQUISITION TRIGGERED: 'REVERSE CURLE' (FINESSE VARIANT).]
[REQUIREMENTS: AGI 12, DEX 15, FINESSE SHOT LV.2. CURRENT STATS INSUFFICIENT.]
[ADVISORY: FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES EXTRACTED. APPLICABLE TO 'PRECISION FINISHING' DRILL.]
It didn't matter that he couldn't do that shot. The system had isolated the core principle—the specific spin generation. He could apply it now. At the challenge. To beat the Goal-ie's high, far post weakness.
The idea was a lightning strike. He shot to his feet.
"Daisy," he said, his voice tight with urgency. He leaned close, the smell of her shampoo and fried food momentarily cutting through his focus. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Her smile vanished, replaced by confusion. "What? Leo, but—"
"Tell you later!" He was already pushing past knees and bags, not waiting for a reply. The roar of the fans was a wave at his back as he fought upstream through the buzzing crowd, a salmon of singular, desperate purpose.
He hit the concrete concourse at a run. The bus stop was empty. In the distance, he saw the familiar green and white bus pulling away from the curb, three blocks down and accelerating.
"No, no, no!"
He didn't think. He just ran.
His body, still under the faint haze of the morning's Fatigue Debuff, screamed in protest. His lungs burned. His best sneakers, never meant for sprinting on asphalt, slapped the pavement. But the system, sensing his critical intent, flared to life.
[OVERRIDE: 'GRIT' PROTOCOL RE-ENGAGED AT 60%. BIOMETRIC PAIN SUPPRESSION: PARTIAL.]
[DIRECTIVE: INTERCEPT PUBLIC TRANSPORT.]
A ghostly, sprinting form superimposed over his vision—the optimal running form, knees high, arms pumping. He matched it, his form improving even through the agony. He closed the gap, a desperate, sweating blur.
He reached the bus just as it paused at a red light. He slammed his palm against its metal side. BAM. BAM. BAM.
The door hissed open. The driver, a scowling man with a thick mustache, glared down at him. "You crazy, kid?"
Leo stumbled up the steps, heaving. He couldn't speak. He fumbled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and shoved it into the fare box, collapsing into the first empty seat.
The other passengers stared—a teenager in nice clothes, drenched in sweat, gasping for air like a landed fish, a wild look in his eyes. He didn't care.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Daisy: That was some exit! Everything ok? We won 2-0 btw! The 2nd goal was INSANE!.
He stared at it, the adrenaline finally receding, and a different, warmer kind of smile touched his lips. He'd explain later. For now, he just typed: Yeah. Everything's great.
At the next stop near the community center, he was up again, pushing past a startled old woman, muttering "Sorry, sorry," as he vaulted off the bus and back into a run.
The "Shots for Cash" pitch was still in full swing. The crowd was bigger, louder. The thump of powerful shots and the keeper's booming "NEXT!" were a siren song.
Leo skidded to a halt at the edge of the crowd, his chest on fire. He dipped a trembling hand into his pocket. The forty dollars he'd brought—a stupid, hopeful gesture so he could pay if Daisy wanted a souvenir—was still there.
He didn't hesitate. He shoved through the bodies, emerged at the front, and slapped a ten-dollar bill onto the money barrel. The action felt alien, decisive.
"New blood!" the tattooed Goal-ie boomed, a grin splitting his beard.
The ball was placed. Leo stepped back. The crowd's noise faded. In his mind's eye, he summoned the replay of the impossible stadium goal. The system immediately latched onto it.
[PRINCIPLE SYNTHESIS: APPLYING 'REVERSE SPIN' TO 'PRECISION FINISHING' PARAMETERS.]
[TARGET UPDATED. REQUIRED SPIN: 420 RPM. STRIKE ZONE: LOW-EXTERIOR OF RIGHT FOOT.]
A glowing, blue X appeared on the ball. A shimmering arc traced the perfect trajectory—high, curling, destined to kiss the far post and crossbar intersection.
He ran. He planted. He followed the system's geometry exactly.
His foot connected. The shot was good. It had the curl, the height.
The Goal-ie, a mountain of intuition, read it. He launched himself, a fraction slower to his right as the system had predicted. But Leo's shot, while technically beautiful, lacked the ferocity.
The keeper's fingertips brushed the ball, just enough to deflect it onto the crossbar with a deafening PANG.
It bounced back into play.
A collective "OOOHHH!" went up from the crowd. "So close."
"Unlucky!" the keeper laughed, retrieving the ball. "Again?"
Frustration, hot and sharp, cut through Leo's fatigue. "Again!" He dropped another ten.
He shot. The keeper saved it comfortably.
"Again!" Another ten. He rushed it. The shot sailed wide.
"Again!" His last ten. He over-corrected. The ball bounced back and rolled to a stop at the feet of a little kid in the crowd, who picked it up and looked at Leo with wide, disappointed eyes.
Silence. Then, a ripple of laughter, not malicious, but pitying. The classic choker. All theory, no bottle.
Leo stood, hollow. He dipped his hand into his pocket. A single, lonely five-dollar bill. His bus fare. Not enough to try again. He was broke. He was a failure. The euphoria of the stadium, the genius of the insight—it all crumbled into ash in his mouth.
He turned to leave, the heat of shame on his neck.
A hand caught his shoulder, grip firm.
He turned. And looked up into a face he knew from hallways and whispers. Sharp, handsome features, ice-blond hair styled perfectly despite the wind. King Vance.
King didn't smile. His eyes, a cool grey, scanned Leo's face, the desperation on it. Wordlessly, King pulled a ten from his own wallet and held it out.
"Again," King said. His voice was calm. A command.
Leo stared at the money, then at King's face. There was no mockery there. Only a cold, intense expectation. Slowly, Leo took the bill. He nodded, once.
He placed the ten on the barrel. Took the ball. The system re-calculated, the blue arc reappearing. He took a breath, shut out the crowd, and shot.
This time, it was perfect. Almost.
CLANG!
The ball smashed against the crossbar, the metal shuddering, and bounced down, just in front of the line. No goal.
Leo sighed, a sound of utter defeat. He began to turn away.
SLAP!
The sound was sharp, startling the crowd into silence. King had stepped forward and slapped both of Leo's cheeks—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting, to snap his head to attention.
The sting was sharp, cutting through the fog of his panic. It wasn't anger in King's eyes, but a furious, focused impatience.
"Look at me," King said, his voice low, lethal. He locked his grey eyes with Leo's. "You're thinking. You're calculating. You're scared. Stop. See the shot. Be the shot. Again."
The humiliation was a white-hot brand. But beneath it, something else ignited. A fierce, defiant pride. Leo shoved King's hands away from his face. He turned back to the spot, his jaw set.
King slapped another ten on the barrel.
Leo didn't look at the goal. He looked at the ball in his hands. He adjusted his father's glasses.
The world vanished. The crowd, the noise, King, the keeper—all dissolved into a blur. Only the ball, the X, and the glowing blue trajectory existed. The lenses of the glasses flared with a deep, electric, solid blue light.
[SYSTEM SYNCHRONIZATION: 100%. EXTERNAL MANIFESTATION DETECTED.]
[DIRECTIVE: EXECUTE.]
He didn't run. He took three measured steps. His plant foot struck the turf. His body coiled and uncoiled in a single, flawless kinetic chain. The sneakers met the ball at the exact, system-prescribed point.
The contact was a muted thump. The ball didn't seem to move fast at first. It rose in a lazy, elegant arc, spinning fiercely. Then it dipped, like a hawk spotting prey, curling with wicked intent around the outstretched, diving form of the Goal-ie.
SWISH!
The net didn't just ripple; it billowed, swallowing the ball with a soft, final sigh.
For a second, there was absolute silence. Then one voice, then a dozen, shouted: "GOAL!"
Leo didn't watch it. He had already turned his back, walking toward King. He pulled off his glasses, the world rushing back in.
The Goal-ie was pushing himself up off the turf, staring at the net in pure disbelief. "Impossible! A fluke!"
Without breaking stride, Leo caught the ball a spectator rolled back to him. Still walking, barely looking, he turned and, in one seamless motion, side-footed it back toward the goal.
It followed the identical, lazy-dipping arc and nestled into the identical top corner.
SWISH.
This time, the roar was deafening.
The woman with the clipboard, who had watched the whole thing with sharp eyes, burst out laughing. She counted out two hundred dollars in crisp bills and handed them to Leo. "Most expensive lesson that lunkhead's ever learned," she said, nodding toward the sputtering keeper.
King retrieved his twenty dollars from the barrel. He walked over and slung a heavy, companionable arm around Leo's shoulders, pulling him in close. His voice was a murmur for Leo's ear alone, carrying a note of genuine, surprised respect.
"Looks like you got potential, Reed."
Leo, clutching the money, his heart hammering a victory rhythm against his ribs, finally looked at the net. Then at King. A slow, hard smile spread across his own face.
The grind had just paid its first dividend.