The rain hadn't stopped for hours. Cold water pooled in uneven spots across the pitch, soaking through thin socks and flooding the grooves in Xander's cheap black boots. His breathing was unsteady, and his arms were slick with rain and sweat. But he wasn't thinking about the weather. He was thinking about the scoreboard.
5–0.
The final whistle hadn't blown yet, but the result had been obvious since halftime.
His team trudged around the pitch, each step heavier than the last. The defenders had stopped shouting. The midfielders barely moved to cover space. The striker hadn't touched the ball in nearly fifteen minutes.
Xander stood near the center circle, frozen in place. His legs were burning, his socks felt like soaked towels, and his lungs ached. But none of it hurt more than the look on his coach's face, a mixture of frustration and disappointment that was impossible to miss.
The ball came toward him again. His teammate, a small kid with thick gloves and a runny nose, passed it nervously in his direction. Xander stepped forward, tried to trap it, but his foot stuck slightly in the mud. The ball rolled under his sole and skipped out toward the opponent's pressing midfielder.
A clean tackle. Another turnover.
Another counterattack.
Another goal.
6–0.
Coach Jakob motioned furiously from the touchline, waving his arm.
"Xander! Off! Now!"
He didn't look at the bench. He didn't need to. His eyes dropped to the wet ground, and he walked off slowly. Each step squelched. He could hear his replacement hurrying onto the pitch behind him.
He sat on the bench without a word. The rain hit his forehead and slid down the bridge of his nose. Every breath stung his chest.
He wasn't angry at his teammates. He wasn't angry at the pitch, or the coach, or even the other team. He was angry at himself.
'Why do I always fall behind?'
It wasn't the first time. He had the ideas. He understood where the ball should go. He saw the spaces before they opened. But when he tried to act on them, his body refused to follow.
His passes were too slow. His sprints were too short. His turns were too wide.
'I see the game, but I can't play it.'
The final whistle came a few minutes later. He didn't clap. He didn't shake hands. He followed the rest of his teammates into the changing room without saying a word.
That night, Xander sat on his mattress, hugging a blanket around his damp hoodie. The window was cracked open. The cold air crept in, mixing with the sound of cars splashing through puddles outside. The glow of his old tablet lit up the small room.
The screen was scratched. The volume button didn't work. But it played, and that was all he needed.
He watched the match footage on repeat. Rewinding the moment he lost the ball. Slowing down the instant his foot slipped. Watching himself make the wrong movement. Again. And again. And again.
His jaw clenched. His hands tightened on the sides of the tablet.
'I know what to do. Why can't I do it?'
He thought back to training. To every cone drill. Every fitness session. Every time he stayed behind to do more. It wasn't like he wasn't trying.
'Why am I still this slow? Why do I still lose control when I run at full speed? Why do my legs feel heavy when I need them to move fast?'
He opened a notepad app. He started writing.
Speed: Not good enough
Dribbling: Weak
Vision: Okay but pointless if execution fails
Stamina: Drops too fast
Acceleration: Bad
Touch: Needs work
He kept typing.
A buzz sounded. The tablet flickered.
He froze. The screen distorted. For a second, the image was gone.
Then it reappeared.
But it wasn't the notepad app anymore.
It was something else.
[Initializing Football Evolution System...]
Xander sat upright. His thumb hovered over the screen. He hadn't downloaded anything new. He hadn't even connected to the internet.
[Analyzing player attributes...]
The screen changed again. This time, it was bright. Clear.
[Name: Xander Hamroll]
[Age: 17]
[Position: RW]
[Speed: D]
[Agility: D]
[Passing: E-]
[Dribbling: E-]
[Shooting: E-]
[Stamina: C]
[Vision: C]
[Assessment: Potential detected. Activation confirmed.]
His mouth was dry. He didn't understand what he was looking at.
Then something flickered in front of his eyes.
Even when he looked away from the tablet, the text hovered in his field of vision. It wasn't a reflection. It wasn't on the screen anymore.
It was inside his vision.
He jumped off the bed. The tablet dropped. He rubbed his eyes. The interface was still there.
[Would you like to begin customized training?]
[Warning: Progress will require pain, sacrifice, and obsession.]
His heartbeat was louder than the rain.
This was insane. It didn't make sense. It wasn't possible.
But nothing had ever made more sense to him in that moment.
He stared at the two options: [Yes] and [No].
He thought about the match.
He thought about every failure.
He thought about the fact that he understood the game better than anyone else around him, but it didn't matter because he couldn't execute.
'What if this changes everything?'
He reached out. Touched [Yes].
[Customized training initiated.]
[New daily schedule created.]
[Tracking performance.]
[Building athlete profile...]
He didn't sleep that night.
Over the next seven years, Xander followed the system every single day.
His alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. He would stretch and warm up before the sun rose. His system would issue drills. Timed sprints. Jump tests. Ball control programs. He would train alone in rain, in snow, in heat.
When school ended, he trained again.
The system didn't allow breaks. It tracked everything. Sleep hours. Heart rate. Sprint speed. Touch count.
It rewarded progress. It punished laziness.
Slowly, his speed improved. His steps became lighter. His turning sharper. His balance stronger. His stamina stretched longer.
He played for youth teams in England and Germany. By age 14, scouts began noticing his raw pace.
By 15, he was invited to trial for Manchester United's academy. He made the cut.
The system never shut off. Never paused. It grew as he grew.
When he reached age 17, things became real. The team began tracking player promotion candidates.
He didn't speak about the system to anyone. Not his coaches. Not his parents. Not even Garnacho, who had become his closest teammate.
This was his secret. His tool.
August 14th, 2022.
He sat in his dorm room at the academy. A vibration buzzed through his phone.
Text from Coach Reid:
"Report to Carrington first team dressing room tomorrow. You've been promoted."
He didn't move for ten seconds.
Then he opened the system.
[Name: Xander Hamroll]
[Age: 17]
[Position: RW, LW/AM]
[Speed: S]
[Agility: S]
[Passing: B-]
[Vision: B-]
[Shooting: B-]
[Dribbling: B-]
[Stamina: B-]
[Defending: C]
[Mission Triggered: Debut Incoming – Survive the Premier League]
[Difficulty: Nightmare]
His hands stayed calm.
His thoughts didn't race.
This wasn't a surprise.
It was the result of every day since the night he saw the glitch.
'I wasn't born for this. I earned it.'
He looked out the window. The academy grounds were quiet. Somewhere beyond the trees and training fields, the lights at Old Trafford were still on.
He stood up. Tightened his hoodie.
Tomorrow, he would step into the first team dressing room.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.
[The world's watching. Time to evolve.]
A/N: Welp, opening chapter. I apologize if it's a bit of a mess. The next chapters will be A LOT better. Also, the title might undergo a few changes. It's not in it's final form yet (actually, it is just very similar to another novel I came across so I guess I have to change it).