A girl, carrying her high heels, tiptoed cautiously as she crept out of the room, wobbling unsteadily. Her disheveled hair, smudged eyeliner, and glazed eyes bore the remnants of last night's chaos. The sll of vomit clung to her sequined dress, causing her stomach to churn violently. She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself from throwing up again.
Then, carefully, she closed the door behind her, making sure it didn't make too much noise. Only after releasing a long exhale did the pounding in her head slightly ease. Her feet touched the floor, but before she could fully steady herself, she turned around and saw a figure standing before her. Her heart skipped a beat.
She rose onto her toes again.
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
The girl clutched her chest, the nausea she'd barely managed to suppress rising again as she faced Lance. Her knees buckled slightly.
Lance flashed a smile and raised his eyebrows toward his short hair. "Do I still look like him? I thought cutting my hair short would change that."
The girl blinked, montarily confused.
One second, two seconds... then she realized what Lance was joking about, and a chuckle escaped her lips. She snuck a glance at him—
Even early in the morning, Lance had already finished his daily training, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His damp black hair and eyes, shining with the morning's first light, made him look completely different from his intense, commanding presence on the field. She couldn't help but feel a little flutter in her heart.
Her pulse quickened, and she hurriedly lowered her gaze. "Good luck with... uh, your training. Go Crimson Tide, roar on!"
Lance smiled. "Thanks." His eyes shifted to the mug she was holding along with her shoes. "Oh, that mug..."
Before he could finish his sentence, the girl glanced at the mug she was holding, gasped in embarrassnt, and covered her face, fleeing in panic. Her sprinting speed rivaled an Olympic sprinter's, disappearing before Lance could blink.
Her voice echoed behind her: "Ahhhh!"
Lance blinked, "...It's not mine." The rest of his words caught in his throat. Though the mug had his na on it, it definitely wasn't his.
Shaking his head helplessly, Lance pushed open the dorm room door, greeted by a stuffy, alcohol-laden atmosphere. He walked over to the window, raised the blinds, and opened it, letting fresh air pour in. The figure curled up in bed groaned in protest.
However, the person didn't get up.
Instead, he pulled the blanket over his head, curling up even more.
That person was Lance's roommate, Simon Hunt, also a sophomore and a staunch follower of the classic Harvard mantra:
"Study hard, play harder."
Last night, Simon had probably spent the night at the library finishing an overdue paper. When Lance had left for his morning training, Simon hadn't been in the room. Now, with the scene that greeted him upon his return, combined with the girl who had just snuck out, it wasn't hard to deduce that Simon's library study session had turned into sothing more like Before Sunrise.
Lance glanced at the lump under the blanket, then called out loudly, "Fire! There's a fire!"
Whoosh! In an instant, Simon sprang out of bed like a startled fish, wrapped in his blanket, and dashed out into the hallway, bleary-eyed and disoriented, looking around in confusion.
"Fire!"
"Fire?"
The empty hallway didn't exactly scream "ergency," and Simon's groggy gaze returned to the dorm room, where he saw Lance making the Vulcan salute from Star Trek.
If Simon didn't catch on now, he really was an idiot. Rubbing his eyes, he shuffled back into the room and gave Lance a high-five, grinning sheepishly. "Heh, you caught ."
Lance looked over at his desk—no mug. "You didn't trick another girl into thinking that mug was mine again, did you?"
Simon chuckled, "I didn't say a word. Misunderstandings are their own business."
Lance sighed, exasperated.
Since the scrimmage, Lance had quickly risen to fa at the University of Alabama. Everywhere he went, people called out to him and whistled, as if the whole campus knew his na overnight.
And it wasn't just the campus. Even when Lance went to the grocery store or gas station, locals greeted him with enthusiasm. It was as if his undercover identity had been exposed.
And!
An endless stream of girls seed to throw themselves at him. In class, he often found folded notes passed his way with phone numbers scrawled on them.
But truthfully, Lance didn't have ti for any of that.
He knew his mission. He needed to perform well in the upcoming season to prove himself. Otherwise, there was still a lawsuit and possible fines looming over him. After the scrimmage, his exposure on national television ant he would would need to push himself even harder. His explosive debut had put him on everyone's radar, but that also ant defenses would be more prepared to stop him.
He couldn't afford to slow down now. In fact, he needed to get better—faster, stronger, smarter. There would be no elent of surprise next ti. Coaches and players from rival teams were undoubtedly studying his moves, figuring out how to neutralize him.
Sitting at his desk, he opened the familiar interface of the system, eager to see the results of his recent progress. This was the edge that kept him going—the ability to quantify his training, see his strengths, and, most importantly, understand his weaknesses. It was ti to flip a new card, to unlock the next step in his journey.
The screen blinked to life, and a notification appeared:
"Congratulations! You've earned a new skill card. Flip to reveal."
His heart raced. Every ti he reached this point, there was a thrill—a combination of anticipation and determination to see what new ability or upgrade he would acquire.
He clicked the icon, and the card flipped over, revealing his reward:
"Skill: Precision Cut – Enhance agility during cuts, reducing deceleration and improving directional changes by 20%."
A wide grin spread across his face. This was exactly what he needed. Agility and the ability to change direction quickly were already so of his strongest assets, but this upgrade would make him even more elusive on the field. Defenders would have a harder ti anticipating his moves, and he could make sharper cuts, dodging tackles with more precision.
But the ssage wasn't finished.
"Bonus: Stamina Boost – Increase stamina recovery by 15% after high-intensity plays."
This was even better. His play style often involved explosive bursts of speed, which drained his stamina quickly. With this boost, he could recover faster and maintain his performance deep into the ga, sothing that would be crucial in tight, hard-fought matches.
He leaned back in his chair, feeling a wave of satisfaction. These new abilities would make a real difference on the field. But with new skills ca higher expectations—not just from his coaches and teammates, but from himself. He had set a high bar with his initial performance, and now, with the spotlight on him, he had to keep proving that he belonged at the top.
Closing the system, he stood up and stretched. His muscles were sore from the early morning workout, but the thought of improving, of becoming even more dangerous on the field, fueled his motivation.
Tomorrow's training would be harder. He would push himself further. His opponents might be watching, but he was always a step ahead.
The rest of the day went by in a blur. As he walked through campus, more and more people recognized him—students, professors, even locals from the small town of Tuscaloosa. People called out his na, congratulated him on the ga, and a few even asked for autographs. It was surreal.
It wasn't just his performance that had caught people's attention. His background—a Chinese-Arican athlete rising through the ranks of college football—was a story in itself. He was already receiving interview requests and dia inquiries, sothing that just weeks ago would have been unthinkable.
But while the attention was flattering, it also ca with pressure. Everyone expected him to keep delivering, to be the player they saw during the ga against the Tigers. The margin for error was shrinking.
That evening, back in his dorm, he sat down with his playbook, reviewing the strategies for the upcoming ga. His opponents were going to be tougher, more prepared. They would key in on his tendencies, trying to shut him down. He needed to stay unpredictable.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Coach Harris lit up the screen:
"Great job this week. Keep grinding. We'll need you at your best next ga."
Lance smiled. He was just getting started.
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