The train rattled on, but Ethan was no longer looking at the passing scenery.
He was staring at his phone, the arrogant words of GridironGuru burning on the screen.
He handed the phone to Leo.
Leo read the ssage, his eyes widening. Then he let out a low whistle. "Whoa. The sharks are feeding? This guy talks like a supervillain in a Saturday morning cartoon."
"Tell about it," Ethan said, a grim smile on his face. "He gives the keys to the kingdom with one hand and then tells he’s going to burn the kingdom down with the other."
"So, he’s in the Apex Challenge," Leo mused, handing the phone back. "As a ’special guest entry’. That’s not a coincidence. They’re setting you up for a showdown. The plucky underdog winner of the gauntlet versus the rich, famous creator."
"It’s a storyline," Ethan realized.
"So what are you going to do?" Leo asked, his eyes gleaming with excitent. "Are you scared?"
Ethan thought about it for a mont. H
e thought about his £30 million rival, his shoestring budget, and the mountain he had to climb
. But then he thought about his team’s impossible coback against Cardiff, about Viktor’s hat-trick, and about the ’Steely Resolve’ trait his team had just earned.
A slow, determined grin spread across his face. "No," he said. "I’m not scared. I’m motivated. Let him bring his sharks. We’ve got a few giant-killers of our own."
Leo grinned back, punching him lightly on the arm. "That’s my gaffer. Now, let’s talk about sothing more important. My S-Rank defender needs a new center-back partner. Liam sent a tip about this 18-year-old from the Scottish second division who’s apparently built like a brick wall..."
They spent the rest of the journey ho deep in their own world, two managers plotting their rise, the shadow of GridironGuru already a distant, conquerable challenge.
The next few days fell into a comfortable, productive rhythm. Ethan would wake up, help his mom with her breakfast, play with Gaffer, and then head to his shift at CostMart.
The work was still boring, but he had found a strange zen in the simple, repetitive tasks. He even had a running joke with Mr. Henderson, who would now greet him with a gruff, "Don’t just stand there, Couch, the yogurts won’t stack themselves."
One afternoon, during his break, he was sitting in the drab staff room, scrolling through the news on his phone.
He swiped past the usual football gossip and political headlines when a sensationalist, clickbait-style headline from a site he’d never heard of caught his eye.
TRAGEDY STRIKES VIRTUAL WORLD: Gar Dies While Plugged into New ’FCG’ Simulator.
Ethan’s blood ran cold. He clicked on the article, his heart pounding.
The story was thin on details and heavy on speculation. It claid a user in South Arica had suffered a "fatal neural overload" while using the FCG pod.
It quoted anonymous "experts" who warned about the dangers of untested neural-dive technology and hinted at a massive corporate cover-up.
There were no nas, no official sources, just a lot of scary-sounding jargon.
He felt a wave of nausea. He thought about the pod in his room. He thought about the error ssage during the Luton ga, the feeling of the connection being forcibly severed. He thought about his own strange thought at Old Trafford, the fleeting, insane idea that the players weren’t real.
Was this ga dangerous?
Was he, and Leo, and Liam by extension, risking their lives for a football simulation?
He read the article again, more slowly this ti.
He noticed the sensationalist language, the lack of any verifiable facts. He rembered his dad warning him about fake news, about websites that would write anything for a click. He thought about the ticulous, almost obsessive safety protocols of the ga itself—the ’Real-Ti Sync’, the warnings, the way it had gently logged him off when his mom had her accident.
A system that careful, that sophisticated... would it really have a flaw so catastrophic?
He took a deep breath, his rational mind pushing back against the primal fear.
It was probably a hoax.
Or, if it was real, a one-in-a-billion tragedy, a freak accident involving a faulty unit or a pre-existing dical condition. It wasn’t the ga itself. It couldn’t be.
He made a choice. He would be cautious, he would be aware, but he would not be scared off by a single, unsubstantiated news story. He had a team to manage.
He got ho that evening, the disturbing article still nagging at the back of his mind. He pushed it down. He had a job to do. His fourth league match was the next day, a ho ga against Shrewsbury Town.
He lay down in the pod, a little more deliberately than usual, his senses on high alert.
The transition was as smooth and seamless as always. The familiar comfort of his virtual office greeted him.
He spent the next hour in a state of intense focus, preparing for the match.
He analyzed Shrewsbury’s tactical setup with Jas Pearce, noting their weakness on the counter-attack. He designed specific training drills to exploit it. He checked on his players’ morale and fitness, rotating a few tired legs to keep the squad fresh.
He was in his elent, the real-world fears lting away in the face of pure, logical, beautiful football strategy.
The next day, he was back in the virtual world, standing in the ho dressing room.
The atmosphere was confident, the players buzzing after their two straight league wins.
.....
"Alright, lads," he began, his voice ringing with a confidence he had consciously chosen to project. "Shrewsbury at ho. They’re a decent side, but we’re better. We’re faster, we’re more creative, and we are playing at The Apex. No excuses today. We go out there, we play our football, and we take all three points. Let’s give our fans a show."
He walked out into the roar of the ho crowd, the familiar thrill washing over him.
This was his world. This was real enough.
The match began, and his plan worked to perfection. Shrewsbury, as predicted, played a cautious, defensive ga.
Apex dominated possession, their young attackers probing and pulling the defense out of shape.
In the 24th minute, Emre Demir produced another mont of magic, a subli through-ball that sent Viktor Kristensen clean through on goal.
The 16-year-old, brimming with confidence after his hat-trick, made no mistake, coolly slotting the ball into the bottom corner. 1-0.
The ga continued in the sa vein, with Apex in complete control. Just before half-ti, they won a corner. The ball was whipped in, headed clear, but only to the edge of the box where Jacob Sørensen, the defensive midfielder, was waiting. He t the ball with a thunderous, first-ti volley that flew into the net. 2-0.
The second half was a comfortable, professional performance.
Ethan made a few substitutions, giving so of his fringe players valuable ga ti.
The final whistle blew on a dominant 2-0 victory.
Three league gas, three wins, nine points. They were flying.
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