Two days off.
Two days of training, gaming, and letting his muscles recover.
Then Monday arrived.
The corridors of Lincoln High buzzed with the dull routine—teachers droning, students swapping gossip, the shuffle of sneakers on tile. For Julian, it was just background noise. His focus was on the club room.
He was early—earlier than usual—and expected to be the first one in.
He wasn’t.
The mont he stepped inside, his gaze caught on a figure already seated.
Jersey #9.
The number hit him first. Then the face—sharp yet delicate, an almost unearthly symtry. An Asian beauty: cat-like eyes under defined brows, skin smooth as porcelain, frad by sleek black hair that shimred under the fluorescent light. The kind of effortless style you’d expect from a rising K-drama actor, not a high school footballer.
It didn’t take much to put it together.
Noah Kim—the starting striker before the injury.
"Hello," Julian greeted, voice even.
The boy’s head tilted up, a faint smile curling his lips.
"Oh? Soone’s earlier than . You must be Julian. I’ve seen you on social dia."
He rose slightly and extended a hand.
Julian clasped it, feeling the firmness in Noah’s grip—confident, controlled.
And in that handshake, Julian’s system flickered to life.
...
User: Noah Kim
Position: ST
Age: 17
Total Attributes: 307 (207)
...
Julian’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Three hundred and seven.
Over the 280 threshold. That ant—
[Host has scanned a player exceeding 280 Total Attributes. Unlocking advanced classification tiers...]
...
Amateur League: 280 – 700 Total Attributes
→ 40 – 100 per individual stat
→ Includes college teams, semi-pro clubs
Pro Tier: 700 – 1400 Total Attributes
→ 100 – 200 per individual stat
→ Dostic league professionals (e.g., MLS)
...
The numbers reverberated in Julian’s mind like a struck gong. Noah wasn’t just "good." He was well past the ceiling of most high school players.
Before Julian could dig deeper, Noah’s voice snapped him back.
"You good?"
Julian blinked, realizing he’d been holding the handshake a fraction too long, mind drifting sowhere else.
"Oh. Sorry."
He let go. The warmth of Noah’s palm lingered against his skin as he moved toward his locker.
The room slled faintly of detergent and turf—clean uniforms hanging in neat rows. Julian peeled off his hoodie and slipped into his #7 jersey, the fabric cool against his skin.
For a mont, silence. Only the muffled hum of the vending machine in the corner.
Then Noah’s voice broke it.
"So... how’s the team? Still the sa? So people can be a little... rough, like Riku. Or too much freedom, like Leo."
Julian glanced over his shoulder.
"They’re good. Riku’s discipline and Leo’s freedom—let’s say they complete each other."
Noah smirked faintly, leaning back against the bench.
"And your injury?" Julian asked, though he already knew from the scan that Noah wasn’t fully recovered.
"Well..." Noah’s gaze flicked down to his knee, then back up. "I’ve been cleared to play. Still not at a hundred percent. So..." a short laugh, "I’m counting on you to carry ."
Julian’s lips curved, though there was nothing soft in his eyes.
"Of course. Leave it to ."
Inside, his thoughts were sharper.
Not just carry you. Devour you.
Right now, Julian knew he was stronger. But Noah’s ceiling was high—too high to ignore. Ti would decide which of them owned the pitch.
The door swung open with a clatter of cleats on tile. Leo strode in, grin wide.
"Noah! You’re back!"
He pulled the striker into a quick hug. Behind him, Riku stepped in, his expression less flamboyant but no less genuine.
"How’s the injury?"
"Better," Noah said, smiling easily. "I can play—still need a bit of adjustnt before I’m at my best."
The room began to hum with voices as the rest of the squad filtered in, drawn to Noah like iron filings to a magnet.
Julian cinched the strap of his shin guards, the nylon biting lightly into his calf.
From the corner of his eye, he watched the others—jerseys sliding over shoulders, shorts tugged into place, the sharp snap of velcro straps on boots.
The air was thick with a cocktail of scents—fresh fabric, deodorant, and the faint, lived-in musk of well-worn cleats.
When the last locker slamd shut, they filed out as one. Cleats clicked against the concrete tunnel in a steady rhythm, echoing in the narrow space until they stepped into the light—onto the open stretch of turf.
...
Lincoln High spilled onto the pitch. The winter air bit sharp at their faces, but the low hum of activity kept them moving. Coach Owen stood near the halfway line with Laura at his side, clipboard in hand.
"How’s the foot?" Coach asked without preamble.
"It’s okay, Coach," Noah replied, voice even.
Coach gave a short nod, then stepped aside. "Alright. Before we start, Laura’s got the breakdown for our next match."
Laura took the lead like she’d been waiting for this.
"San Dimas High," she began, flipping the whiteboard around.
A neat sketch of the pitch, formation markers already in place. "Last year’s champions. Division One. They made it to the round of 16 before getting knocked out. This season, they’re still dangerous."
She tapped three circled nas on the board.
"They’ve got four key players—well, three now, since one’s injured. But don’t get comfortable. Their formation is a 4–1–4–1, and their transitional play on the wings is lethal. Patient, modern football—anyone can rotate into a new role mid-attack."
Her marker landed on the lone pivot in midfield.
"Their CDM is the wild card. Fierce stamina, speed to burn, and the freedom to show up anywhere. One mont he’s cutting off an attack, the next he’s the one finishing the play."
Julian followed her words, eyes flicking between the board and her expressions.
She’d done her howork—the small notes in the margins, the arrows tracking off-ball runs, the timing of each sequence.
On the sideline, Coach Owen watched her like a proud ntor, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Alright, thanks, Laura." He stepped back into the center, his voice hardening. "Short version? These guys are crazy strong. Stronger than anyone we’ve faced so far. So if you’re not locked in, you might as well sit this one out."
His eyes swept over them, daring soone to look away. No one did.
"Now..." His whistle flashed in his hand. "Run."
"Yes, Coach!"
They broke into motion, the thud of cleats on turf syncing into a single pounding beat. No gas this ti. No side bets.
Just lungs burning, legs churning, and the weight of Friday’s match already hanging in the cold air.
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