Rio’s eyes snapped open.
"The phone!" he gasped, tearing the blankets off.
He patted the mattress frantically until his hand brushed against the cold glass of his smartphone.
He snatched it up, nearly dropping it in his haste.
"Please," Rio whispered, his thumb hovering over the power button. "Don’t be a dream. Please don’t be a hallucination brought on by cheap paella."
He pressed the button. The screen lit up.
He tapped it.
[Welco back, User Rio.]
Rio let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding all night.
He slumped back against the headboard, a grin spreading across his face.
IThe Football Legends Chat Group was actually real.
Rio_Lance: You guys are still here? I didn’t imagine it?
The reply was instantaneous.
Hand_Of_King: Imagine ? Kid, I’m too big a personality to be a fignt of your imagination. Besides, if you were imagining things, you would have imagined yourself as a better player by now.
Rio laughed. It was a nervous, jagged sound, but it felt good.
King_10: Good morning, young one. Today is the day. Are you prepared?
Rio_Lance: I... I think so. I have the items in the inventory. But I’m shaking. What if I ss up using them?
Total_Football_14: Stop worrying about the chanics. Football is played with the mind, the feet just follow. Listen closely, Rio. You do not need to stare at this tiny glass screen to talk to us.
Rio_Lance: What do you an?
Total_Football_14: Close your eyes. Focus on the concept of the group. Call for the System in your mind.
Rio frowned. He set the phone down on the nightstand. He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, slling the stale air of his ssy apartnt.
System, he thought. Open.
Ping!
Suddenly, a translucent blue interface shimred into existence behind his eyelids.
He could see the chat log, his stats, and his inventory, all floating in the air like a heads-up display in a video ga.
"Whoa," Rio said aloud, opening his eyes. The interface remained, overlaying the real world.
He could see his ssy desk through the chat window.
[Voice Communication Module: Active]
"Voice communication?" Rio muttered.
"CAN YOU HEAR NOW, KID?"
Rio yelped and jumped off the bed, crashing into his bedside table.
The voice was loud, raspy, and distinctly Argentine.
It echoed inside his skull as if Diego Maradona was standing right next to his ear holding a gaphone.
"Is that... is that you, Diego?" Rio whispered, looking around the empty room wildly.
"Of course it’s !" The voice of the Hand of King laughed.
"Stop talking out loud, you look like a lunatic. Just think what you want to say. We can hear your thoughts when the connection is open."
Like this? Rio thought, feeling incredibly self-conscious.
"Loud and clear," a new voice cut in. This one was smoother. It was Pele.
"Now, focus. You have the ’La Gambeta’ feint and the ’Clockwork Eye’. These are one-ti consumables. You cannot waste them on warm-ups or simple drills."
I know, Rio thought back, grabbing his towel and heading for the shower. I only use them when it matters. When Michel is watching.
"Exactly," Cruyff’s voice chid in, sounding analytical and sharp. "The coach, Michel, is looking for a spark. He doesn’t need a player who runs around like a headless chicken for ninety minutes. He needs soone who can change the ga in a singular mont. You use the items to create that mont. Once you are in the first team... then the real work begins."
Rio turned on the shower, the cold water waking him up fully.
And then?
"Then we train you," Pele said. "If you make the squad, we will unlock the Training Simulation. We will teach you how to shoot, how to pass, how to breathe football. But if you fail today... the System disconnects. You go back to being the fast kid with the square wheels."
The water hit Rio’s face, masking the sweat of anxiety that had broken out on his forehead.
The stakes were absolute. Win or go ho. Beco a legend, or beco a baker.
I won’t fail, Rio thought, clenching his fists. I have the cheat codes. I have you guys.
"Don’t get cocky," Maradona chuckled. "Cheat codes don’t fix courage. You still have to run at the defender. You still have to want to destroy him. Now hurry up! Your friend has been bouncing a ball outside your window for ten minutes. It’s annoying!"
Rio turned off the water and scrambled to get dressed. He pulled on his Girona training kit. He laced up his neon pink boots, tying them with a double knot.
"Showti," he whispered.
He grabbed his gym bag and sprinted out the door, taking the stairs two at a ti.
Standing by the lamppost was Mateo.
The tall, broad-shouldered center-back was indeed juggling a ball, keeping it in the air with lazy, practiced touches.
Mateo caught the ball on his chest and let it roll down to his foot, grinning as he saw Rio.
"Look who finally woke up. I was about to throw a rock at your window. You ready to go save the club?"
Rio adjusted his bag on his shoulder.
Usually, Mateo’s confidence made Rio feel smaller. Mateo was the golden boy of the academy. Rio was the wildcard. But today, with the translucent blue screen floating in the corner of his vision, Rio felt a strange sense of calm.
"I’m ready," Rio said. And for the first ti in months, he actually ant it.
They started walking toward the training complex,.
The city of Girona was waking up around them. They passed the local café where old n usually sat arguing about politics.
"The vibe is heavy, huh?" Mateo murmured, kicking a stray soda can into a bin. "Everyone thinks we’re already relegated."
"Five gas left," Rio said, echoing Mateo’s words from yesterday. "Fifteen points."
Mateo looked at him sideways. "You sound different today. Did you eat a magic banana for breakfast?"
Rio smiled, tapping his temple. Just chatting with so old friends, he thought.
"Good answer," Maradona’s voice cackled in his head. "But tell him you ate a steak. Defenders need to fear your appetite."
"I just... I have a feeling," Rio said aloud. "Today isn’t going to be like the other days. I’m tired of being the ’fast guy’. Today, I’m going to be a footballer."
Mateo chuckled, wrapping an arm around Rio’s neck and playfully wrestling him. "That’s the spirit! Just pass the ball if you get scared, okay? I’ll make you look good."
"Get off !" Rio laughed, shoving him away.
"You just worry about not getting nutgged by the U15s."
As they approached the gates of the training complex, the atmosphere shifted.
There were luxury cars in the parking lot—the first team’s cars. Journalists were camped outside the gate with caras.
Rio’s stomach did a flip.
"Breathe," Cruyff’s voice instructed, cool and calming. "Look at the pitch. It is just grass. It is the sa dinsions as the pitch in the park. The goal is the sa size. The ball is round. The caras, the money, the pressure... those are illusions. The ga is the only truth."
Rio took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass.
He looked at the gate. He could see Coach Martinez standing there with a clipboard, and next to him, a man with curly hair and an intense gaze. Michel. The manager of Girona FC.
"There is your target," Pele said. "Make him rember your na."
Rio tightened his grip on his bag.
The translucent system screen hovered before him, displaying his inventory.
[Item: La Gambeta Feint (Ready)]
[Item: The Clockwork Eye (Ready)]
He glanced at Mateo. "Let’s go."
"After you, Speedster," Mateo said.
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