For a single, heart-stopping moment, the world was silent. The name echoed in the confines of his small bedroom, but it felt like it had been shouted from the rooftops of the world.
ETHAN COUCH!
Then, reality crashed back in. A wild, uncontrollable whoop of pure joy erupted from his lungs, a sound so loud and primal he barely recognized it as his own.
He shot up from his chair, sending it skittering backward into a pile of laundry. His phone clattered to the floor, forgotten. He pumped his fists in the air, jumping up and down like a striker who'd just scored a last-minute winner in the World Cup final.
"YES! YES! YES!" he screamed, his voice cracking with emotion.
Every doubt, every moment of frustration, every second spent watching from the sidelines—it all melted away in a glorious, sun-drenched wave of victory.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
His bedroom door flew open. His mother stood there, a dish towel in her hand, her face a mixture of alarm and confusion.
"Ethan? What on earth is going on? Are you alright?"
He just grinned, a grin so wide it felt like it might split his face. Tears of happiness were streaming down his cheeks, and he didn't even care.
"I won, Mom! I won the contest! The game, the headset, everything! I won!"
Before she could fully process it, a notification chimed from his phone on the floor. On the live stream, a new window had popped up:
[GridironGuru would like to start a video call with you. ACCEPT / DECLINE]
His heart did a backflip. He scrambled for the phone, his hands trembling so hard he almost dropped it again. He jabbed the 'ACCEPT' button.
Instantly, the charismatic face of GridironGuru filled his screen, no longer a broadcast but a direct, one-on-one call. The man himself was beaming.
"There he is! The champion! Ethan Couch, live with us!" Guru boomed, his voice warm and genuine.
"Congratulations, kid! You didn't just win; you annihilated the competition! My team is still trying to figure out how you answered that question about the 1958 Brazilian 4-2-4 formation's defensive vulnerabilities so fast."
Ethan was speechless, star-struck. "I… uh… wow. Thank you. I can't believe it."
"Believe it, my friend! But I have to ask, for the thousands of people still watching," Guru said, leaning closer to his camera with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye.
"That final question. The tactical scenario. Your answer was… unorthodox. A 3-4-2, sacrificing a defender when you're already down a man. Most people went for a safer 4-4-1. Walk me through it. What was the secret sauce?"
It was like a switch flipped in Ethan's brain. The awe-struck fan disappeared, and the analyst took over. The words just flowed.
"It's about psychological pressure," Ethan said, his voice suddenly clear and confident.
"Parking the bus means they've conceded the midfield. A 4-4-1 is what they expect. It's symmetrical. But pulling a defensive mid for a target man and going to a 3-4-2 creates a central overload they aren't set up for. Their two center-backs are now dealing with my remaining striker and a big target man. My two attacking midfielders can then drift into the half-spaces between their full-backs and center-backs. It forces their entire defensive line into making decisions they don't want to make. It invites chaos. In the 85th minute, down a goal and a man, chaos is your only real teammate."
GridironGuru was silent for a few seconds, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He slowly started to clap.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, turning to his main camera.
"That is not just football knowledge. That is football IQ. You didn't just earn this, Ethan. You proved why this game was made for people like you. My team will be in touch via email with all the details. A confirmation and tracking number are being sent to you as we speak. Get ready, son. Your season is about to begin."
The call ended. Ethan stood there, phone in hand, his mind buzzing. He felt ten feet tall.
He burst out of his room and into the small living room, where his sister, Sarah, was sitting on the sofa, a laptop balanced on her knees. His father was just coming in from the back of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag.
"I won!" Ethan announced, unable to contain his energy.
"I'm going to be a coach!"
His mother hugged him tightly. "Oh, honey, that's wonderful! I saw how hard you were concentrating. You deserve it!"
His father gave him a tired but proud smile. "That's my boy. All that time with your head in the books—well, the football books—paid off."
Sarah closed her laptop, her expression carefully neutral.
"That's great, Ethan. Really. What did you win?"
"Everything! The game, the neural-dive system, a lifetime subscription! It's the biggest VMMORPG of the year!"
"That's… expensive," she said, the word hanging in the air.
"Look, I'm happy for you. But what about your university applications? The deadlines are in a few months. Have you even started your personal essays?"
The joyous bubble deflated slightly.
"I'll get to it, Sarah. This is a big deal, though. It's a real opportunity."
"It's a video game, Ethan," she replied, her tone gentle but firm.
"A very fancy one, sure. But your future… that's real life. I just don't want you to get distracted."
He knew she meant well. She was always looking out for him, for the family. But she didn't understand. This wasn't just a game. It was a field where his knowledge meant something. It was his chance to finally get on the pitch.
"It's more than a game," he said, more to himself than to her.
The next two days were a special kind of torture. The email had arrived as promised, complete with a tracking number. Ethan refreshed the page a hundred times an hour, watching the virtual icon of a delivery truck crawl across a map toward his city. He couldn't focus on anything else. He ate, slept, and breathed anticipation.
On the third morning, a large, unmarked white van pulled up outside the toy shop. Two delivery men in sleek, gray jumpsuits wrestled a massive, heavy box onto a dolly and wheeled it to the door. It was at least four feet long and almost as wide.
"Package for Ethan Couch," the lead delivery man said, checking a tablet.
Ethan signed for it, his hand shaking. He and his dad managed to haul the enormous box through the shop and up the stairs to his room. It took all their strength, and they had to pivot it carefully around the narrow landing.
"What in the world is in there?" his dad grunted, leaning against the doorframe to catch his breath.
"The future," Ethan breathed, looking at the plain white box that now dominated his small room.
Once he was alone, he practically tore it open. There was no plastic, no styrofoam, just a series of satisfying air-pressure seals that hissed as he broke them. And inside… was the strangest thing he had ever seen.
It wasn't just a headset. It was a bed. Or a pod. Sleek, white, and impossibly smooth, it looked like something designed by aliens who had a deep appreciation for minimalism. It was molded to the shape of a reclining human form, a single, seamless piece of technology. There were no visible buttons, no screens, no wires except for a single, thick power cable.
He ran his hand over the cool, smooth surface. This was it. The gateway.
With a deep, shaky breath, heart thrumming with an excitement that eclipsed even his victory announcement, he kicked off his shoes. He lay down in the pod, and it was a perfect fit, cradling his body as if it had been custom-molded just for him. He felt a faint hum of energy around him.
As soon as his head rested on the integrated pillow, the world went dark. Not a normal, eyes-closed darkness, but a total, absolute void. For a terrifying second, he felt nothing.
Then, soft, holographic blue letters began to materialize in front of his mind's eye.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[NEURAL INTERFACE CALIBRATING...]
[WELCOME, COACH ETHAN COUCH.]
A wave of pure euphoria washed over him. This was real. This was happening.
[LOADING PLAYER PROFILE...]
[CONNECTING TO FCG SERVERS...]
[USER CONSCIOUSNESS ALIGNMENT: 99% COMPLETE...]
He felt a final, gentle click, as if the last piece of a grand puzzle had just been slotted into place.
[READY FOR KICK-OFF.]