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Chapter 5 — Diamonds Don't Pass
The whistle shrieked again. Second half. Chelsea's boys jogged out sharp, buzzing with confidence after leveling the score. Jeremy tied his laces tighter, rolling his shoulders. His grin stayed fixed, but his eyes were locked on the pitch.
"Alright, mate," Lansbury muttered as he walked beside him. "Second half, let's move it around. Keep the ball, yeah?"
Jeremy smirked. "We'll see, bruv."
DING!
> [Mission: Score the decisive goal. Reward: +7 Finishing, +5 Ego.]
The voice cut in, slicing through his head like broken glass.
> "Remember, Lynch. Diamonds don't pass. Diamonds shine alone. A jewel doesn't ask for company—it blinds everything around it."
Jeremy exhaled slowly. "Bruv, you've got issues."
No one else heard. To the lads, he just looked like he was talking to himself again. Gibbs nudged Wilshere, whispering, "Your mate's tapped."
Wilshere just shrugged. "If he scores again, no one'll care."
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The match kicked off. Chelsea pressed hard, Chalobah snapping into tackles, their front line bullying Arsenal's back four. Jeremy drifted wide right, clapping his hands for the ball.
"Oi, here! Play me, mate!"
Wilshere gave it to him, quick as a flash. Defender tight, Jeremy rolled the ball under his studs, chopped it inside, and surged forward. Gibbs screamed for the overlap. Jeremy ignored him. One stepover, cut inside—rifled a shot.
It cannoned off the post.
Gasps went up. Jeremy cursed under his breath. "Safe, almost had it."
Gibbs stormed over. "You had me free on the left, bruv! Pass the bloody thing!"
Jeremy grinned. "And miss that? Allow it, mate."
The lads groaned, but he just jogged back. Inside, the system purred.
> "Correct. Never serve another man's plate. Only eat what's yours."
DING!
> [Proficiency: Shooting +2 → 68.]
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Chelsea countered quickly, their striker bursting through. Only a sharp save from the Arsenal keeper kept them out. Steve Bould barked from the touchline, "Wake up, boys! Keep it tight!"
Jeremy stood with his hands on his hips, a smirk still on his lips. To him, the noise faded. Only the ball mattered. Only the next chance.
When it came, it was pure instinct. Wilshere nicked the ball in midfield, sent it spinning Jeremy's way. He cushioned it down, flicked it past the Chelsea left-back with a cheeky nutmeg. The sideline erupted with laughter.
"Oi! Man sent him Tesco's!" someone yelled.
Jeremy burst into the box, eyes only on the keeper. Lansbury shouted, arms raised, unmarked at the penalty spot.
DING!
> [Override Mission: Do not pass. Goal = double reward.]
> "Look at him, begging. Do you see? That is a weakness. That is mud. Are you mud, Jeremy?"
Jeremy's grin widened. "Nah, man. I'm a diamond."
He rifled it the first time, low across the goal. Net bulged.GOAL.
He turned to the crowd of teammates, arms out, expression stone cold—Cole Palmer celebration before its time.
The Arsenal boys half-cheered, half-jeered.
"Bruv thinks he's Premier League already!"
"Safe finish though…"
"You're a selfish git, Lynch."
Jeremy just smirked. "Say what you want, mate. Scoreboard doesn't lie."
DING!
> [Mission complete. Finishing +7 → 75. Ego +5 → 103.]
> "Yes. That is ego. That is football. Teammates will curse you, coaches will scold you, but the goal only remembers the killer. And killers are never forgotten."
Jeremy jogged back to half, heartbeat steady, grin unshakable. Inside, something was shifting. The more the voice pushed, the less he wanted to resist.
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Chelsea came again, desperate for an equaliser. A cross whipped in, their striker headed just over. Arsenal cleared, countered fast. The ball fell to Lansbury, who surged forward.
"Play me, mate!" Jeremy yelled, darting inside.
Lansbury hesitated. After the last goal, did he trust him? The pass came late, heavy. Jeremy stretched, nicked it ahead, but the keeper smothered.
Jeremy threw his arms up. "Bruv, that ball was dead!"
Lansbury shot back, "Maybe if you passed once in your life—"
"Safe, safe," Jeremy cut him off, wagging his finger. "Don't be salty, mate."
Wilshere had to step between them, laughing it off. "Oi, relax. We're winning, init?"
Jeremy just grinned wider.
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The final whistle blew: Arsenal 2–1 Chelsea. Jeremy's brace made the difference. The lads clapped each other's backs, sweat-soaked and knackered.
Bould pulled them in. "Good win, boys. But too much selfish play. Especially you, Lynch. Talent's no use if you can't play for the team."
Jeremy nodded, straight-faced. "Yes, coach."
Inside? He was laughing.
DING!
> [New Directive: Ignore the coach. Coaches are walls. Diamonds cut through walls.]
The voice echoed, sharp and cold. Jeremy didn't argue this time. He just smiled, boots tapping the grass, eyes already looking forward.
Two goals, a win, and the system feeding him more power with every touch.
If this was only the beginning, then mate—Arsenal weren't ready for what was coming.
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