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Chapter 8 — Welcome to Hale End
Late August 2003 • Arsenal Hale End Training Ground
The final whistle blew across the training pitch. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I bent over, hands on knees, lungs burning. Arsenal's trial sessions weren't a joke—they were a survival test. One slip, one lazy touch, and you were out the door before the grass stains dried on your boots.
I shuffled into the changing room, peeling off my boots, the leather splitting at the toe. Didn't matter. If the system kept me moving forward, I wouldn't need these old relics for long.
I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
I blinked. Then I laughed.
"Bruv… look at these back-dreadlocks. Man, what was I thinking? Proper wannabe gangster look. Goofy as hell."
It was surreal. I was back in 2003, fifteen years old again, staring at my younger face with the same cheeky grin I'd seen in old photos. The dreads bounced slightly as I shook my head. Yeah, this version of me looked wild, but that was fine.
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"Oi, Lynch!" A voice echoed from the lockers. Fabrice Muamba, captain of the trial group, pointed his boots at me. "You going all silent on us again? Thought you'd gone mute."
I smirked. "Just admiring greatness, mate."
The room groaned. "Here he goes again," Simpson muttered, tugging at his socks.
Another lad piped up. "You dribble too much, bruv. Ball ain't meant to stick to your feet all the time."
I chuckled. "Funny that. Coaches don't seem to mind when it ends in a goal, do they?"
A few laughs broke out. Some shook their heads, some nodded. Didn't matter. In every dressing room, some lads played safe, and lads who played to be seen. I knew which one I was.
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The Call-Up
We were called into the coach's office not long after. My stomach twisted, but I masked it with a half-smile.
Coach Steve Bould looked around the room, his voice even. "Not everyone here will be staying. Arsenal demands a certain standard. Only the best, and those who can improve, get in."
Names were read out. One by one, lads stood, collected their training kits, and walked out either buzzing or broken.
Then: "Lynch. Jeremy."
For a second, I froze. Then the grin spread across my face. I stepped forward, chest puffed, like I already belonged. Kit bag in hand, I glanced back at the room.
"Guess I'm Arsenal now, mate," I said, flashing a wink.
The reaction was mixed—claps, shrugs, rolled eyes. Didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the badge.
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System Upgrade
As soon as I left the office, the familiar chime hit.
DING!
> [Egoist System Notification]
"Congratulations. You are now officially an Arsenal Academy player. New feature unlocked—FOOTBALL SHOP."
"Diamonds don't polish themselves, Lynch. Buy the tools. Buy the shine."
I blinked as a holographic catalogue flickered in front of me.
FOOTBALL SHOP (Beta)
Classic Predators (2003) – 120 Ego Points
Speed Sprint Boots (Prototype) – 300 Ego Points
Training Recovery Pack – 80 Ego Points
Celebration Pack (Locked)
"Oi…" I muttered under my breath, scrolling. "This is mad."
Boots, gear, even locked 'celebration packs'? The system wasn't just giving me skills—it was giving me style. I grinned. "Yeah, safe. This is proper me."
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Back with the Lads
When I walked back into the changing room, Muamba clapped me on the shoulder. "Congrats, Lynch. But don't think this means you've made it. Work starts now."
"Course, mate," I said with a grin. "Don't worry. I'll make you look good."
The room erupted in laughter, some genuine, some mocking.
"Cocky little git," Simpson muttered.
I leaned back on the bench, arms stretched. "Nah, bruv. Just honest."
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Looking Ahead
Later that night, lying in the dorm bed, I couldn't sleep. The chatter of the lads still rang in my ears, but it was the system that had my mind racing.
A stat screen hovered faintly when I focused:
Jeremy Lynch – Arsenal Academy (Trialist Accepted)
Age: 15
Position: Forward/Winger
Ego: 132
Dribbling: 60
Shooting: 55
Passing: 43
Speed: 64
Stamina: 50
Charisma: 58
I stared at the numbers. Low compared to where I needed to be, but higher than yesterday. That was enough.
"Tomorrow, I'll cook them all," I whispered. "Every touch, every shot—they'll remember my name."
The system buzzed softly.
> "Remember, Lynch: The pitch has no friends. Only rivals. Shine brighter, or be forgotten."
I smirked, tucking the blanket tighter. My goofy back-dreads brushed the pillow.
"Goofy or not," I muttered, "this is the start of something bigger."
And with that, I finally drifted off, ready for day one as an Arsenal player.
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