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Chapter 24 — The Noise After the Goal
London Colney, July 20, 2003
Morning hit slow. The kind of dull, grey London light that creeps through the blinds like it's not sure it's welcome. My phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Texts, missed calls, even an email from some football blog I'd never heard of.
"Wonderkid Jeremy Lynch lights up Arsenal friendly."
"Arsenal's next prodigy?"
That kind of noise. All over the place.
I tossed the phone onto the sofa, rubbed my eyes, and just sat there. It was mad how quickly people started talking. One goal, one spin, and now they wanted to make a story out of it.
The System spoke up out of nowhere — that same cold tone that didn't care if it ruined the mood.
Good morning to you, Diamond in the making 💎 "The herd reacts fast. Attention is temporary. Only performance builds power."
I sighed. "Yeah, morning to you too."
> "New feature unlocked: Interface Overview."
A faint flicker passed in front of my eyes — like a ghost of a HUD.
Names: Shop, Rankings (Locked), Evolution (Locked) stats.
Only one lit up faintly: Training Mode — Active.
I blinked, and it faded. No explanation. Typical. The System never told me everything — just enough to make me want to see what was next.
---
Colney was buzzing when I got there.
Everyone already knew. I could feel eyes on me before I even got changed. Some of the lads gave nods, others looked annoyed.
Cesc, the Spanish kid, looked up from tying his boots. "You were the one who scored yesterday, no?"
"Yeah," mate, I was bloody amazing, right?"
He smiled — yes. "Still, to score for the first team… It's something."
He meant it. I could tell, not like some of the others.
Gilberto walked by and gave me a small clap on the shoulder. "Good goal, kid. Keep working."
Then Henry walked in. He had that usual calm swagger, always in control. He stopped by my spot, smirked a little.
"So… the new showman, yeah?"
I looked up. "Just doing my job."
He laughed softly. "Confidence is good. Just don't mistake noise for success."
I didn't answer. I respected him too much to talk back, but deep down, I didn't fully agree. Noise was successful — at least the start of it. If no one's talking about you, you don't exist.
---
Training started light. Passing drills. Touch, movement, rhythm. The usual.
Every time I got the ball, I tried to turn fast, look forward, and attack space. I could feel the coaches watching. Pat Rice had that sharp eye — didn't say anything, but I knew he was making mental notes.
At one point, I got the ball on the left, cut inside too quickly, slipped it through a gap — maybe too ambitious. The ball went wide.
"Keep it simple, Jeremy," Wenger's voice carried across the pitch. Calm, but firm.
I nodded. "Got it, boss."
Inside, though, something in me rebelled. Simple doesn't win. Simple doesn't make headlines.
The System agreed.
> "He wants you average. Coaches love obedience. But obedience never creates diamonds 💎."
I clenched my jaw, half-smiling. "Yeah, I know."
---
After the session, I showered quickly and sat outside with Ryan, who'd shown up with his camera like he always did. He wasn't Arsenal, but he liked to hang around.
"You're all over the papers, fam," he said, handing me a newspaper. "Even BBC Sport wrote about you. That's mad."
I took it. There it was — Jeremy Lynch, 16, scores on senior debut.
I leaned back. "Mad thing is, they don't even know what's coming."
Ryan laughed. "You talking about that future stuff again?"
"Yeah." I grinned. "You'll see. I'm gonna use it smart. Betting, timing, everything."
He whistled. "You're actually serious about that?"
I nodded. "Already made one bet. Porto for the 2004 Champions League."
Ryan blinked. "Porto? Bro, that's a joke."
"You'll see," I said again. "Trust me. Mourinho's coming."
He shook his head, laughing. "You talk like you've seen the future."
I didn't answer.
---
Later that day, the media started showing up outside Colney.
A Sky Sports van. Some guy from The Guardian. A photographer asking if he could get a shot of "the young lad who scored."
It got weird.
When I left through the side exit, one of the journalists caught me. "Jeremy! Quick question — how does it feel to score for Arsenal at sixteen?"
I paused, forced a smile. "Feels like what it should. Just the start."
Then I walked off. Simple, short. I didn't want to sound like some cliché academy kid thanking God and my family. That wasn't me.
Inside my head, though, it was chaos.
Half of me wanted to laugh — all this noise for one friendly goal.
The other half wanted more of it.
---
Back home, I turned on the telly. Sky Sports was replaying the highlights. My turn, my spin, my shot. The commentators are going, "Remember the name."
I watched it maybe five times. Couldn't help it.
The System cut through my thoughts.
> "Enjoy it. You'll need to remember what praise feels like when it turns into hate."
I frowned. "You sound like you've seen this before."
> "Every diamond 💎 begins the same way. Admired. Then envied. Then attacked."
I didn't answer. Just muted the TV.
---
The next morning, Wenger called me into his office.
I knew it was coming.
He sat behind his desk, that calm professor look, fingers laced. "Jeremy, your performance was impressive. But the attention… it can destroy young players faster than failure."
I sat down, quiet.
He leaned forward slightly. "I will not protect you from pressure. You wanted to stand out — now you must handle what comes with it."
"I can handle it," I said.
He nodded slowly. "We will see."
He opened a folder. "Several clubs have asked about a loan. Brentford, Watford, and one from France — Le Havre."
I didn't react, though my chest tightened a bit. A loan? Already?
He studied me. "What do you think?"
"I want to stay," I said. "I'm not done here."
Wenger smiled faintly. "You remind me of others who said that. Henry. Vieira. All ambitious. But sometimes, patience builds strength."
> "Patience is for the weak," the System whispered.
I stared at the floor for a second, then looked back up. "If you think it's best, I'll go. But if I go, I'll come back ready to take someone's spot."
Wenger just nodded. "That's all I ask."
---
That night, I went out to eat with Ryan and a few friends in Camden. Normal stuff — loud music, bad chips, people talking too much. But my mind wasn't there.
Some random guy came up to the table. "Oi, you're that Arsenal kid, yeah? The one who scored!"
Ryan laughed. "See? You're famous already."
The guy leaned closer. "You're gonna be the next Henry, innit?"
I just smirked. "I'll be the first me."
He whistled. "Big words, bruv."
Yeah. Maybe. But I meant it.
---
When I got home, the flat was quiet again. I sat down, looked at my boots still sitting by the door. Same ones from the friendly. Bit of dirt still on them.
The System spoke again, quieter this time.
> "You've taken your first step into the field of egoists. Do you feel it? The hunger? The noise?"
"Yeah," I said. "Feels good."
> "Then remember. The world doesn't care about potential. Only proof. Be selfish enough to survive."
The faint HUD flickered again — Shop, Rankings, Evolution.
All still locked.
Just that one glowing word under it all: Ego — Level 1.
I exhaled, leaned back on the sofa. London rain started tapping against the window. The world outside didn't care that a sixteen-year-old just shook up Arsenal's pre-season.
But I cared.
Because it wasn't luck. It was just step one.
And I already knew what came next.
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(End of Chapter 24)