"LEON!"
Coach Thompson's thunderous roar shattered the silence of Brighton City's locker room. Spit nearly flew into Leon's face.
"Have you seen yourself play these last weeks? Pathetic. Slow. You wander around the pitch like a sleepwalker! I don't need deadweight on my team!"
He clenched a freshly printed FA Cup squad list, crushed it in his fist, and threw it at Leon's feet.
"Forget the starting eleven. You're not even making the bench. You embarrassed us—now get out."
The locker room froze. Only snickering from the corners.
Leon stood there, feeling every pair of eyes burning holes through him. He wanted to explain—say it was just a slump, that he'd been training like a madman—but no words came. His throat closed.
Thompson swung to another target: "And you, Max! Screw up the next match and you'll be joining Leon watching from the stands!"
Max Williams—golden boy, son of a minority shareholder—lifted his eyes lazily, smirked, and mouthed at Leon:
"Trash."
When the coach finally left, laughter crashed down on Leon.
Max strolled closer and nudged the crumpled paper with his boot.
"Well, useless? Coach said to clear out. Go on—empty your locker."
Voices rose from around the room:
"Guys like him drag the club down."
"You don't reach the Premier League with ballast."
Leon clenched his fists, staring at Max's smug face.
He had crawled through hell to join the academy. Trained nights. Climbed inch by inch toward the first team. But lately everything was collapsing: the ball bounced wrong, shots sailed into the clouds, confidence evaporated.
"What are you staring at?" Max stepped up. "Don't like it? Try fixing yourself first, hero. Or fly back home. Football in your country is, what, Sunday-league level?"
Leon shot to his feet.
"Say that again."
"Go on, hit me," Max spread a grin across his face. "Do me a favor. You'll be out of the club tomorrow."
Leon burned inside—but didn't move. Max was right: one punch, and his career was dead.
"Coward," Max said with a smirk.
The players walked out. Nobody approached him. Nobody even glanced his way.
Leon was left alone. An empty locker room—and him, like a stray dog kicked into an alley.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his girlfriend. The one person he thought would stand by him.
He opened it—and the world collapsed.
"Leon, let's break up. You can't give me the life I want. Don't text me again."
A photo was attached.
Her—radiant, glowing—wrapped in the arms of Chelsea's star striker, the handsome millionaire who earned more in a week than Leon did in a year.
She looked at that man the way she had never looked at Leon.
He remembered how he saved for months to buy her a gift. How she wrinkled her nose: "cheap."
In the photo, the necklace on her neck cost more than his annual salary.
Football humiliation. Betrayal. Collapse. All in a single day.
Leon sank onto the bench, covering his face. His shoulders trembled. He remembered dreaming of stepping onto a big stadium just once. Begging fate for one more chance.
Now—nothing. The end.
Time passed. Buckets clattered in the hallway—the janitor had started his shift.
Leon stood up. Opened his locker. His Brighton City jersey hung there, with his name and number.
He ran a hand across the crest.
A goodbye.
He packed his things. Cleats last.
He zipped the bag…
And then—
"Ding. Host's mental state: critical. Conditions met. Initiating…"
Leon froze.
"Who's there?" he whispered, looking around the empty room.
The voice continued:
"Football Superstar Development System activating… 10%… 50%… 100%. Binding complete. Welcome, Leon."
A translucent screen flashed before his eyes—listing his attributes. Harsh, low, merciless.
Overall rating: 49.
Amateur. Zero.
Rock bottom.
But at the bottom of the screen, a golden chest gleamed:
"New Player Starter Pack. Open?"
Leon stood still, heart pounding. A final thread of hope.
"What do I have to lose?" he whispered.
And pressed Open.