Leo stared at Ethan, his mouth slightly agape.
He blinked a couple of times, then let out a short, nervous laugh. "Dude, what are you talking about? ’The game signed him’? It’s a video game, Ethan. A super advanced, crazy-expensive one, but still a game. It pulls data from the real world; it doesn’t change it."
"Doesn’t it?" Ethan countered, his mind racing, connecting invisible dots.
"Think about it, Leo. This isn’t just any game. It’s a VMMORPG with a neural-dive interface. The entry fee is a fortune. GridironGuru said the creators gave him one exclusive pass. Why so exclusive? What if the processing power required to run this thing is insane because it’s constantly syncing with reality in a way we don’t understand?"
"Okay, you’re officially going full sci-fi movie on me," Leo said, shaking his head, but he was smiling.
"So your theory is that when the game’s ’Wonderkid Allocation Protocol’ picked Emre Demir for you, it triggered something in the real world? Like, it sent a ghost offer to Fenerbahçe’s management that they couldn’t refuse?"
"I don’t know how it works!" Ethan admitted, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustrated excitement.
"But the timing is too perfect. The biggest transfer story of the day involves the exact SSS-Rank player who just fell into my lap in a brand-new game. What are the odds of that?"
Leo leaned back on the bench, stroking his chin in mock seriousness.
"Okay, let’s play this out. So, you, Ethan Couch, from this little neighborhood, are now the secret, shadow manager of one of the world’s biggest footballing prospects."
"And your team, Apex United, which exists only in a server somewhere, now has his official player registration."
"It sounds crazy when you say it like that," Ethan conceded, a grin spreading across his face.
"It sounds awesome when I say it like that!" Leo corrected, his eyes gleaming.
"This is a million times better than just getting a lucky player in a game. This is like... a conspiracy. A football conspiracy! And you’re at the center of it!"
The sheer, exhilarating absurdity of it all washed over them. They both burst out laughing. The idea was so wild, so far-fetched, that it looped all the way back around to being plausible in the strange new world Ethan had entered.
"I’m starving," Ethan said suddenly, his stomach rumbling.
"All this interdimensional football management has made me hungry."
"There’s that late-night kebab place open near the station," Leo suggested instantly.
"My treat. A celebratory ’Congratulations on Becoming a Secret Football Overlord’ kebab."
They walked through the quiet streets, the conversation buzzing with possibilities. They didn’t talk about formations or tactics, but about the bigger picture.
What other players could he get? Could he influence real-world matches? Was GridironGuru in on the secret? Every question was more exciting than the last.
They sat on a low wall outside the brightly lit shop, devouring their food.
The warm, savory taste of the kebab was a grounding, real-world sensation that contrasted perfectly with the wild, digital nature of their conversation.
"You have to be careful, though," Leo said, his tone turning more serious between bites.
"If this is real, even in a weird way, people would kill for what you have. Don’t go telling everyone your wonderkid is linked to the real world."
"Only you know," Ethan said, and he meant it.
"And my family, but they just think it’s a fancy PlayStation."
"Keep it that way," Leo advised.
"Be the quiet genius. Let them all wonder how a League One team suddenly has a world-beater on their hands."
After they finished, they parted ways with a handshake that felt more significant than usual. As Ethan walked the last few blocks home, the cool night air did little to calm the storm in his mind.
He felt a weight on his shoulders, but it wasn’t a burden. It was the thrilling weight of purpose.
He crept back into his house, his heart still pounding. His family was asleep.
The house was dark and silent. He tiptoed to his room, his eyes immediately drawn to the sleek white pod. He had to know more. He had to get back in, check on Demir’s status, maybe run one more tactical briefing.
He slipped into the pod, the familiar hum washing over him as he lay back. The world went dark. He was ready for the rush, for the transition back to his office.
But instead of his command center, a simple, elegant message appeared in the void.
[It is currently 23:45 on August 5th.]
[Match Day Protocol is engaged for your friendly vs. Bradford City.]
[Manager access to club facilities will be unlocked at 08:00 on August 6th.]
[Please rest. A successful manager is a well-rested manager.]
Ethan’s eyes snapped open. He was still in his room. He sat up, staring at the pod. Of course. It made perfect sense. The game’s clock was synced to real-world time.
His match wasn’t just a simulation he could start whenever he wanted. It was an event, scheduled for tomorrow. He couldn’t fast-forward. He had to wait, just like a real manager.
The realization sent a fresh wave of anticipation through him. It made everything feel even more real, more concrete. Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs novel✶fire.net
He got out of the pod and crawled into his actual bed. Sleep, however, was a long way off. He tossed and turned, his mind a whirlwind of tactical diagrams and player names. He imagined the roar of the crowd, the pre-match handshake with the opposing manager, the first whistle.
He pictured Gabriel Sara spraying passes from midfield. He pictured his striker holding up the ball. Most of all, he pictured Emre Demir, in the Apex United blue, receiving the ball on the half-turn, ready to make magic happen.
It was the longest night of his life.
He finally drifted off into a restless sleep, only to be woken by the first rays of sun filtering through his curtains. He was up instantly, his heart thumping with a nervous, joyful rhythm. It was Match Day.
He went through the morning routine in a daze. He barely tasted his breakfast. His mom wished him luck on his "big computer game," and his dad gave him a thumbs-up. Sarah just shook her head with a small smile, as if to say, don’t forget to come up for air.
At precisely eight o’clock, he was back in his room. He took a deep, steadying breath and lay down in the pod.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[GOOD MORNING, COACH COUCH.]
[LOADING MATCH DAY ENVIRONMENT...]
This time, there was no infinite white space, no virtual mentor. The darkness dissolved directly into a scene of vibrant, focused energy.
He was standing in the middle of a dressing room. The scent of liniment and fresh laundry hung in the air. His players were all there, some stretching, some listening to music on headphones, others quietly staring at their lockers.
They were wearing the full Apex United home kit—the royal blue shirts, the white trim—and they looked magnificent. They looked like a team.
The low hum of the non-existent crowd was a palpable force, a promise of the battle to come.
A calm, professional-looking NPC in a club tracksuit—his new assistant manager—walked up to him and handed him a tablet. On the screen was his starting eleven, the 4-2-3-1 he had chosen the night before.
"The lads are warmed up and ready, Coach," the assistant said, his voice a perfect blend of respect and readiness.
"The tactical briefing is loaded. The opposition report is in. The stage is set."
He looked from the tablet to the faces of his players, who were now turning to him, their expressions expectant, waiting for their leader.
He was no longer a boy in a bedroom. He was their manager.
"The team is ready for you," his assistant finished, his eyes locked on Ethan’s. "Just give the word."