The morning after the Emerald victory felt different. Not just in Leo's body—which hummed with a residual, electric ache—but in the very air of Crossfield.
As he finished his morning jog, the city seemed sharper, the edges of buildings more defined against a pale blue sky. His breath plumed in the cool air, rhythmic and strong.
His mind kept replaying the final moments. The parting of the green sea. King's perfect pass. The net rippling.
But overlaid on that was a newer, more unsettling memory: King's smile. Not the cold, triumphant smirk he gave crowds, but the brief, sharp curve of his lips as he'd tapped Leo's chest. It was a transaction. An acknowledgement. You saw it. I executed it. It meant more than any cheering crowd ever could, and that realization was somehow terrifying.
He rounded the corner onto his street. His pace was noticeably faster since the Griffin Cup grind began. He slowed to a cool-down walk. That's when he saw her.
His mother, Clara, was struggling at their front door. Both arms were laden with heavy, sagging grocery bags. One plastic handle had already stretched thin, threatening to snap.
She was fumbling with her keys, her head tilted in familiar frustration as she tried, for the thousandth time, to insert it the wrong way.
A surge of protective energy—different from the competitive kind—flooded Leo's tired legs. He broke into a light sprint, closing the distance just as the overstretched bag finally gave way.
He caught it before it hit the ground, his hand snapping out on reflex. A can of tomatoes threatened to roll away, but he scooped it up.
Clara jumped, then turned. Seeing him, the tension in her face melted into a warm, weary smile. "I know, I know," she said, her voice carrying the soft rasp of a long day already begun. "You don't have to tell me. It's the wrong way."
She reversed the key, slotted it home correctly, and the lock clicked open with a satisfying thunk. Leo shouldered the door open, following her into the comforting, dim quiet of their hallway.
He toed off his sweaty sneakers by the mat, the familiar ritual grounding him. The adrenaline of the match and the strange intensity of King's recognition began to recede, replaced by the domestic reality of helping his mother unpack.
"Here, let me," he said, taking two of the heavier bags from her and carrying them to the small kitchen.
They worked in comfortable silence, a well-practiced duet. He unloaded packets of rice and pasta; she began arranging cans in the cupboard.
Then Leo's hands stilled. He pulled out two large, fragrant pineapples, their green crowns sharp and fresh, followed by a big, bright bunch of bananas, perfectly yellow.
He held them up, turning to his mother with a frown. "Don't these cost a fortune this time of year?"
Clara didn't turn from the cupboard, her voice deliberately light. "They were on a discount sale. Plus, you need the potassium. And the vitamins. Got to keep my striker strong." She said the last word with a tentative pride that made his chest tighten.
Leo shook his head, placing the fruit carefully on the counter. "Mum, it's not compulsory. I don't need—"
"I can't make it to your matches."
The words, quiet and firm, stopped him. She finally turned around, leaning against the counter. There was no guilt in her eyes, only a deep, steadfast resolve. "I can't be in the stands because the rent won't pay itself. So, let me help from the sidelines. In my own way."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window, seeing something far away. "I used to… I'd pack your father's bag before away games. His favorite snacks. A silly note. I couldn't always travel with the team—the fashion house was so demanding—and I'd feel terrible. But his brother, your uncle A.J, he told me something." Her voice grew softer, laced with the ghost of an old memory. "He said, 'Clara, if you can't be there in the stands, be the reason he's strong enough to stand on that pitch. Support from the sidelines.'"
The weight of her words, of a shared history he'd only ever glimpsed, settled in the small kitchen. He saw it then—not just his mother's sacrifice, but her own inherited playbook for love.
He crossed the space between them in two strides and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. She stiffened for a second, surprised by the sudden affection, then melted, reaching up to pat his sweaty head.
"Alright, alright, you big lump," she grumbled, her voice thick. "I'll take it from here. Go get washed. You smell like a swamp monster."
Leo laughed, the sound freeing something in the room, and bounded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
In his room, the post-match euphoria converted into pure, restless energy. He grabbed the sturdy curtain rod—his makeshift pull-up bar—and hoisted himself up.
One. Two. Three.
His body responded easier than ever. The grinding daily objectives—the planks, the punishing runs—were carving their results into him. The fatigue that used to linger for days was now a deep, satisfied ache that faded faster.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
He dropped down, panting but not spent. His new limit. He peeled off his sweat-soaked tank top and tossed it toward the laundry basket, catching his reflection in the mirror as he passed.
He stopped. Backed up.
For months, his reflection had been the same: lanky, narrow-shouldered, the physique of a thinker, not a fighter. But now… lines etched his abdomen.
Not the sculpted six-pack of a magazine model, but definite, hard ridges where before there had been softness. His shoulders had filled out, his biceps showing a clear, rounded curve when he flexed.
He'd been so focused on the data, the system, the tactics, he hadn't seen it. The grind had a physical receipt.
Heart pounding with a new kind of excitement, he snatched his father's glasses from the desk and put them on.
"Display Stats."
The blue text materialized, but the layout had evolved.
USER: REED, LEO
ASSESSMENT TIER: DEVELOPING U18 STANDARD
• PACE: 65 → 70
•CONTROL: 55 → 65
•SHOOTING: 55 → 65
•PASSING: 70 → 75
•REACTION: 60 → 70
•PHYSICAL: 60 → 70
[SYSTEM NOTE: Comprehensive growth across all foundational metrics. User is exceeding projected trajectory. Physical transformation congruent with intensive competition-level conditioning.]
Leo stared. U18 level. He wasn't at King's or Rin's rarefied peak yet, but he was no longer trailing in the dust. He was in the game. The system's cold analysis confirmed what the mirror showed: he was being rebuilt.
The shower was a baptism. He stood under the spray, letting the water drum against his muscles, washing away the sweat and the lingering phantom sensation of King's tap on his chest.
Afterward, wrapped in a towel, he peeked into his mother's room. She was already asleep, one arm thrown over her eyes, exhausted by the early shift and the emotional weight of their kitchen conversation.
A pang of guilt and love shot through him.
In the kitchen, he found the proof of her sideline support: a small plate covered in cling film, piled high with freshly cut, golden pineapple chunks.
He took it, the sweetness bursting on his tongue as he headed back to his room, to his real work.
Apex High was in the semi-finals. The impossible was now a concrete obstacle.
In two days, they'd have to defeat Seagulls Academy. It was not just a school—the feeder academy for the professional Seagulls FC. Their reputation was clinical, merciless.
He'd heard the analysis: a killer central triangle, CAM to CF, that had dismantled every opponent with clean sheets. Their chemistry was telepathic.
But his research, cross-referenced with the system's pattern recognition, found a crack: their brilliant CAM, Brian was sitting on a yellow card. He'd play, but he'd be cautious. Less aggressive in the tackle. A half-second of hesitation.
That was all Leo needed. He dove into the footage, the system helping him tag players, map movements, and run probability simulations.
He didn't see a team; he saw a circuit board. Brian was the central processor. To disrupt the system, you didn't smash the board; you introduced a glitch to the CPU.
Hours bled away, the afternoon light shifting across his wall of diagrams. He was so deep in the flow that he didn't hear his mother leave for her second job, only finding the note she'd left on the stairs: "Pineapple in fridge. Knock 'em dead, striker."
It was only when his phone buzzed on the desk, shattering his focus, that he surfaced.
Daisy: Hey. Can you meet at the park?
A different kind of energy, nervous and bright, replaced his tactical focus. He took off his glasses and threw on a clean t-shirt and jogged to the park, the evening air cool on his skin.
He saw her from a distance. She was alone, a ball at her feet, practicing not drills, but artistry.
A soft tap with her instep, a fluid bounce to her knee, a transfer to the other knee, then a graceful jump, heading the ball up before volleying it in a clean arc toward the rusted playground goalpost. It hit the metal with a satisfying clang.
He clapped as he walked up. "If I could do half of that, I'd be on my way to pro."
She turned, a smile breaking across her freckled face. "You're getting there, trash-can champion." She jogged to retrieve the ball. "Wanna play?"
He nodded, and a gentle, laughing game of 1v1 ensued. Daisy was sharp. Her dribbling was intuitive, her body feints natural. She wasn't at the brutal efficiency of the Griffin Cup elites, but she was miles ahead of Leo a month ago.
He found himself not just defending, but reading her—and deliberately holding back. Letting her have the space to shine, enjoying the simple joy of her movement.
After a series of slick turns where he could have intercepted but didn't, she finally stopped, trapping the ball under her foot. Her smile faded into a look of gentle accusation.
"You're letting me win."
Leo was caught. He'd been watching a bead of sweat trace a path from her temple down her cheek, catching the dying light. She looked so fiercely, genuinely cute that his brain short-circuited. Her words barely registered.
He opened his mouth, and the truth, unvarnished and terrifying, fell out.
"I like you, Daisy."
The world froze. Her eyes went wide. She turned her back to him, her shoulders stiff.
A cold wave of horror crashed over him. Idiot. Stupid. You ruined it. He was mentally composing a frantic apology when she spoke, her voice quiet but clear.
"I like you too, Leo."
The relief was so intense it felt like a punch. Then her next words tempered it.
"But we can't act on these feelings. At least, not now." She turned back to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze was steady, mature.
"Yesterday… when I heard King was benched and you were starting, I spent the whole first half of my match unable to breathe. I was so scared for you. And so… distracted." She sighed, the sound full of a frustration that mirrored his own. "I can't afford that. And neither can you."
She took a step closer, a new determination in her eyes. "Let's make a promise."
She held out her hand, her pinky finger extended. A gesture from childhood, freighted with adult stakes.
Hesitantly, Leo linked his pinky with hers. Her skin was warm.
She looked directly into his eyes, her expression solemn. "Until we both make it to the pro league… we'll remain just friends. We focus on our own games. No distractions. Deal?"
It was a pact of ambition, a postponement written in hope. It hurt, but it was a clean, honest hurt. He nodded. "Deal."
A brilliant, relieved smile broke across her face. Before he could process it, she stepped forward and wrapped him in a tight, fierce hug. He stood stunned, his arms hanging at his sides, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and perfume.
Then, soft and quick as a butterfly landing, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Just as suddenly, she released him, took a step back, and gave him a wobbly smile. "See you at the semi-final, Leo. Go break their triangle."
She turned and walked away, not toward the bus stop, but in the direction of Hal's Sports Gear, leaving Leo standing alone in the middle of the park, his cheek burning where her lips had been, a new, complicated warmth spreading through his chest.
He had a promise with his rival. A promise with his… friend. And in two days, he had to find a way to break an academy's perfect system.
The sidelines, he was learning, were more crowded and complicated than they looked.