Chapter 7 - Baptism by Burnley
The morning haze hadn't yet lifted over Thorp Arch, but Nathan Perry was already soaked in sweat.
Another sprint, another clash, another sharp bark from a coach.
Thud!
His pass zipped into a teammate's feet, crisp and true.
Whap!
A quick one-two followed, forcing Nathan to twist and stretch to keep up.
Come on... faster. Think faster.
The first team didn't wait for you to catch your breath. They didn't care if you were seventeen. Here, hesitation meant losing the ball, losing ground, losing respect.
And Nathan was learning it the hard way.
Still, every tiny success echoed in his mind:
[+1 Legend Point]
[+2 Legend Points]
[+3 Legend Points – Excellent Training Performance!]
The System rewarded consistency, not flashes of brilliance. And so, Nathan kept grinding, biting down on his pride every time he got shoved off the ball or left trailing behind.
Unfortunately, the players weren't as forgiving as the System.
"Oi, someone fetch the kid a juice box!"
"Don't trip over your shoelaces, rookie!"
"Better get him home before curfew!"
The jibes came from all directions—some teasing, some laced with something colder.
Nathan forced out awkward chuckles when he could. Other times, he just dipped his head, letting the comments wash over him.
But inside, every word scorched him.
Be patient. Let your feet do the talking.
It became his silent mantra. Over and over.
He didn't lash out. He didn't whine.
Instead, he ran harder. Passed sharper. Defended fiercer.
Every bead of sweat, every bruise—he banked them, storing the heat for the right moment.
That night, the entire squad gathered in the meeting room.
The air buzzed with tension. Even the veterans sat a little straighter, tapping fingers or bouncing knees under the tables.
The season opener against Burnley wasn't just another match. It was a statement. Promotion ambitions lived and died by strong starts.
At the front, Coach Michael Grayson stood with a thin folder in his hands, his expression carved from stone.
He spoke without theatrics. No booming speeches. Just sharp, clipped words.
"The opening match against Burnley... won't be easy," he said. "They're disciplined. Physical. They'll try to bully us off the ball."
Grayson's eyes swept the room—taking the measure of every man seated before him.
Nathan felt his palms go clammy. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Then Grayson's gaze locked onto him.
Cold. Direct.
"Nathan," the coach said, his voice slicing through the murmurs, "you're starting. Left wing."
The room shifted.
Not loudly—no one dared. But the ripple of whispers, side glances, barely masked disbelief, spoke volumes.
Him?
The kid?
Against Burnley? Starting?
Nathan sat frozen, his ears roaring.
No turning back now.
Grayson slammed the file shut with a sharp
Bam! that made everyone jump.
"Prove you deserve the shirt,"
he said. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the room simmering with unsaid words.
After the meeting, a few teammates clapped Nathan on the back as they passed. Some out of encouragement. Others... not so much.
"Good luck, kid," muttered Liam Hart, a veteran winger, his tone somewhere between a sneer and a chuckle. "Hope you survive more than ten minutes."
Nathan met his eyes briefly—Liam's were hard, challenging.
Nathan smiled faintly, without humor. "I'll do my best."
Then he walked away, ignoring the burning stares digging into his back.
That night, Nathan lay on his bed at the training ground's dorms, staring up at the ceiling.
He replayed the day over and over—the sprinting drills, the passing games, the bruises blooming across his shins, the snickers echoing through the locker room.
And Grayson's voice, repeating in his head like a war drum:
"Prove you deserve the shirt."
Nathan rolled over, clenching his fists into the blanket.
He wasn't just fighting for a place on the team.
He was fighting for something bigger.
To step out of his father's shadow.
To show that he wasn't just another hopeful doomed to disappear.
To carve his own legend.
He opened his [Legend System] panel, watching the numbers tick upward:
Legend Points: 126
Enough to unlock a random skill before the match if he wanted.
But he hesitated.
Would he need it? Or would he fight with what was already inside him?
Nathan closed the panel with a mental flick.
Tomorrow.
I'll decide tomorrow.
Outside his window, the training ground's floodlights flickered off, plunging the world into darkness.
Nathan closed his eyes and let the silence settle over him.