On my train ride home, I accessed the Training Tab for the first time.

  Clicking into it, I saw a small list of basic drill categories:

  Now what I didn’t understand was ‘Effectiveness Level’. Each drill listed the stats it improved, but those little ‘EL’ numbers were stubbornly opaque.

  I remembered Stella’s suggestion about how a few keywords could get the system to work the way you wanted it to. I tried a few mental commands, and the system responded after I willed ‘Explain Effectiveness Level’.

  I leaned back in my seat, letting the rumble of the train blur into the background. My mind drifted to a couple of defensive drills I’d actually done back in the day, like the ‘shadow box’ lateral-shift exercise, and that angled-run marking drill that forced you to anticipate passes before they happened. Back then, they’d felt exhausting, but effective. Way more than these basic LV 1 routines, I thought.

  The question was… how did I get those into the system? The Training Tab didn’t have a slot for ‘vintage drills’ or ‘personal exercises.’ Normally, it only tracked the preloaded methods, and the stats they were tagged with. Could I force it to recognize something I remembered, purely by intent?

  I closed my eyes and pictured the drills step by step, every movement, every cue for the defender, every mental checkpoint. Then I willed the command almost like I’d spoken it aloud: ‘Register Custom Drill – Defensive Memory Drill’.

  A small prompt popped up in the corner:

  I frowned. Of course it wouldn’t just take memory. My mind had the motions, but the system needed precision: timing, distances, cues, every step. I’d only remembered it in rough outline.

  I swiped through the mental menu, thinking of Stella’s advice again. “Complementary data improves registration,” I muttered to myself. That meant I needed reference clips, demonstrations, maybe even commentary from pros to fill the gaps.

  Let’s get on the Tube and search for videos of the drill, I guess.

  After a while of combing through clips, pausing, rewinding, and layering my memory with what the system provided, I saw the registration bar creep upward: 81 . . . 88 . . . 94 . . . The bloke demonstrating the drill had the most people-pleaser demeanor imaginable. Every ‘just like this, folks!’ had me ready to throttle him, but at least his instructions were clear.

  Finally, with a soft chime and a little pop-up animation, it hit 100%.

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  Flushed with success, I tried to recall a few more staples from defensive training. With some more research, I was able to register a couple more.

  I noticed I was about to level up to Level 2. The notes down below showed what I’d unlock:

  Out of the train station, I started walking, thinking about what I could do to get that final 10 EXP. I passed the corner where that little football pitch had been ever since I’d moved to Dunsvale. A group of kids were at it, a sloppy but earnest 5-a-side, trainers squeaking, the ball bouncing unpredictably, shouts echoing against the brick walls.

  Then I remembered I could gain Player Rep. That must mean I’d also possess stats as a player. Maybe there’s a way to cheat a little reality into this system. I willed the mental command: Scan Nearby Player Opportunities.

  Almost instantly, a small notification popped into view:

  This would probably qualify as ‘cheesing the system’ or ‘abusing the mechanics’, but I didn’t care. FMSim had to give me something in return after having me go through that horrendous UI.

  I lingered on the edge of the pitch, pretending to spectate. The kids were all over the place, shouting like the world depended on it. One kid was the ‘goalie’, crouched behind the posts like a frightened meerkat, clearly ready to bolt at the first flying ball. One kid, the smallest of the lot, was treating every moment like a personal highlight reel, dribbling, shooting, repeat. I could see the sky-high shots coming. Better stay close.

  Sure enough, the kid thumped a wild strike that bounced off the post, ricocheted into the weeds, and disappeared. Perfect. I jogged over and retrieved the ball.

  “Hey, how about I take a turn?” I said casually. The dribbling kid glanced over, wide-eyed, clearly unsure if adults were supposed to exist here at all.

  I cupped the ball and smiled. “Look, I’ll be honest. I used to be a League One defender once. Don’t snigger.”

  A chorus of snorts and a kid shouting, “Prove it!” made me grin. Smug credentials only get you so far with twelve-year-olds. What gets them is something they can immediately use.

  “Alright,” I said, bouncing the ball once. “I’ll teach you a sneaky trick that’ll get your shots on target more often. It’s stupidly simple: sell the dummy, get the keeper to bite, then toe-poke the rebound into the far corner. Nobody teaches the toe-poke anymore, and keepers never expect it from a defender.”

  They clustered round, suspicious but curious. I showed them the movement: small hop to sell the shot, plant, fake with the laces, then a quick toe-poke as the keeper lunged. I took two steps back and let the smallest lad at the edge try it. He overcooked the first one and skyed it so high a pigeon got a fright. The kids laughed. The second time, I corrected his weight distribution, showed him to keep the shin down and not to swing the hips. He toe-poked, the ball skimmed past the keeper’s outstretched hand and clattered into the net.

  Their faces changed. Respect is built on results. “Teach me that!” one of them gasped. “Show me again!” another demanded.

  The goalie, who’d been eyeing me the whole time, straightened up. “You good, mister?” he asked, less like a question and more like a negotiation.

  “Yeah,” I said, tucking the ball under my arm. “I’ll play. I’ll stay on your side though. Can’t have you blaming an old bloke if you lose.”

  The system flashed in my peripheral vision:

  Opportunity, as ever, had a way of finding you when you were closest to the ball.