The table had been updated. Before the game against Hungerford, it looked something like this:

  We were only five points away from the relegation zone, and sixteen off the playoff spot. After the heroic 2-2 ‘win’ against Plymouth Parkway, we were now . . .

  . . . 16 points away from playoff and 4 away from relegation. Tiverton Rangers had somehow shipped in 6 goals against fellow strugglers Whyteleafe, while all the top teams aside from Plymouth got their wins. Here were the results in detail:

  Now that wasn’t a very nice sight to see, but so was our performance. I had a good look at our starting lineup, one that had been automatically registered into the system:

  There were obvious problems in how the team operated. The left side was too safe, and our right side wasn’t fluid enough. Okafor needed to be much more involved in the build-up; he had that engine of the workhorse, possibly amongst the best in the division. Our attack was blunt. We didn’t have enough players who could decide a match on their own, which meant control mattered more than creativity. That put responsibility on the midfield, and especially on Okafor. He was not utilized nearly enough.

  One thing that kept distracting me from analyzing the game properly, was the number 116 attached next to my name.

  That had to be my overall rating.

  I hated it on principle. Overall ratings were lazy. They flattened players into something tidy and comparable, when football never worked that way. You didn’t win matches by collecting the highest numbers; you won them by fitting pieces together until the system stopped leaking. Still . . . I couldn’t deny it was useful, as a rough guide. Some people loved numbers; any numbers. You just had to give it to them.

  But how could I unlock overall ratings for other players, then?

  Then another line slid into view, small and faint, like it hadn’t wanted to interrupt.

  Five?

  I’d already unlocked four. That much I knew. Leveling up gave two at a time, which meant there had to be ways to unlock single attributes somewhere. Probably through quests. Which meant . . . it’s system exploitation time, baby.

  I let my eyes drift from the screen, replaying the match in my head. If I wanted an attribute, I needed to give it a reason to surface one.

  I jogged back into the stadium under the pretext of having forgotten something in the dressing room. The place was already dying, wtih the lights dimmed and stewards pacing toward exits.

  On impulse, I cut back along the touchline instead.

  And right there—near the right channel, just outside the box—someone was still dribbling: Schwarzer from Plymouth.

  He had a ball at his feet, no cones, no markers. He slowed down, nudged the ball forward, dropped a shoulder, pushing it past an invisible man. Stop. Reset. Same motion again. Over and over.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  His touches weren’t clean enough to impress anyone. The feints were exaggerated, almost clumsy. But he kept going.

  I exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh. More social interactions. I could do this.

  I slowed to a jog as I came up the touchline and clapped once to get his attention. “Still at it?”

  He looked up, clearly startled, then relaxed when he saw it was just me. His eyebrows went up. “Didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “Thought I’d left something in the dressing room.”

  He rolled the ball under his sole, considering me. “Guess I’m hard to get rid of.”

  “Or hard to satisfy.”

  That earned a short laugh. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Something like that.”

  “You always train like this? No cones, no patterns?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Unlike you, cones don’t jockey me.” Fair answer.

  I stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd him. “Mind if I ask why so late?”

  Schwarzer snorted. “You ate me alive. Didn’t bite on a single feint. Every time I thought I had you, you were already there.”

  I shrugged. “I used to deal with pro footballers. I’m too old now, but I still remember a trick or two.”

  “Pro?” he said. “You don’t move like one of those academy lads who say they’ve gone pro.”

  “Because I didn’t come through an academy,” I replied.

  “Where, then?”

  “Lower leagues,” I said. “Then not so lower. Played long enough to learn what defenders actually look at when they’re scared. I’d tell you where I came from, but you’d have to dribble past me first.”

  He rolled the ball back toward himself, thinking. “You waiting for the groundsman to kick us out, or . . .?”

  “Or,” I said, “if you want a live defender, I can help.”

  That did it.

  He stared at me, then actually stopped moving, one foot resting on top of the ball. “You serious?”

  “If you are. Ten dribbles; let’s see how many you can get past me.”

  “Yeah. That’d be neat, actually.”

  Easy. Now I just had to bait out the feints. Do that, and the quest would seal itself.

  Come at me then.