Saturday came, and right on . . . As I’d expected, my name was on the lineup. I stared at my stamina gauge, and it was at 62%, still very far off from the minimum needed, which from my experience, was at 80% for someone at full sharpness. I wasn’t; and my day job had blocked me from having any meaningful downtime to recuperate. Nonetheless, I’d told Mitch I’d start, provided he sub me out at the 60-minute mark, sharp.

  That was because I had a plan.

  I was now in front of a modest stand overlooking the University of Central Lancashire’s football pitch, a good fifty miles south of Burnley. I’d come to watch, and to pick up every detail I could from a tier-appropriate match with players who’d chosen education when the professional pathway stalled, not because the ambition died. Just like Alex Hurst had advised.

  Today, though, I wasn’t scouting anyone yet.

  “Wow. First time I’ve ever voluntarily stepped foot on a football pitch, ever. I feel like a cat at a dog show,” came Stella’s voice from beside me. Somehow, for someone who was dressed in a simple gray sweatshirt and faded jeans, she still looked like she belonged nowhere near functional society. She had a band of brightly colored sticky tabs looped through her belt, a pen with a spring-loaded clip poking from the cuff of her sleeve, and a pair of sneakers with mismatched laces—one neon green, one electric orange. Even standing still, she drew attention, and that was the last thing I needed.

  “I can already see three things that are going to make this weekend utterly exploitable. And that’s before anyone touches a ball,” Stella announced. As she should. That was the entire reason why I’d asked her to tag along.

  For the two attributes I’d chosen, they were Pace and Acceleration. Not only were they the literal attributes I needed to gauge the speed demons I was aiming for, but it’d help me this weekend defending against Portishead’s strikers.

  I was already half-convinced that just being here would trigger some sort of quest. If the system worked on any kind of narrative logic, a scouting quest should’ve been practically guaranteed.

  But Stella just snorted when I told her that. “That’s you expecting the expected. You need to really dig for more.”

  I frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything,” she said flatly. “That’s walking into a door and hoping it gives you loot. QA doesn’t test the happy path—we poke the edge cases.” She nodded toward the pitch, where players were still scattered in warm-ups. “Systems love small, deniable triggers. Look at those players warming up, J. Look at how they’re doing them. See if you catch anything weird.”

  Weird, huh. I can do that.

  I narrowed my focus.

  Most of them were doing the drill properly. Sprint on the cue, hard stop, jog back, repeat. Honest work.

  Then I spotted the one who wasn’t. He was quick—no question there—but that wasn’t what stood out. It was how little he seemed to suffer for it. Every time the line reset, he positioned himself half a step ahead of the rest, not enough to look like he was cheating, just enough that his first stride ate free distance. When the whistle went, he was already moving while everyone else was still committing.

  Acceleration looked great at a glimpse. Pace too. Coaches’ dream.

  But the stat only showed him having 78 Pace and 97 Acceleration.

  But on the deceleration, he ghosted it. He never hit a true stop. Instead of planting and braking like the others, he bled speed early, turned his sprint into a long glide, then jogged the last few metres with his hands loose at his sides. He always finished the drill looking compliant, but he’d shaved the hardest part off every single rep. It was the footballing equivalent of clocking in on time, making a tea, and not actually starting anything until half past.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Here we go.

  Stella must’ve seen my grin, as she arched her brow. “You got it?”

  “I got it.”

  With Stella’s help and my own astute observations, I managed to rack up 190 EXP over five different mini-quests. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a lad there who was fast enough and had good fundamentals, but you could always try again. Now with 330 Xpoints in hand, the cheating part was almost insultingly simple.

  I opened the shop.

  The moment I activated it, my stamina gauge jumped: 62% → 82%

  But the number didn’t do it justice.

  The fatigue didn’t fade so much as it got overwritten. The heaviness in my calves vanished. My lungs stopped feeling like they were wrapped in cling film. I felt like necking a lukewarm can of Monster at a bus stop in Preston at eight in the morning after three hours of sleep, knowing full well it’s a terrible idea. All the good stuff and none of the sugar crashes.

  I grinned to myself. Now I was primed for the game.

  Hungerford’s home ground, Bulpit Lane, was your typical local ground. The grass looked better from a distance than it felt underfoot. Patchy in the channels, slightly spongy near the centre circle, and worn thin in the exact spots where wingbacks always stopped too hard. You could tell which areas had seen one winter too many. Everything else about it was acceptable, apart from that one corner that had a smell reminiscent of the gents at The Red Lion in Burnley on a bad night.

  I caught Kowalski’s eye as we spread out, and he gave me a quick thumbs-down then pointed—our shorthand for hold the line unless I shout. We’d gone over it in the dressing room: when to squeeze, when to shepherd wide, who shouted first if their nine tried to split us. We’d come prepared today.

  Portishead lined up in a 4-3-3, just like the scouting notes said they would. Needing points does that to teams; it pushes them into shapes that look brave on paper and fragile under pressure.

  I let the system overlays slide into place and checked their front three. They were nothing scary.

  Pace, Decision-Making, Composure . . . every relevant number sat stubbornly below seventy. They wanted to play. They just didn’t have the tools to force it.

  Which made them the perfect prey for EXP farming today.

  I picked the booster I’d bought early, and consumed it.

  Bring it on, lads. I’ll block you so clean you’ll know me as the second coming of Van Dijk.

  The whistle blew.

  0’ – Hungerford 0 - 0 Portishead