The tunnel spat us out onto the grass, and the first thing that hit me was the chill. The sky was slate-grey, the kind of overcast that made the stadium lights look like they were straining against the gloom. A faint drizzle slicked the pitch, just enough to make the ball hop unpredictably but not enough to slow anyone down. Perfect conditions for a slippery winger, and Troy Parron would love it.

  There was quite a crowd today. Apart from not having a full house, you could see pockets of die-hard fans waving flags, kids perched on parents’ shoulders craning for a view, and couples huddled under umbrellas, sipping hot drinks to fight off the chill: Families with scarves, a few hardcore chants echoing from the far corner, and the occasional whistle or barked instruction from the sidelines.

  The Plymouth players lined up first in a neat row of green shirts and white trim. Some of them lads looked bigger up close, broad-shouldered with the kind of build that came from actual gym work, not our half-hearted resistance bands and whoever remembered to stretch before training. Their centre-backs looked like they’d been carved from something mildly illegal to possess, and even their full-backs had that springy energy of players who ran 10k before breakfast for fun.

  Then there was Troy Parron, and his floating stat box.

  Then there were the other attributes:

  Great. He was well-primed.

  Up close, he was even smaller than I expected. Maybe 168–170 cm on a generous day, built like someone had taken a normal winger and hit ‘shrink’ at 80% but didn’t touch the speed stats. He got the package: narrow shoulders, wiry frame, hair damp from the drizzle and sticking up just marginally like he’d sprinted everywhere since waking up. His boots were bright, borderline obnoxious, and he had that bounce to his stance that said he knew he was the most entertaining thing here.

  He scanned down our line, from Palmer to Reeves to our midfield, barely slowing. Then he saw me, and the little bastard scrunched his nose, tipped his chin, and with a smirk that followed, he’d already run the scenario in his head and decided that marking him was going to ruin my day, not his.

  Great. The Demogorgon had a personality. The cheeky little shit.

  With a mental command (‘Activate Live Assessment’), I fired up my new skill: Live Assessment (Rank I) and checked the first important stat.

  Not high. Just what I needed. Low enough to be baitable.

  The ref’s whistle sliced through the drizzle. Plymouth spread out exactly the way Mitch predicted: a clean, efficient 4-4-2, with a midfield that looked compact and their strikers hovered right on the shoulder of our line, testing the space with little shuffles and feints. Classic. Direct passing lanes everywhere. Wingers hugging the touchlines, begging for the ball.

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  We matched up in our usual shape. No surprises from Mitch there. Reeves was already glancing over at Parron every few seconds like he was trying to memorize a wild animal’s patterns.

  “Ready!” someone shouted—probably Okafor, always the loud one.

  My studs bit the wet grass. My breath came out in a pale cloud. The drizzle peppered my hairline.

  Then the whistle came.

  Kick off.

  The ball went straight to their central midfielder named Eagles—the one with the passing vision I’d rated earlier—and he instantly pinged it wide to their right-back. They wanted width early.

  “Shift!” Kowalski barked, pushing the line across as the play drifted to the far side.

  The ball zipped back into the middle, and then diagonally out to Parron.

  We’d just drifted left to cover the switch, and now we had to pull the whole shape back the other way. Brilliant—exactly the kind of early-phase chaos they wanted.

  The home crowd cheered. Parron killed the ball dead with one touch. The second touch nudged it forward just enough to make everyone tense. He didn’t rush. He just . . . waited.

  A trap.

  “Hold!” I called out to Reeves without looking away from Parron. “Don’t jump him yet!”

  The winger tilted his head, as if amused that I’d read the bait. He tapped the ball sideways, and I stepped just a step higher, closing the angle like I’d trained for. He watched my hips like I was the one about to sprint past him.

  And right on cue, their forward made the inside run. The left forward, Schwarzer, cut between our lines with perfectly rehearsed timing. Okafor slid across to close the channel, body angled perfectly to block the through ball. Kowalski drifted in even further, sticking to Schwarzer’s back like Velcro, while out on the far side Palmer was practically on the edge of the box already, tracking their other striker, Hurst, who’d peeled wide to stretch us thin.

  If Parron didn’t pass here, he was actually stupid. The simple ball was screaming at him.

  He cut in anyway.

  Okafor cursed under his breath as Parron slipped the angle clean from him. And suddenly it was me.

  I could practically feel Schwarzer waving somewhere behind me, probably pissed off and begging for the ball. But no. Parron just kept running straight at me with that ever-growing grin of his.

  I activated Live Assessment (Rank I).

  Dribbling should be the obvious one to check, but I already knew he was ridiculous at that. What I needed was the thing that mattered in a one-on-one.

  If I could get a shoulder across him, even a bump, maybe I could disrupt the run before he built up steam.

  A bit higher than I hoped, but I knew just the thing I could do.

  No tackling, I told myself. I knew the type—if I stuck a foot in, he’d flick it around me, maybe even draw a foul, and I’d be flat on my backside before he’d even blinked. From all the clips I’d seen, this kid had a solution for a standing tackle every time.

  I let him come. Fast as he was, he wasn’t expecting anyone to just stand there and take the weight of the run. Parron dribbled in, grinning like he’d already won, and I moved just enough to close the inside lane, cutting off the obvious path to goal.

  I checked behind my shoulder. Kowalski was close enough. I trusted him to cover me.

  He tried to shift outside to beat me around the shoulder. I matched the movement, nudging him just enough with my own hip to make him stumble. I held my ground, forcing him to make the decision he hadn’t thought through: go around me or risk the collision. He tried a slight feint, shifting his body to the outside, but I mirrored the movement perfectly. My shoulder bumped into his, a clean, measured nudge, just enough to unsettle his balance. He had to accelerate out of it, just to keep control of the ball. And just as I expected, Kowalski was already sliding into position, anticipating the spill.

  Even as he stumbled, Parron didn’t lose that stupid little grin. If anything, he cranked it to eleven.

  Most wingers get annoyed when you body them. Parron looked delighted, like he’d finally found someone who didn’t fold on first contact. Challenges, for players like Troy Parron, are probably foreplay.

  We should’ve practiced this. We should’ve talked about how to pin down Parron instead of tossing around warehouse boxes. We didn’t. But Kowalski was savvy enough to read the situation instinctively. Sometimes, one man isn’t enough against a winger like Parron. One holds, one cleans up. I shaped, forced the line, and Kowalski was there to mop up any slip, bobble, or desperate flick.

  I chanced a glance over my shoulder as Kowalski played the ball to Palmer on the left. Schwarzer was there, exactly where Kowalski’d felt him, arms raised in annoyance. He wouldn’t dare kick up a fuss with Parron clearly in his flow, not when he was the golden boy of that front line.

  But pissed?

  Oh yeah. He wore it like aftershave.

  Kowalski and I both looked up at the same time, and our eyes met. That was all it took for us to read each other’s minds.

  We could crack him. Parron wasn’t a puzzle; he was a spotlight addict.

  Kowalski gave a small nod. I could feel him telegraphing to me: Angle him inside to me. Cut the lane. Make him think he can wriggle out. I’ll be waiting.

  We’d force him into making the wrong decision, all the time.