Cold air clung low across the pitch, crawling over the grass like a living thing.
It was the kind of chill that slipped into your bones and stayed there, the kind that made breath visible and fingers stiff. Most players hated training in weather like this.
Ethan Cross didn't notice it.
The Exeter City academy field stretched wide under a dull gray sky, its white boundary lines sharp and clean, its grass trimmed perfectly. Cleats scraped. Balls thudded. Voices called. Laughter rose.
Everywhere, players moved with confidence.
Everywhere except one spot.
Thud.
A ball rolled weakly across the turf, wobbling like it regretted being kicked.
It stopped halfway to the goal.
Not even close.
Silence followed.
Then came the sound Ethan had grown used to.
A quiet scoff.
"Seriously?"
One of the forwards standing near the penalty box tilted his head. "That's the fifth miss."
Another player chuckled. "At this point I think the cone shoots harder than him."
A few snickers spread. Not loud. Not cruel. Just casual.
Like commenting on the weather.
Ethan didn't react.
Didn't look back.
Didn't defend himself.
He jogged forward, picked up the ball, returned to his starting cone, and set it down carefully. He adjusted it with his foot until the valve faced upward — the way he'd learned produced cleaner strikes.
Behind him, conversation resumed as if he no longer existed.
Which, on the pitch, he mostly didn't.
The academy field was divided into sections.
Defenders on the right practicing clearances.Midfielders in the center running passing drills.Strikers on the left taking shots.
Each section had noise.
Commands. Laughter. Complaints. Friendly trash talk.
Except Ethan's.
He stood alone not because he'd been told to.
Because nobody chose him as a partner.
"Cross."
The voice cut cleanly through the field.
Ethan straightened instantly.
"Yes, coach."
The academy coach didn't raise his voice. He never needed to. His presence alone carried authority — a man who had seen hundreds of youth players come and go, rise and fall, succeed and disappear.
He glanced down at his clipboard.
Then said calmly:
"You're last."
A few players nearby smirked without turning around.
Coach continued in the same tone someone might use to announce the temperature.
"Ranked twenty-fourth out of twenty-four."
No anger.No disappointment.Just fact.
"You lack power. Your sprint speed is below average. Your finishing accuracy is inconsistent. Your positioning is late. Your reaction timing is slow." He paused, eyes scanning the page. "Honestly, I'm not sure what you do well."
Another short pause.
"But," he added, "you show up early. You leave late. So I haven't cut you."
He flipped the page.
"Yet."
Then he walked away.
That was it.
No speech. No lecture.
Just evaluation.
The other players returned to their drills without comment.
To them, the moment had already ended.
To Ethan…
It hadn't even begun.
He stood there staring at the goal.
Not hurt.
Not embarrassed.
Thinking.
His mind replayed his last shot frame by frame.
Plant foot angle.Hip rotation.Ankle lock.Contact point.
He visualized the motion like a slowed replay on a screen only he could see.
My plant foot was two centimeters too far left.
He inhaled slowly.
Reset the ball.
Stepped back.
Adjusted stance.
Ran forward.
Struck.
THUMP
The sound was sharper.
Cleaner.
The ball flew low and fast—
—and slammed into the post.
Metal rang.
The ball ricocheted away.
It still didn't go in.
But it was better.
Much better.
No one noticed.
Except Ethan.
And that was enough.
Training continued.
Drills rotated. Players switched stations. Cones were moved. Whistles blew.
Time passed.
Gradually the sky shifted from gray to pale gold as afternoon crept toward evening.
One by one, players began leaving the field.
Some laughing.Some stretching.Some already talking about dinner plans.
Ethan stayed.
As always.
The field emptied until only one pair of footsteps remained.
He placed six balls in a line.
Stepped back.
Shot.
Collected.
Reset.
Shot.
Collected.
Reset.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His breathing deepened.
Sweat gathered under his collar despite the cold.
His legs grew heavier with each repetition.
But he kept going.
Because stopping felt wrong.
Because leaving felt worse.
Because every missed shot felt like unfinished business.
The sun dipped lower.
Floodlights flickered on overhead with a quiet electrical hum, bathing the pitch in bright white light. The stadium seats beyond the field were empty, rows of silent plastic watching like ghosts.
Ethan placed another ball down.
Ran.
Shot.
Wide.
He didn't react.
Reset.
Shot.
High.
Reset.
Shot.
Weak.
Reset.
His calves trembled now.
His lungs burned.
His shoulders felt like they carried weights.
Still—
Again.
Night settled fully.
The academy grounds were silent except for the dull rhythm of one ball being struck over and over.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
Each shot carried the same determination.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Just refusal.
Finally—
He placed another ball down.
Stepped back.
Whispered quietly:
"One more."
He ran forward.
Swung his leg.
His foot slipped on the damp grass.
The strike misfired.
The ball spun sideways uselessly.
His balance broke.
And he fell.
Hard.
Grass stains smeared across his sleeve. Dirt clung to his knee. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
The stadium lights hummed overhead.
Ethan didn't get up.
Not immediately.
Not because he was hurt.
Because something inside him felt… tired.
Not his body.
Something deeper.
A thought surfaced for the first time in years.
'Maybe they're right.'
Wind drifted across the empty pitch.
'Maybe I really don't have talent.'
His fingers curled slowly into the grass.
Blades bent between them.
His chest rose once.
Twice.
His eyes stayed open.
And the fire inside them didn't fade.
'…but I still want to play.'
Not want.
Need.
The feeling swelled inside his chest until it hurt.
Like something knocking from within.
His heartbeat thudded louder.
Faster.
Harder.
Once.
Twice.
Three times—
DING
The sound didn't come from the field.
Didn't come from the stadium.
Didn't come from anywhere outside.
It came from inside his head.
Ethan froze.
A faint blue glow appeared in the air before him.
Thin lines formed.
Intersected.
Expanded.
A translucent panel unfolded like glass assembling itself from light.
His breathing slowed.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Focus.
Words appeared.
FOOTBALL SYSTEM INITIALIZING
The letters hovered silently.
Unmistakably real.
Unmistakably impossible.
Ethan stared.
Didn't blink.
Didn't panic.
Didn't speak.
Because for the first time in his life…
Something was responding to him.
The screen flickered once.
Text changed.
CONDITION METPASSION DETECTEDUSER ACCEPTED
His heart skipped.
The panel shifted again.
WELCOME, ETHAN CROSS.
The night air felt different.
The field looked different.
The world—
felt different.
Because for the first time…
Ethan Cross wasn't invisible.