Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Lars was already pushing through the group when Wickliff got there.

He’d torn his trousers somewhere between the press seats and the pitch-side, which gave him the slightly frantic energy of a man who had committed physically to this moment and intended to get something out of it. He had his press pass out, his recorder up, and he was three steps from Mateo before Wickliff stepped in front of him.

”Mateo Silva is not available for interview,” Wickliff said. Calm, flat, no apology in it. ”Youth team players don’t speak to press. Club policy.”

Lars opened his mouth. Wickliff held his position without expression.

The teammates surrounding Mateo had already started moving toward the tunnel, carrying the noise of the celebration with them — Silva, Silva — and Mateo went with them. Lars watched the group disappear into the tunnel and exhaled. He still had his notes, his photos, the footage Marco had posted. Enough for a story. A good one.

He turned and walked back toward the press area, pulling at the tear in his trousers as he went.

The locker room was the loudest it had been since Daniel arrived at this club.

He went around the room - a hand on this shoulder, a word to that player, with the particular warmth of a coach who had spent his professional career building toward moments like this and was determined not to let it pass without marking it. Benedict got a lecture on his movement that was more praise than critique. Ben Kehi was told he’d distributed better in the second half than he had in three training sessions combined.

When he reached Mateo he simply nodded.

Mateo nodded back.

”Day off tomorrow,” Daniel announced to the room. ”All of you. You’ve earned it.”

The response was immediate and total - thirty people shouting his name at the same volume used for goals, which Daniel accepted with the expression of a man who had not expected this but was not displeased by it.

The team bus left the stadium at half past five.

Mateo sat near the back. Out the window, Gelsenkirchen was moving in the opposite direction in the late-afternoon light - groups of people in Schalke blue heading toward the stadium for the evening’s Bundesliga fixture, scarves up, chanting something he could hear faintly through the glass.

One by one, the stops came. Ben Kehi stepped off at a junction in the city centre, turning back to stick his head through the door: ”Last chance, Mateo. We’re going to Kreuzeck. Decent place. You’d enjoy it.” Mateo shook his head. Ben Kehi gave him a look that said he’d expected this, and disappeared.

After the fourth stop there was nobody left on the bus except Mateo and Wickliff.

Wickliff looked across at him after a moment.

”Why didn’t you go?”

Mateo thought about how to phrase this. ”I’m a bit short on cash right now.”

Wickliff looked at him with the expression of a man recalibrating.

”You know you earned money today,” he said.

”The salary doesn’t come until-”

”Not the salary. Match bonuses.” Wickliff turned to face him properly. ”Three hundred euros per goal. Two hundred per assist. Five hundred for a win.”

Mateo ran the numbers. One goal. Three assists. A win.

”Fourteen hundred euros,” Wickliff said, before he’d finished. ”It’ll be in your account tomorrow morning.”

The bus moved through an intersection. Mateo looked out the window at a group of fans in replica shirts arguing cheerfully about something.

”That much,” he said.

”In the Bundesliga those numbers are significantly higher.” Wickliff said it without particular emphasis, the way you mentioned a fact. ”If the salary, the dormitory, or anything else is giving you trouble - tell me. That’s what I’m here for.”

Mateo nodded. ”Thank you, right now, everything is settling in well, but it’s good to know I can come to you if things get heavy..”

Wickliff turned back to face forward. They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

The bus dropped them at the club just after six.

Mateo got off and walked to the dormitory. Mateo dropped his bag, grabbed a towel, and got in the shower.

The hot water was good after a full day. He stood under it for longer than strictly necessary, letting the noise of the afternoon settle.

When he was done he sat on the edge of his bed, still damp, and opened the system.

[Mission complete: Perfect Debut.]

[Completion rating: SSS.]

[Reward: Golden Treasure Chest - Elevated tier.]

He opened it.

The golden light came and went. Then:

[Congratulations. You have received: 1× Ultimate Card - Injury Immunity.]

[Effect: The host will not sustain career-ending or serious injuries during their professional career.]

[Card bound automatically.]

He read it twice.

The attribute panel updated. A new line had appeared alongside the others:

Injury Resistance: 100%

He sat with that for a moment. Every footballer he’d ever watched had a version of the same story somewhere - the knee that went in the wrong direction, the tackle that ended things six months before they should have ended, the rehabilitation that gave back ninety percent of what had been there and kept the other ten. The fragility was part of it. Part of what made the whole thing matter.

That fragility was apparently no longer his problem.

He dried his hair, pulled on his training kit, and went out.

At the training ground.

He set up the cones and got on with it.

He trained for some time and went to the canteen before it closed. The club provided meals even on rest days, Daniel had arranged it specifically, knowing Mateo wouldn’t stop training. Tonight it was boiled chicken breast and steamed vegetables, which Mateo ate without complaint and without particular enjoyment because he’d stopped thinking of food as entertainment and started thinking of it as fuel. His body felt different from three weeks ago. Not dramatically but incrementally. The chicken was working.

He ate quickly, and went back out. By the time the crowd noise had gone quiet, the match was over.

He’d find out how the first team did in the morning.

For now, the bar needed hours and the morning was early.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

For Advance/Early Chapters:

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