Liam Taylor. Potential Ability: SSS.

He stared at the profile, his mind a chaotic mess of conflicting emotions.

Confusion. Anger. Hurt.

But underneath it all, a strange, undeniable spark of hope.

Was this the answer? Was this Liam's grand, convoluted, 4D-chess master plan?

To get injured, to get inside Aetheria Dynamics, to somehow insert himself, his virtual ghost, into Ethan's own youth academy? It was insane. It was impossible.

He didn't have time to process it. The game was prompting him.

[New Youth Intake available. Accept or Reject new prospects for the upcoming season?]

He looked at the name one last time. He didn't understand.

But he knew, with a certainty that went deeper than logic, that he couldn't abandon him.

He pressed [ACCEPT ALL].

A new player profile was immediately added to his squad list. And a single, private message appeared in his inbox. It was from the new player.

From: Liam Taylor

Subject: So... am I fired as your scout?

Ethan just laughed, a sound of pure, helpless, and utterly relieved absurdity.

He fired back a quick reply.

You're not fired. But you are on cleaning duty for the next six months. Welcome to the team, you absolute lunatic.

He logged off, the weight of the world, for the first time in a long, long time, feeling a little bit lighter.

The next day, he called a team meeting on the virtual training ground. The mood was electric, the players still buzzing from their championship win.

"Alright, lads, settle down," Ethan began, a wide, proud grin on his face. "First off, congratulations again. You are champions. And now, you are a Championship team. The challenge is about to get a whole lot harder."

He then introduced the new youth intake, a group of nervous, awe-struck 15-year-olds. And then, he introduced the main event.

"And finally," he said, a dramatic pause in his voice. "Our new SSS-Rank scholar. A creative midfielder with a footballing brain that is, I am told, second to none. Please welcome Liam Taylor."

A new avatar, a perfect, healthy, 15-year-old digital ghost of his best friend, walked out to join the group. The other players looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and confusion on their faces.

"He's a bit quiet," Ethan said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "But I have it on good authority that he's a tactical genius."

He assigned the virtual Liam the number 99 shirt.

His starting Current Ability was a respectable 69, but his potential was limitless.

Ethan logged off, a feeling of deep, profound contentment washing over him. He had his team. He had his family.

And he had his best friend back. Sort of.

He sat at his real-world desk and, with a new, professional focus, he opened his laptop.

He navigated to his YouTube channel, 'The Gaffer's Office'. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of growth. His subscriber count had smashed through the 50,000 mark.

His videos were getting hundreds of thousands of views.

The community was thriving, a beautiful, chaotic mix of tactical nerds, casual fans, and people who just seemed to enjoy watching David Kerrigan cause problems.

He clicked on the monetization tab, his heart pounding with a nervous, hopeful rhythm.

The number he saw made him blink. Then blink again.

Estimated Monthly Revenue: $2,347.18

He just stared at it, the number glowing on the screen, a beautiful, brilliant, and utterly life-changing string of digits.

It wasn't just pocket money anymore. It was a wage. A real, proper, grown-up wage. It was more than his dad made in a good month at the toy shop. It was more than Sarah had been making in her stressful, soul-crushing corporate job.

He thought of his shifts at CostMart.

He thought of the sticky floors, the leaning towers of cans, the grumpy but fair Mr. Henderson. He thought of his new bank card, the first tangible proof of his entry into the real world of work.

And then he thought of 'The Gaffer's Dugout', his family's new dream. He thought of his dad, his eyes shining with a new, brilliant passion. He thought of his sister, her laughter filling the house, a sound more precious than any trophy.

The decision wasn't even a decision. It was an inevitability. A promotion.

He picked up his phone and, with a calm, steady hand, he wrote a text to Mr. Henderson.

Dear Mr. Henderson, thank you so much for the opportunity. But I'm afraid I have to tender my resignation. My other job, the gaffer one, has just offered me a significant promotion. P.S. The organic yogurts are in aisle four.

He hit send, a wide, triumphant, and utterly liberated grin on his face. He was no longer a shelf-stacker who happened to be a secret football manager.

He was a football manager. Full time.

He stood up, stretched, and walked over to the window, looking out at the quiet, familiar street.

He was about to turn away when a sleek, black, and ridiculously expensive-looking car pulled up in front of his house. He didn't recognize it.

A woman got out of the driver's seat. She was tall, elegant, and wore a sharp, professional suit that probably cost more than his family's new car. She looked at the house, then at a tablet in her hand, then back at the house.

Then, the passenger door opened.

And the person who stepped out was the last person in the entire, beautiful, chaotic, and utterly unpredictable universe that Ethan ever expected to see.

It was Maya.

Ethan's brain did a frantic, chaotic reboot.

He stared from his bedroom window, his mind a sudden, silent snowstorm of confusion. Maya.

The girl from the dairy aisle. The brilliant, beautiful, tactical mastermind who managed his in-game rival.

She was standing in front of his house, having just stepped out of a car that looked like it belonged in a spy movie.

He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated panic.

His room was a mess. He was wearing an old, faded t-shirt with a questionable stain on it. He hadn't brushed his hair. He was not, in any sense of the word, ready for a surprise, real-world visit from his beautiful, brilliant, and almost-certainly-a-secret-millionaire rival.

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