There are seven days left on my contract, and the coach has already signed the termination papers.
In my last life, my proposal was stolen, my name was taken off my work, and I dropped dead at my desk.
This life is even worse: my shooting is 45, my physical stats are 40, and the System says my accuracy is “about the same as my grandma throwing darts with her eyes closed.”
I ask, “Who’s your grandma?”
The System says, “I don’t have a grandma. It’s a figure of speech. It means you suck.”
But I can see things no one else can: three lines flash before my eyes, the left one brightest and the right one dimmest. Within 0.3 seconds, the ball is already in the net.
Seven days. The youth academy of a Premier League powerhouse. A discarded player about to be kicked out.
The old French man who signed the papers to let me go says, “Kid, you’re not cut out for this.”
Later, he takes it back.
Later still, all of Europe takes it back.
“Where did you come from?”
“A pile of termination papers.”
