stoodChapter 25 – Underhill Sparks
Underhill Staditheorth London. July 2resting
A tight little ground, houses packed close behind the stands. You could smell barbecue smoke drifting in from the back gardens. Kids in Arsenal shirts hung off the fences, shouting names they half-knew.
Arsène Wenger stood near the dugout, notebook tucked under one arm, that familiar calm resting on his face. Arsenal were playing their second pre-season friendly—Barnet FC, a proper local warm-up.
The squads lined up. The announcer's voice cracked through the tinny speakers.
Arsenal Starting XI
Manager: Arsène Wenger 🇫🇷
1 Jens Lehmann 🇩🇪 (GK)
2 Lauren 🇨🇲
5 Kolo Touré 🇨🇮
6 Pascal Cygan 🇫🇷
3 Ashley Cole 🏴
8 Fredrik Ljungberg 🇸🇪
4 Patrick Vieira 🇫🇷 (C)
11 Robert Pires 🇫🇷
7 Gilberto Silva 🇧🇷
14 Thierry Henry 🇫🇷
10 Dennis Bergkamp 🇳🇱
Substitutes: Stuart Taylor 🇬🇧, Ray Parlour 🏴, Kanu 🇳🇬, Gaël Clichy 🇫🇷, Jeremie Aliadière 🇫🇷, Jeremy Lynch 🏴
Barnet's announcer ran through their side, half the crowd cheering, half-whistling. Yeremy listened, leaning back on the bench, gum tucked in his cheek. His boots—custom black Vapors with a faint shimmer—rested on the rail.
He wasn't nervous. Just really bored.
Vieira caught him glancing at his watch. "Stay sharp, young one. Wenger might throw you in again."
Jeremy just nodded. Yeah, yeah, don't worry, man. "I'll be ready."
The captain smiled faintly. "You always say that."
---
Kick-off came. The pitch was bumpy, the grass uneven in patches. Arsenal started with crisp, short passes zipping between Henry and Bergkamp. The crowd loved it—this was as close as most locals would ever get to Premier League football.
Martin Tyler's voice floated from the broadcast van near the corner flag.
"Underhill under the sun, Arsenal looking to fine-tune ahead of the new campaign. No surprise, the big names start. But there's plenty of interest in the bench—young Jeremy Lynch, who scored that beauty last week, waiting for his turn again."
Alan Smith: "Yeah, and you can bet he'll want to prove it wasn't a fluke. He's got that edge about him."
---
First half—routine. Arsenal led 1-0, Henry tapping home a cut-back from Pires. Wenger's arms stayed folded the whole time.
Jeremy watched Henry move—smooth, instinctive, confident. He hated that it looked so easy for him.
The System's voice slid in, cold, analytical, the same tone that had haunted his sleep all week.
> [EGO SYSTEM v1]
"Observation: Arrogance can coexist with growth. But mimicry is poison. You are not Henry. You are the anomaly."
Jeremy tilted his head, muttering, "You always talk like that?"
> "Precision requires indifference."
He snorted softly. "Whatever you say, System."
"Update available: Skill Interface — Trick Archive. 42 unlocked sequences. Preview?"
A faint shimmer pulsed in his peripheral vision—no one else saw it. A list scrolled briefly: Elastico, Flip Flap, Around-the-World, Akka 3000, Sole Drag, Spin Feint, Reverse Rabona…
Jeremy grinned. "Yeah. Let's warm those up later."
---
Second half, Wenger began his usual rotation. Henry off. Bergkamp off. Vieira, too, was replaced by a mix of youngsters.
Wenger glanced down the bench. "Lynch. Warm up."
Jeremy spat out the gum, slid off his jacket, and jogged to the touchline.
Tyler's voice again. "And here's the youngster! Sixteen-year-old Jeremy Lynch is coming on, replacing Ljungberg. We saw flashes of brilliance last week—let's see what he's got tonight."
Alan Smith chuckled. He's lively, I'll give him that."
---
From the first touch, Yeremy's style screamed different.
He received the ball wide right, flicked it up, heel-rolled past his marker, then slipped through a nutmeg that made the crowd gasp. He didn't rush forward though—he stopped, toe on the ball, waiting, daring the defender to come back.
The Barnet full-back lunged again. Yeremy leaned left, then flick!—an inside-out elastico, snapping past him like a whip.
Ooooh!" The crowd erupted in laughter, claps, and shouts of "Go on, kid!"
Alan Smith: Well, he's got tricks, hasn't he? Bit of street football there."
Tyler: Confidence for sure. Maybe too much of it sometimes!"
Jeremy squared up another man, slipped a reverse rabona cross toward the box. No one got on the end, but the fans didn't care. They loved the show.
Wenger, though, just frowned slightly.
---
Ten minutes later, Barnet countered. Arsenal's backline got caught high.
Jeremy tracked back half-heartedly, then stopped. The defender beside him yelled, "Help out, mate!"
Jeremy shrugged, muttering, "I'm not a full-back."
The guy shot him a glare.
Back on the bench, Kanu sighed. "That boy…"
Henry, arms folded, smirked. "He's learning the wrong lessons fast."
Bergkamp's voice was quiet, deliberate. "Or the right ones, just too soon."
---
In the 73rd minute, the ball came his way again. Tight angle, edge of the box. Two defenders are closing.
He dipped his shoulder, cut inside, then pulled off something he'd never seen anyone attempt in 2003. A quick two-touch Akka 3000—ball bouncing from instep to heel to outside of boot—straight into a curving shot.
It curled far post, kissed the upright, dropped in.
The stadium went mad. Even Barnet fans clapped.
Tyler shouted over the noise: "Oh, that is outrageous! Jeremy Lynch again! What did he just do there?"
Alan Smith laughed. "You'd need slow motion for that. Some kind of juggling move before the strike—unbelievable confidence from the youngster!"
On the sideline, Wenger exhaled through his nose. Not quite smiling. Not angry either.
> "Diamond 💎 detected. Refinement required."
The System's voice hummed almost with pride.
Jeremy whispered under his breath, "Damn right."
---
Arsenal won 2-0.
Post-match, the lads clapped the crowd, swapped shirts. Jeremy walked off alone, camera flashes bouncing around him.
In the tunnel, Pires clapped his shoulder. "Très bien, petit. But next time—look for me. I was open."
Jeremy nodded. "Next time."
He didn't mean it.
---
Back in the dressing room, laughter, chatter, and towels flicking. Wenger stood by the doorway, talking quietly with Pat Rice. His eyes found Jeremy for a moment.
"Good goal," he said simply. "But football is not a circus act. Remember that."
Jeremy didn't answer. Just toed off his boots, rolled the gum between his fingers.
As Wenger turned away, the System chimed again.
> "Correction: It is a circus. But you must own the tent."
Jeremy smiled.
---
That night, back in his small flat in Islington, he sat at his desk with the laptop open. A betting site blinked on-screen. His balance wasn't much, but he knew what was coming.
He scrolled through the odds: Champions League 2003-04. Real Madrid, Milan, United, Juve—favorites. Porto way down the list. Again.
He placed another quiet bet on them. 25 quid at 40-to-1.
Then another tab: Euro 2004 futures. Portugal is heavily favored at home. Jeremy smirked, remembering the final that hadn't yet happened.
He placed 10 quid on Greece.
His phone buzzed—Ryan again.
"Bruv, again with these mad bets?"
"Trust me," Jeremy said, leaning back. "I just know."
"You sound like one of them time-travel movies, fam."
"Yeah. Something like that."
Ryan laughed, not taking him seriously. "You're weird, man. But if you win, drinks on you."
"Always."
---
The System interface flickered in his vision as he hung up.
> [SHOP MENU]
• Skill Upgrade: 'Finishing Lv 3 → Lv 4' – 3,000 Ego Points
• Physical Boost (Pace +2) – 2,000 Ego Points
• Locked: 'Ego Vision Mode' — Requires Level 10
• Locked: 'Social Manipulation Tree' — Requires Charisma 8
• Balance: 4,850 Ego Points
> "Recommendation: Invest in finishing. Precision builds legacy."
Jeremy hovered over it. Then switched tabs.
> "Ignored. Curious choice. Motivation: Greed > Growth."
"Maybe," he muttered. "But greed wins headlines."
The System paused.
> "Then feed it."
---
Sunday morning, tabloids everywhere.
The Mirror: "New Henry? No. Something Else Entirely."
SkySports: "Trick Kid Lynch Lights Up Underhill."
The Guardian: "Arsenal Prodigy or Showman?"
Wenger hated headlines like that. Jeremy clipped them, folded them neatly, and slid them into a notebook.
At Colney later that day, Henry stopped him near the gym. "You keep this up, the old man's gonna lose his mind."
Jeremy grinned. "Then he'll remember me."
Henry laughed. "Confidence. I like it. But there's a line, mon frère. Cross it and you'll find out the difference between flair and arrogance."
Jeremy just shrugged, heading for the locker room. "Guess I'll find out then."
Henry shook his head, still smiling. "Teenagers…"
---
That afternoon, training was rough. Senior players didn't go easy anymore. Kolo Touré slammed into him during a small-sided game, stood over him, half-grinning.
"You think football is tricks? Try this again."
Jeremy got up slowly, dusting off. "You'll see."
Next play, he skipped past Kolo with a lightning heel-flick, chipped it over the keeper. Didn't even celebrate.
The pitch went quiet for a second. Then laughter, clapping.
Vieira shouted from the sideline. "Enough showing off. Play simply!"
Jeremy jogged back, half-smiling. "Simple is boring."
The System's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
> "Diamond 💎 under pressure. Expect fracture or brilliance."
He just muttered, "You'll get brilliance."
---
That night, Jeremy called his mum.
She'd watched the highlights on the BBC. "You played well," she said softly. "But be careful, yeah? They love you when you score. They'll hate you when you don't."
He looked at the dark window, a reflection staring back. "I know, Mum."
"Good. And eat something decent, not that takeaway again."
He laughed quietly. "Alright."
When the call ended, he stared at the phone for a while. The System stayed silent, for once.
The room was dim, with only the glow of the streetlamp outside. Posters on the wall—Ronaldinho, Zidane, a young Beckham. His future and his past are all tangled up.
He whispered, almost to himself, "Different era. Same game."
The faint hum of the System pulsed once more.
> "Correction: Different era. Different rules. Rewrite them."
Jeremy leaned back on the bed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Rewrite everything."
---
(End of Chapter 25)