The text stayed in his vision for a full minute before fading.
Vision: 99.
Superhuman.
Anthony sat on his bed, staring at the wall where the numbers used to be, and tried to feel something. Excitement. Hope. Fear. Anything.
Nothing came.
He was seventeen years old with the passing vision of a demigod and the emotional range of a brick. His brother was still celebrating in the next room—whooping, hollering, probably doing some kind of victory dance that would drive their mother insane. His sister was yelling at him to shut up. His father was reading the newspaper like the apocalypse could happen and he'd just turn the page.
Normal.
Anthony lay back. The ceiling crack waited for him.
Vision 99, he thought. What am I supposed to do with that?
The system didn't answer. Maybe it knew he wasn't ready to hear it.
---
Morning came too fast.
His brother burst into his room at six-thirty, already dressed, already bouncing. "Come on! We have to go! The coach said be there early! Early means early, Anthony, not Brazilian early, English early!"
Anthony pulled the pillow over his head.
"Anthony!"
"Go away."
"Mum said—"
"I don't care what Mum said."
The pillow ripped away. His mother stood there, holding it, looking down at him with that expression that meant business.
"Up. Now. Eat. Go."
"I already did the trial."
"You did a trial. Today they decide. Big difference." She threw the pillow onto his brother's head. "Both of you. Kitchen. Five minutes."
She left.
His brother grinned. "Told you."
Anthony got up.
---
Breakfast was chaos.
His brother shoveling food like he hadn't eaten in weeks. His sister on her phone, probably posting something about being related to failures. His father reading the newspaper, occasionally looking up to say things like "pass the butter" and "you'll do fine."
His mother moved between stove and table, refilling plates, refilling cups, never sitting, never stopping.
"Anthony. Eat."
He ate.
"Gabriela. Phone down."
Phone went down. Came back up thirty seconds later.
"Gabriela."
"Okay, okay."
His brother finished and jumped up. "We have to go. Now. The bus—"
"We'll take the car." His father folded his newspaper. Standing. Keys in hand. "I'll drive you."
Anthony looked at him.
His father didn't do things like this. Work was work. Football was for the kids. He paid for boots and drove to matches when absolutely necessary, but offering? Unusual.
"Dad—"
"Finished my shift early. Let's go."
His brother was already out the door.
Anthony followed.
---
Melwood looked different in the morning light.
Professional. Serious. Red flags everywhere. The kind of place that separated boys from men, dreamers from professionals. Anthony had seen hundreds of training grounds in his first life—scouting trips, reserve matches, the occasional tour—but standing here as a player hit different.
His brother ran off to the youth section.
His father put a hand on Anthony's shoulder. Squeezed once. Let go.
"Just play like you did yesterday."
"I didn't think you watched."
"I watched."
Anthony looked at him.
His father's face gave nothing away. Same as always. But his eyes—those blue English eyes—held something Anthony hadn't seen in either life. Pride? Hope? Worry?
"Go on," his father said. "They're waiting."
Anthony walked onto the pitch.
---
The coach from yesterday was there. Stocky. Northern. Clipboard in hand. He nodded at Anthony like they had an understanding.
"White. Good. You're with the same group. Today's different—we've got first-team staff watching. Academy director. Youth development lead. Don't think about it. Just play."
Anthony nodded.
The warm-up was standard. Jogging. Stretching. Passing drills. Nothing special. His body moved through the motions while his mind wandered.
Özil's knowledge hummed quietly. Showing him angles. Showing him runs that hadn't happened yet. Showing him where the ball would be in three, four, five seconds.
Annoying, he thought. Can you turn that off?
The knowledge didn't respond.
Probably couldn't.
---
The session started.
Seven versus seven again. Different teammates this time—better ones. The ones who'd impressed yesterday. The ones with a real shot.
Anthony played left wing again.
First touch. Control. Look up.
Vision 99 activated.
He saw everything.
The fullback's weight on his heels—he was going to lunge. The center-back's head turned—he was ball-watching. His own striker making a run—didn't know it yet, but would in two seconds. The space behind the defense. The angle of the pass. The exact weight needed to land the ball where the striker would be, not where he was.
Anthony passed.
First time. Curled. Perfect.
The striker ran onto it like he'd known it was coming all along. One touch. Shot. Goal.
The striker turned, eyes wide. "How did you—"
"Keep running," Anthony said.
He said it five more times that session.
Five more assists.
Zero goals—his shot let him down twice when he tried to finish himself. But five assists in a thirty-minute game. Against trialists fighting for their futures. Against defenders desperate to impress.
The men in tracksuits on the sideline wrote things on clipboards.
The coach called him over when the session ended.
"White. Office. Now."
---
The office was small. Desk. Computer. Trophies that meant something to someone. Three men sitting, standing, leaning.
The coach gestured. "Sit."
Anthony sat.
The oldest man spoke first. Grey hair. Red Liverpool tie. Looked like he'd been in football since before Anthony's father was born.
"Stephen Pearson. Academy director. You made an impression yesterday. Made another one today."
Anthony said nothing.
Pearson waited. When Anthony didn't fill the silence, he continued.
"Your passing is... unusual. I've been doing this thirty-four years. I've seen kids with vision. Good vision. Even great vision. Yours is different. Yours is like you're watching a different game than everyone else."
"It's just passing."
Pearson laughed. Short. Sharp. "No. It's not. Passing is technique. What you have is something else. Something you can't teach."
The second man spoke. Younger. Forties. Sharp eyes. "Steve Broom. Youth development. Question for you—why'd United let you go?"
"Didn't fit their system."
"What system is that?"
"They wanted an athlete. I'm not one."
Broom studied him. "You're honest."
"No point lying."
"Fair enough. Here's the thing—we want athletes too. Premier League football requires it. But we also want footballers. Players who think. Players who see. Athletes we can build. Vision we can't."
Pearson leaned forward. "We're offering you a trial period. Six weeks. Training with the under-18s. Matches with the under-18s. At the end, we decide. You'll get accommodation. Meal allowance. No wages—you're too young for a contract—but expenses covered."
Anthony blinked.
Six weeks.
Under-18s.
Liverpool Football Club.
In his first life, he'd have cried. Screamed. Called his mother, his father, everyone he knew. This was the moment. This was the door.
Now?
He felt nothing.
"Okay," he said.
Pearson waited. Broom waited. The coach waited.
"Okay?" Pearson repeated. "That's it?"
"What else should I say?"
Broom laughed. Shook his head. "Most kids would be crying. Jumping. Calling their parents."
"I'll call my dad after."
Pearson and Broom exchanged a look. The kind that said strange kid without needing words.
"Alright," Pearson said. "Report Monday. Seven AM. Don't be late."
Anthony stood. Nodded. Left.
---
His father was waiting by the car.
Not reading. Not on his phone. Just waiting. Arms crossed. Leaning against the driver's door.
Anthony walked over.
"They offered six weeks. Under-18s."
His father's face didn't change. But something in his shoulders relaxed. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Good."
"That's it? Good?"
"You want me to dance?"
Anthony almost smiled. Almost.
"Get in the car," his father said. "Your mother will want to cook something."
---
She did.
Feijoada. The full Brazilian treatment. Beans and pork and rice and farofa and enough food to feed a small army. His brother came home from his own trial—successful, another callback—and joined the feast. His sister took photos for her social media. His mother moved between stove and table, refilling plates, refilling cups, never stopping, always smiling.
"Six weeks," she kept saying. "Six weeks. Then contract. Then first team. Then Ballon d'Or."
"Mum."
"I'm serious. You have something. I always knew."
His brother nodded vigorously, mouth full. "He's insane, Mum. The passes he made today—I was watching from the other pitch. Defenders didn't know what happened."
"It's just passing," Anthony said.
"It's not just passing and you know it."
Anthony looked at his brother.
Fourteen years old. Full of fire. Full of hunger. The kind of boy who'd run through walls for a chance. The kind Anthony used to be, before the injury, before the scouting reports, before the couch and the television and watching Messi lift everything.
"You'll get your chance too," Anthony said.
His brother grinned. "I know. I'm better than you anyway."
"In your dreams."
"In your nightmares."
Their mother laughed. Their father hid a smile behind his newspaper. Their sister rolled her eyes but filmed it for her story.
Normal.
Anthony sat at the table, surrounded by noise and food and family, and tried to feel something.
A flicker. Maybe.
Or maybe just indigestion.
---
That night, the system updated again.
[TRIAL PERFORMANCE RECORDED]
[GOALS: 0]
[ASSISTS: 5]
[KEY PASSES: 9]
[MAN OF THE MATCH: YES]
[REWARD CALCULATING...]
[STAT INCREASE: PASSING 84 → 86]
[STAT INCREASE: VISION 99 → 99 (MAX)]
Anthony read the numbers.
Passing 86. Elite level now. Not just boosted by template—genuinely elite. Top-tier Premier League quality in one specific area.
Vision still maxed. No room to grow there.
Everything else still catching up.
[NOTE: MULTIPLE MAN OF THE MATCH AWARDS IN SHORT PERIOD. EXPONENTIAL GROWTH ACTIVE. CONTINUED PERFORMANCE WILL ACCELERATE PROGRESSION.]
Anthony closed his eyes.
Six weeks. Under-18s. Then maybe a contract. Then maybe first team. Then maybe—
He stopped himself.
Don't think like that. Thinking like that leads to hope. Hope leads to disappointment. Disappointment leads to watching from couches while others live your dream.
The ceiling crack watched him.
He watched it back.
---
Monday came.
Seven AM. Melwood. Under-18s training.
The other boys looked at him like he was competition. Some looked at him like he was nothing. A few—the ones who'd been at the trial—looked at him like he was something else entirely.
The coach was new. Younger. Sharper. Tracksuit immaculate. Whistle around his neck.
"White. Heard about you. Let's see if it's real."
Training started.
Passing drills. First touch drills. Small-sided games. Full-sided games. Fitness work. Tactical work. Hour after hour after hour.
Anthony's body screamed.
He wasn't fit enough. His stamina—75—was professional level, but that meant nothing when everyone else had been training full-time for years. His lungs burned. His legs ached. His non-existent strength got him knocked off the ball again and again.
But his passing.
Every drill. Every game. Every moment.
He saw things no one else saw. He delivered passes no one else could. He made teammates look better, defenders look worse, coaches look interested.
By the end of day one, the other boys had a new name for him.
The Wizard.
Not kind. Not cruel. Just... accurate.
---
Week one passed.
Week two.
Week three.
His body slowly adapted. Stamina 75 → 77. Dribbling 79 → 80. Shot Accuracy 66 → 68. Small gains. Cumulative. The exponential curve starting to show.
Four assists in his first under-18 match. Three in his second. Five in his third.
Goals still eluded him. His finishing remained youth level. But every game, every training session, every moment on the pitch—he created. He saw. He delivered.
The coaches noticed.
The first-team staff noticed.
By week four, rumors started. There's a kid in the under-18s. White hair. Passes like God. Can't finish to save his life but who cares when he sets up everything?
Week five.
A message.
Report to first-team training. Tomorrow. 8 AM.
Anthony read it three times.
First team. Liverpool's first team. Steven Gerrard. Jamie Carragher. Players he'd watched on television in his first life. Players who'd lift trophies and win titles while he scouted teenagers in the rain.
Now he'd train with them.
He felt nothing.
Almost nothing.
A flicker. Tiny. Buried deep.
What if?
---
That night, he couldn't sleep again.
The ceiling crack was still there. Still long. Still waiting.
His brother's voice from the doorway: "You awake?"
"No."
Footsteps. His brother flopped onto the end of the bed. Fourteen years old, all limbs and energy, even at midnight.
"First team tomorrow."
"I know."
"You nervous?"
"No."
"Liar."
Anthony looked at him. "Why are you here?"
His brother shrugged. "Couldn't sleep either. Thinking about my own trial. Thinking about you. Thinking about... I don't know. Stuff."
"What stuff?"
"Like... do you ever wonder if you're good enough? Really good enough? Like, Premier League good enough? Not just youth team good enough, but really good enough?"
Anthony thought about it.
Vision 99. Passing 86. Dribbling 80. Shot Accuracy 68. Strength 62.
Good enough? Technically, no. Physically, no. Mentally?
Mentally, he had the knowledge of three world-class players. The experience of Özil's vision, Di María's big-game temperament, Robben's directness. He'd watched Messi's entire career from his couch. He knew what greatness looked like.
Could he match it?
"I don't know," he said honestly.
His brother nodded like that was the right answer. "Me neither. But I figure... if we don't try, we'll never know. Right?"
"Right."
"Cool." His brother stood. Stretched. "Don't mess up tomorrow. I told everyone at school you're basically Steven Gerrard reincarnated."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Good. Pressure makes diamonds." He paused at the door. "Night, Wizard."
"Night."
The door closed.
Anthony looked at the ceiling crack.
Pressure makes diamonds.
He'd been pressure once. Before the injury. Before the couch. Before watching Messi lift everything while he lifted nothing.
Maybe he could be pressure again.
Maybe.
---
END OF CHAPTER 2