CHAPTER 108: FIFA.

Ethan had a Saturday morning shift at CostMart, but for the first time, he wasn’t dreading the bike ride.

He was taking the car.

As he was pulling out of his street, practicing the "conversation with the clutch" as his dad called it, he saw a familiar figure jogging towards him, a flash of bright, royal blue against the morning green of the park. It was Leo, still faithfully serving his 30-day sentence in the Apex United tracksuit.

Ethan pulled over, a smug, triumphant grin on his face.

"Need a lift, champ?"

Leo stopped, panting, and just stared at the gleaming blue hatchback. "No. Way," he breathed, his eyes wide.

"You got a car? A real one? With, like, an engine and everything?"

"Certified Pre-Owned," Ethan said, puffing out his chest with an air of profound, fatherly pride. "Full service history."

"Dude, this is awesome!" Leo said, jogging over and peering through the window.

"It’s so... clean! My dad’s car has fossilized french fries under the seats." He looked at Ethan, a desperate, hopeful plea in his eyes. "Can I...?"

"No," Ethan said immediately.

"Oh, come on!" Leo begged. "Just for a minute! Just around the parking lot! I need to know what it feels like to command a real-life vehicle!"

Ethan sighed. He knew he was going to regret this. "Fine. But if you scratch it, your S-Rank defender will be mysteriously sold to a team in the Siberian fourth division. Get in."

What followed was five minutes of the most terrifying, uncoordinated, and utterly hilarious driving in the history of combustion engines.

Leo, who had clearly never been behind the wheel before, treated the pedals like they were angry snakes.

The car lurched, stalled, kangaroo-hopped across the empty parking lot, and at one point, managed to turn on the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time, resulting in a frantic, lurching journey accompanied by a blast of cheesy pop music.

Ethan was white-knuckled in the passenger seat, his foot pressing an imaginary brake pedal into the floor. "The clutch! The clutch is your friend, Leo!"

"It doesn’t feel like my friend!" Leo yelped, as the car stalled for the fifth time.

Finally, after a maneuver that could only be described as a "twenty-seven-point turn," they were back where they started.

They just sat there for a moment in the sudden, blessed silence.

Then, they both burst out laughing, a deep, helpless, joyous sound that echoed through the quiet morning.

"Okay," Leo said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I think I’ll stick to managing. It’s safer for everyone."

Ethan’s shift at CostMart was a breeze.

He walked in, feeling like a king, the memory of Leo’s terrible driving still making him chuckle.

"Morning, gaffer," a cheerful voice called out from behind a mountain of cheese. It was Maya. "You’re looking suspiciously happy for a man about to spend his Saturday with dairy products."

"I’m a man of simple pleasures," he said with a grin. "And a man with a new car."

"Ooh, a car!" she said, her eyes lighting up.

"Does that mean you’ll be able to make a quick getaway after my team dismantles yours next week?"

"It means I’ll be able to drive to the celebratory kebab shop in style after my team dismantles yours," he shot back.

The easy, playful banter made the hours fly by.

He even managed to have a pleasant conversation with Mr. Henderson about the optimal stacking pattern for Greek yogurt, a topic on which they found a surprising amount of common ground.

The bike ride home that evening was a choice. He could have taken the car, but he wanted to feel the cool air, to clear his head.

He was cycling past the local youth club, a place he hadn’t been to in years, when he heard it.

The familiar, tinny sound of a virtual crowd, the frantic clicking of controllers, and the indignant shouts of teenage boys.

He slowed his bike, a nostalgic smile on his face. Peering through the open door, he saw a group of four or five younger kids, probably around 14, huddled around a big screen, deep in a game of FIFA.

"Pass it, you idiot! I was open!"

"No way, that was a foul! This game is so broken!"

It was a scene he knew well. He was about to cycle on when one of the kids, a small, fiery redhead, let out a particularly loud groan.

"Ugh, I can’t break down his defense! He’s just parking the bus! It’s so boring!"

Ethan, the manager, the tactical innovator, couldn’t help himself. He got off his bike and leaned against the doorframe.

"You’re trying to go through the middle," he said, his voice calm and authoritative. "His formation is too compact. You need to stretch him. Use your wingers, pull his full-backs out of position, and then attack the space they leave behind."

The kids all turned to look at him, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity on their faces.

"Who are you?" the redhead asked, not unkindly.

"Just a guy who likes football," Ethan said with a shrug.

"You play?" another kid asked.

"Sometimes," Ethan replied. "Got room for one more?"

They sized him up, a lanky older kid with a confident smile.

"Alright," the redhead said, a competitive glint in his eye.

"But we’re playing for honor. Loser has to buy the sodas."

"Deal," Ethan said, a wide grin spreading across his face.

He picked up a controller that felt strangely light and simple after the immersive reality of the pod. The kids were all using the super-teams—PSG, Real Madrid, Manchester City.

"Who do you want?" the redhead, whose name was Sam, asked.

Ethan scrolled through the teams and, with a nostalgic smile, picked a classic AC Milan side from the early 2000s.

"Whoa, the old guys?" Sam scoffed. "Dude, they’re so slow!"

"They’re not slow," Ethan said calmly. "They’re just... patient."

The game began, and for the first ten minutes, Sam was right.

The virtual AC Milan players felt like they were running in mud compared to the lightning-fast PSG team. Sam, who was good, scored an easy goal with his superstar striker. 1-0.

"Too easy!" Sam taunted.

He saw that Sam was impatient, that he always tried the risky through-ball, that he never tracked his runners.

Ethan started to play. He didn’t try to outpace him. He started to out-think him. He played a slow, hypnotic, tiki-taka style, passing the ball in triangles, making Sam’s superstars chase shadows.

The frustration was visible on the kid’s face.

Then, Ethan saw the opening.

A perfectly timed run from his virtual striker. A sublime, defense-splitting pass.

A calm, side-footed finish. 1-1.

He won the ball back. Another patient build-up. Another perfect pass. Another cool finish. 2-1.

The kids were silent now, watching with a dawning awe.

He finished the game with a third goal, a beautiful, twenty-pass team move that was so perfect it was almost insulting.

"Whoa," Sam breathed as the final whistle blew.

"How did you do that? You’re, like, a tactical genius or something."

Ethan just smiled, handing the controller back. "You just gotta think about the space," he said simply. "See you around, lads."

He walked out of the youth club and back to his bike, a feeling of deep, simple satisfaction washing over him. He hadn’t just won a game of FIFA.

He had remembered why he had fallen in love with football in the first place.

Not for the stats, or the wonderkids, or the secret wagers. But for the joy of the game itself.