The air at the training ground was cool and crisp, but the mood was anything but.

We were a few days away from our Coppa Italia match against Roma, and the energy was electric. It was the kind of charged atmosphere where every pass felt a little sharper, every shot a little more powerful. Coach Chivu had us running through drills focused on quick transitions and precision shooting, and the intensity was palpable.

"Good! Good! Push the tempo!" he yelled from the sidelines, his voice cutting through the thud of the balls and the chatter of the players.

I was in a small group with Julián Álvarez and Cole Palmer, working on a finishing drill. We'd take turns, each of us trying to place a shot into the corners of the goal while the keeper, Emil Audero, tried to guess where it was going. I watched as Julián, with his quick feet and powerful strike, blasted one past the keeper.

"Nice one, Julián!" I called out, giving him a thumbs-up.

"Thanks, Leo. You next."

I stepped up to the ball, my mind already working. I could feel the familiar buzz as I looked at the goal, and the Vision, no longer overwhelming, gave me a clear, simple glimpse. I saw a tiny, shimmering weakness just above the keeper's right shoulder, a spot where he was just a millisecond too slow to react. I didn't hesitate. I curled the ball with the inside of my foot, sending it on a perfect arc that swished into the top corner.

"Yes! Unbelievable!" Álvarez yelled, clapping.

Cole Palmer just shook his head, a mix of admiration and playful exasperation on his face.

"Man, I swear you've got a cheat code," he said, taking his turn at the drill.

"Don't I know it," I said, laughing. "Speaking of cheat codes, did you guys see the news? The transfer values?"

Álvarez and Palmer both stopped, their expressions shifting to one of shared surprise and excitement.

"Eighty-six million Euros?" Palmer said, his voice a little lower than usual.

"For a left winger who's only played five matches? They're crazy, man."

"It's just a number," I said, though I could feel a faint blush on my cheeks.

"It doesn't mean anything until you prove it."

"Doesn't mean anything?" Álvarez scoffed playfully. "It means you're one of the most talked-about players in the world, Leo! You're up there with the big boys. Haaland, Mbappé... and you-"

"Don't forget me!" Palmer chimed in, a wide grin on his face.

"Just give me some time!"

We all laughed, the heavy talk of numbers and values giving way to our usual banter. It was a good reminder that despite the hype and the pressure, we were still just a group of friends who loved to play football.

Later that night, the whole team went out to dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant to celebrate our recent success and to get a moment to relax before the big match. The atmosphere was a mix of quiet anticipation and camaraderie.

We were a family, and these moments were just as important as the ones we had on the pitch.

I found myself sitting between Álvarez and Marcus Thuram, a player with a mischievous grin and a lethal finishing ability. I looked over at him and saw the numbers I had grown so used to seeing.

Marcus Thuram (Potential: 88, Current Ability: 86)

He was a handful for any defender, and I knew that if I could feed him the ball, he could change a game in an instant.

"So, Leon," Thuram said, his voice low and friendly.

"You're the golden boy now. Eighty-six million Euros, eh? Do you get a discount on dinner?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "I wish. It's ridiculous, right? I just try not to think about it."

"You have to," Álvarez said, leaning in. "It's the reality of the game. It's what drives us. What makes us better."

The conversation continued late into the night, touching on everything from our favorite football memories to our shared love of video games. I looked around at the faces of my teammates—Lautaro Martínez, our captain and a natural-born leader with a Potential of 91 and a Current Ability of 88, the ever-reliable Benjamin Pavard (Potential 86, Current 85), and the passionate Federico Dimarco (Potential 86, Current 85).

"..."

The next day, it was all business. We were in the San Siro dressing room, the familiar pre-match tension back in the air. The smell of fresh-cut grass and liniment filled my lungs, a powerful mix that always got my heart racing.

Coach Chivu gave us a final, impassioned speech.

"Today, we face Roma. They are a good team, a disciplined team. But we are a great team! We are at home, in front of our fans. We play our game. We attack with purpose. We defend with heart. We leave everything on that pitch! Go out there and make me proud!"

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum that grew louder as we walked out of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, focusing my mind, trying to shut out the noise and the pressure.

This was it. A Coppa Italia match against Roma.

As the teams lined up for the anthem, I scanned the opposing side. My eyes landed on Paulo Dybala, their star player and the man I knew would be a threat. His stats flashed in my mind.

He was standing there, his expression calm and focused. He was a player who could turn a game on its head with a single moment of brilliance, and I knew our defense would have to be on high alert.

But he wasn't the only one I saw. The sight of Dybala triggered a new burst of information, a new, exciting piece of data. I saw it not as a flood, but as a single, clear thought: The player's ability and potential weren't static. They were a flowing, living thing, and a player's performance could change them.

I looked at Dybala's stats again.

They had a small, shimmering green arrow next to them, pointing up. His Current Ability was not just a number, but a living, breathing thing that was changing with every game, with every moment of greatness.

It was something I had never noticed before, something that changed everything.

The referee blew the whistle, and the match began. Roma, playing with the tactical discipline of a Mourinho team, came out strong. Their defense was a brick wall, and their attack, led by Dybala, was quick and incisive. It was a proper cup tie, with both teams fighting for every inch of grass.

Twenty minutes in, Roma was pressing, and I saw a moment of brilliance that proved my new theory about player stats.

As Dimarco was closing in on Dybala, a subtle shimmer of energy flared around Dybala and his Current Ability of 88 briefly flickered up to 89. The man was playing at the peak of his power, and it was a thrill to watch, even as I was playing against him.

We managed to hold them off, our defense working tirelessly. But as the clock ticked closer to halftime, the pressure was mounting. Roma was relentless. Then, in the 43rd minute, a long ball was played over the top of our defense, and their striker, Romelu Lukaku, was in a one-on-one with our keeper, Emil Audero.

My mind raced. I saw it all: the angle, the distance, the way Lukaku's body was angled for the shot.

I saw the weakness, not in our defense, but in the keeper's positioning, and the shimmer of a high chance of a goal.

I knew what was coming.

Then, just as Lukaku was about to strike the ball, the Vision hit me again, a torrent of new information, a new color I had never seen before.

It wasn't a number or an arrow; it was a feeling, a deep-seated instinct that told me not just what was going to happen, but what could happen.

I saw not just the weakness, but the solution.

And as Lukaku struck the ball, a strange, beautiful thing happened. It wasn't a golden arrow.

It was a shimmering blue light, a path that led to a perfect save, if only our keeper would move to the left.

Shoooooot!!

I screamed, "Audero! Left!" just as the ball left Lukaku's boot.

My teammates looked at me, confused.

But the keeper, in a split second of pure instinct, dove to his left, and with a brilliant, outstretched hand, he palmed the ball away from the goal.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The San Siro erupted in cheers, a wave of relief washing over the stadium.

I stood there, breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.