I scrolled through the player paths first, assuming it’d be less cluttered.

  I’d been wondering if there was any way to unlock these skills in a predictable, systematic way instead of having to wait for the next random quest the system tosses my way, and this seemed like the perfect answer. I scrolled back up and down once, just to be sure. There didn’t seem to be any fluff or stat soup where the same bonus showed up under three different names. Everything was fed into training or match situations instead of trying to replace them. That was rather smart.

  Spatial Awareness stood out the most. With passive gains while spectating, the system basically admitted that sometimes the best learning happened when you weren’t running yourself into the ground, but actually watching the game breathe. That appealed to me more than I liked to admit. Formation Understanding scratched the same itch. Shapes, interactions, cause and effect. I’d always been like that, more interested in why something worked than in how impressive it looked when it did. I could feel myself wanting to click it already, just to see what lived behind it.

  But then my eyes slid down the list again, to Professional Presence and Game Management.

  The boring, unsexy ones. The ones that didn’t make you better with the ball, but made everything around you easier. Fewer cards. Better refs. More rope before someone decided you were expendable. I was honest with myself, those were probably my weakest areas.

  I hovered over Formation Understanding and clicked on it.

  I backed out and checked my total again.

  So if I bought this, I’d be left with ten points and a very pretty menu I couldn’t actually afford to use. This wasn’t a dopamine shop. This wasn’t ‘level up, grab three passives, feel good.’ This was a commitment.

  And if this XPoint was the same as the EXP I earned from matches, objectives, and quests—and all signs pointed to yes—then every node was a strategic decision. This system was one payment processing platform away from a classic play-to-win design.

  I guess I’d just window-shop for now. Let’s see what Manager Paths had to offer.

  I scrolled slowly, reading them properly this time.

  Some of my existing skills probably fell within one of these nodes.

  Sure enough, they did: When I hovered over Data Analysis, a small side panel unfolded, and there it was—Live Assessment—nested neatly a tier below the Foundation node; an early branch pick I hadn’t realized was part of a larger system. That explained a lot. Then I checked Man Management. Silver Tongue sat right there, tagged as an introductory interpersonal modifier; a starter skill.

  It made sense now. These weren’t random perks tossed at me by a benevolent algorithm. They were branches I’d already been poking at blindly, earning starter skills without seeing the tree they belonged to. Which meant two things.

  First: XPoints were going to be slow.

  Second: I didn’t actually need to rush. If early skills could still be triggered organically, then Foundation Nodes weren’t the only way forward. I’d only spend 200 XPoints on nodes I had absolutely no idea how to trigger.

  Yet . . . my eyes locked in on the final node: Coaching Cohesion.

  That sounded exactly like something I needed right now.

  I hovered, and the branch dropped down.

  This was great. I wouldn’t have to trample on anyone’s career to advance mine.

  I could let reality arbitrate. If the idea was bad, it would die quietly in cones and bibs and half-speed presses. If it was good, then Mitch wouldn’t be losing face by adopting it. He’d be making a sensible adjustment supported by data and staff consensus. I could even make him better at tactics after enough convincing.

  I scrolled further.

  At the bottom, the text turned clinical.

  Below it, indented like an afterthought:

  It would cost a total of 400 XPoints, and I had 210. Where was I supposed to find the other 200 XPoints in a day?

  My phone buzzed while I was halfway home. I peered at the screen, and what do you know, Maisie Burns called.

  I stared at it for a second too long before pulling over to the side of the road and answering. “Yeah?”

  The other end stayed silent for a while before she spoke up, “Hey. It’s . . . uh. It’s me.”

  “Figured,” I said, easing back into the seat. “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is. I just got off the phone with my cousin.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Well, he actually knew your name. He asked if you were still playing.”

  That caught me off guard more than I wanted to admit. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. I’m asking you now if you’re still playing.”

  “I am, and I’m coaching a local side too.”

  “Okay,” she said carefully. “That’s good. I told him you hadn’t quit football completely. Just changed lanes.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  She let out a small breath. “He didn’t sound dismissive. Curious, mostly. He asked what level, what role. You’ll have to sell yourself.”

  “Appreciated.”

  “There’s a networking thing next Thursday. You’ll have your usual youth development panel, a couple of scouts, a few agents floating around pretending they’re not working. He’ll be there.”

  The moment she said agents, it felt like the inside of my head vibrated.

  This was it; Maisie Burns was my savior. I didn’t mean to smile. It just . . . happened. A stupid, relieved curve of the mouth like someone had quietly told me the exam wasn’t tomorrow after all.

  “That—” I said. “That sounds really useful. Thank you. Seriously.” I sounded way too overeager.

  There was a moment of silence on the line, like she was weighing whether that reaction was relief or ambition.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I thought it might be.”

  I leaned back in the seat, forcing myself not to ramble, not to oversell how much this mattered. Sound normal, I told myself. Don’t scare her off.

  “Just . . . tell him I appreciate the look,” I added. “And, uh, thanks for thinking of me.”

  “I’ll text you the details tomorrow. Time, place, who not to annoy,” she continued. “It’s been a long day. I should probably head off.”

  “Yeah. Of course,” I said.

  “Good night, Jamie.”

  She stayed silent for another second. “Night.”

  Then the line went dead.

  I merged back onto the road, and an hour later the lights of the Severn Bridge slid past my window, long and indifferent. A gull cut across the beams of my headlights, white for half a second, then gone.

  I kept driving.