Chapter 240: Suspended [2]
"He is not tired," Julián Álvarez declared with the absolute certainty of a man who has just uncovered a great cosmic truth.
"He is contemplating the existential weight of the FA Cup. It is the oldest cup competition in the world. It is a 'senior citizen' of trophies. Does it get a pension? Does it have old-fashioned opinions? These are the important questions that are clearly weighing on our playmaker's mind."
The group around them chuckled.
"Or," Trent Alexander-Arnold chimed in with a grin, "he's just hungover from celebrating his eighteenth birthday a month ago."
Leon forced a laugh, the sound feeling hollow and strange in his own ears.
"Something like that," he managed to say. He was an actor, playing the role of 'normal, world-class footballer'. He wasn't sure he was very convincing.
Later, in the pre-match briefing for their upcoming FA Cup tie, Arne Slot was calm and professional.
"Alright, lads," he said, tapping his tablet.
"First cup match of the season. We are at home, against Accrington Stanley. They are a good, hard-working team from a lower league. They will come here with nothing to lose and will fight like lions. We respect them by being ruthless."
He looked around the room. "That being said, we have a big league match in three days. So, we will rotate. The big guns," he said, nodding at Salah, van Dijk, and Isak, "will rest. This is a chance for the rest of you to show me what you can do."
He read out the starting lineup.
Ekitike would start up front. Ngumoha would be on the wing. It was a strong, but heavily rotated, squad.
Leon held his breath, a desperate hope in his heart.
Please, please don't pick me.
He didn't want the ball. He didn't want the responsibility. He just wanted to be invisible.
"...and on the bench," Slot finished, "we will have Leon, Szoboszlai, and Salah, in case we need some magic."
A wave of profound, cowardly relief washed over Leon. He was safe.
The match kicked off under the bright Anfield lights.
From his seat on the bench, Leon was just another fan, a spectator to the beautiful game. And from this vantage point, he could see the problem.
His team, a collection of young, hungry talents and experienced pros, should have been tearing their lower-league opponents apart. But they weren't.
The young players, like Ekitike and Ngumoha, were trying too hard, their movements frantic, desperate to impress. The experienced players were too relaxed, their passing a little too casual, their pressing a little too slow.
"They are knocking on the door, but the door is made of stubborn, lower-league concrete!" the commentator lamented as another Liverpool attack fizzled out.
The first half ended 0-0. The second half began in the same frustrating fashion.
Liverpool had all the possession, but they were creating nothing.
Anfield was growing restless, a low, frustrated murmur echoing around the legendary stadium.
On the sideline, Arne Slot was a picture of controlled fury.
He was pacing, muttering to his assistants, his patience clearly wearing thin.
The clock ticked over to the 60th minute.
The score was still 0-0. Slot had seen enough.
He turned to the bench. "Leon!" he barked.
Leon's blood ran cold. No.
"Get warmed up! You're going on!"
He wanted to say no, to pretend he had a sudden, mysterious injury.
But the eyes of his teammates, of his coach, of 50,000 fans, were on him.
He took a deep breath, the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet a cool, mocking weight on his wrist, and began to warm up, his legs feeling like they were made of lead.
At minute 61, he stood on the sideline, the fourth official holding up the board.
He was replacing a tired midfielder.
As he ran onto the pitch, the roar of the crowd was a terrifying, overwhelming wave of sound.
The game, without his Vision to filter it, was a chaotic, high-speed blur of red and white shirts.
He felt completely, utterly blind.
He got his first touch a minute later.
It was a simple pass.
He didn't try a clever flick. He didn't look for the killer ball. He just passed it five yards to the nearest red shirt, Trent Alexander-Arnold. He spent the next few minutes just doing that. Simple passes.
He was no longer the magician. He was a metronome, trying to bring a simple, steady rhythm to his team's chaotic music.
And slowly, it began to work.
He started talking, his voice a constant, calming presence.
"Trent, space behind!" "Gakpo, man on!" "Hugo, show for it!" He was using his football brain, the one he had honed over years of playing, the one that existed before the system.
He was becoming a conductor, not with magic, but with simple, clear instructions.
His simple, intelligent passing was bringing order to the chaos.
The team was starting to find its rhythm.
And Leon, for the first time since his power had vanished, began to feel a flicker of his old confidence.
He could do this. He was still a great player, even without his cheat code.
In the 70th minute, they won a corner.
Trent whipped it in. A frantic scramble in the box saw the ball cleared, but only to the edge of the area. It bounced once, perfectly.
It was rolling right towards him.
He had a clear, open shot at goal.
This was it. The chance to be the hero. The chance to prove he didn't need the magic.
He drew back his foot to strike it, his focus absolute, his technique perfect.
And in that exact, split-second, his world exploded in a blinding flash of golden light.
The system was back.
[SYSTEM AUDIT COMPLETE. REBOOTING...]
[ERROR. ERROR. CORRUPTED DATA DETECTED.]
[!&@#$ TACTICAL OVERLAY: INITIATE 'THE JELLIED EEL' DEFENSIVE FORMATION? &^%$#]*
[PLAYER ANALYSIS: GOALKEEPER'S FAVORITE COLOR IS... MAUVE? 78% PROBABILITY.]
A waterfall of pure, nonsensical, corrupted data flooded his Vision, a chaotic, blinding strobe light of useless information, at the exact moment he was about to win the match.