Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

"I am officially retiring from football," Andy Robertson announced to the room, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and pure, giddy joy as he slumped onto the bench. "My heart cannot take this. I am going to become a librarian. It's a quieter life."

"But did you see the swerve?" Trent Alexander-Arnold said, his eyes wide with a look of almost religious awe as he replayed Leon's winning goal in his head.

"The ball was going to a different postcode! It took a left turn at Albuquerque! That's not physics!"

Mo Salah, who was getting a celebratory post-match massage, just laughed. "It is talent. The boy has talent. And a very, very strange right foot."

The man himself, Leon, was in the middle of it all, a quiet, happy smile on his face, trying his best to look like a normal footballer who had just scored a wonder-goal.

"Well," he began, a slow, wry smile on his face. "That was... eventful."

The room erupted in laughter.

"I am not going to talk about tactics," Slot continued, shaking his head.

"Because for most of that second half, there were no tactics. There was just... chaos. And heart. And a goal that I am fairly certain broke several laws of physics." He looked directly at Leon, a look of profound, almost unnerved, respect in his eyes. "A good match, Leon."

He let the praise hang in the air for a moment before his expression turned serious. "That," he said, "was a magnificent, chaotic, and ultimately very lucky win. It shows we have the heart of champions. But the great teams, the teams that win everything, they do not rely on luck or reality-breaking wonder-goals."

He looked around the room. "They rely on control. We will work on that."

He clapped his hands once, a sharp, decisive sound that pulled everyone's focus. "But for now, we celebrate. You have earned it. But rest well. Because our season truly begins next week."

A murmur of anticipation went through the room.

The Champions League.

"As you know," Slot said, "the format has changed. No more group stages. It is one giant league table. Thirty-six teams. We play eight different opponents, four at home, four away. Every point, every goal, every single moment matters. It is a marathon of giants."

He paused, a dramatic glint in his eye.

"And our first fixture, our first test on the road back to the final, is against a team that will be very, very motivated to beat us."

He tapped his tablet, and the screen on the dressing room wall flickered to life, showing the iconic, sky-blue jersey of S.S.C. Napoli.

A low whistle went through the room. Leon's heart did a little nostalgic flip. His old rivals. A trip back to Italy.

"A tough start," Virgil van Dijk said, his captain's voice a low rumble of respect.

"Kvaratskhelia and Osimhen are a handful."

"Ah," Slot said, a strange, almost cruel, smile on his face. "About that. It seems Napoli have had a very... productive summer. Their new owners have spent a lot of money. They don't have Kvaratskhelia and Osimhen anymore."

The room was confused. Had they sold their best players?

"They sold them," Slot confirmed, as if reading their minds.

"And they used the money to buy... replacements."

He tapped the screen again.

The Napoli lineup appeared.

And the names on the team sheet were so shocking, so completely, utterly impossible, that for a moment, the entire dressing room was plunged into a dead, horrified silence.

At the heart of the midfield was a familiar, Belgian maestro: Kevin De Bruyne.

And leading the line, a blond, Norwegian goal-scoring machine: Rasmus Højlund.

The silence was finally broken by the only man in the room with the philosophical capacity to process such a world-altering event.

"Okay," Julián Álvarez said slowly, his voice a whisper of pure, unadulterated awe.

"So... they have just downloaded the 'Manchester United and Manchester City's best players' expansion pack?"

The room exploded. It wasn't a sound of fear. It was a sound of pure, delirious, "of course this would happen" laughter. The sheer, beautiful, unadulterated absurdity of it was too much.

"Are you KIDDING me?!" Trent roared, laughing. "They sold their two best players and somehow got... better?!"

"This is not a football team!" Biyon yelled, his face a picture of comic disbelief. "This is a fantasy football team that has come to life to destroy us all!"

Leon just stared at the screen, a slow, dangerous, and incredibly excited smile spreading across his face.

He had to go to war with a super-team. He had to face down the creative genius of Kevin De Bruyne and the raw power of Rasmus Højlund. And he had to do it without breaking reality.

He looked at his own reflection in the polished dressing room floor, at the confident, slightly crazy-looking kid with the white hair and the cannon for a right foot.

And in the quiet, focused space of his own mind, a single, thrilling thought took hold.

This is going to be fun.

The aftermath of the Tottenham match was a strange cocktail of emotions.

The players were thrilled with the impossible comeback, but the victory had been a chaotic, near-death experience, and Arne Slot's post-match analysis had been a sobering reminder that they couldn't rely on reality-bending miracle goals to win the league.

Leon was contemplating this existential dread one evening, sitting on the sofa next to his mother, a large bowl of popcorn between them.

They were watching a mindless but comforting reality TV show about celebrity bakers trying to make structurally sound cakes.

"Mamma mia," Elena said, her eyes wide with horror as a famous actor's five-tiered wedding cake collapsed into a pile of sugary rubble. "It is a disaster! He did not have a strong foundation!"

"He should have played a 4-4-2 formation with his sponges, Mom," Leon said with a completely straight face. "More defensive stability."

His mother just looked at him, a fond, exasperated smile on her face. "You and your football brain," she sighed, throwing a piece of popcorn at him. "Can you not just enjoy the cake disaster like a normal person?"

He was about to reply when a commercial came on. It was a sleek, futuristic ad, filled with dynamic shots of a hyper-realistic football stadium.

The ad was for "FieldFlex VR," a new, full-immersion virtual reality system designed for football training.

"The pitch is wherever you are," a deep, dramatic voiceover announced.