4:30 AM.
The garage was cold enough that Mateo's breath fogged in front of him as he set up the first drill of the morning. Shooting practice against the wall he had converted into a target grid. Ten meters out, forty repetitions per foot, one point for each strike into the marked zones. Slow, repetitive work that produced measurable progress at a glacial speed, which was the only speed available at post-80 attribute levels.
By six, he had finished his sets and was doing his warm-down stretches on the mat. His body felt loose, warm, and alive after the session. He rolled his shoulders, checked his phone, and opened the system for his routine morning check-in.
The training bar was full. He earned a point and Shooting raised from 80 to 81.
He was about to close the interface when the Match Points panel caught his eye.
Match Points accumulated across the season: six for each Champions League appearance, three for competitive Bundesliga performances, alongside additional bonuses for goals and assists. He had spent twenty-one on the final Beckham Curve fragments before the Bayern match and had not checked the total since.
54.
He had been playing well enough that the counter had filled up without him noticing.
The panel had changed.
A new button had appeared where the fill bar used to cap at fifty. A six-sided die, glowing faintly in the system's cool blue palette. Underneath, a description scrolled into view.
[Match Point Dice: Consume fifty Match Points for a random reward?]
He read it twice just to be sure. Random reward? Not something specific he could target with calculated spending, but a lottery? The system, which had operated with transparent rules since the beginning, had introduced an explicitly random mechanic.
His finger hovered over the die.
He almost pressed it. Fifty-four points was more than he needed for anything he was currently saving toward, and the die offered something new. Whatever came out could not be worse than sitting on the counter unused.
He pulled his finger back.
No. The rewards he could see and plan around were reliable. The ones he could not were a gamble. He had built his career on the reliable ones and was not going to change that on a whim before a Champions League knockout round.
He closed the system. Then, two seconds later, he reopened it and pressed the die before his good sense could stop him.
The system's visual output was dramatic:
[Ding! Match Points Dice activated.]
[Congratulations! You have received: Orange Rarity Reward — Upgrade Card.]
The description scrolled beneath.
[Upgrade Card: Enhances one skill or equipment by one tier. 50% chance of a critical upgrade, doubling the improvement.
Mateo stared at the screen.
He had two active skills: La Croqueta and Beckham's Curve. Both sat at their default level. An upgraded La Croqueta would presumably let him execute the move under tighter pressure or from awkward angles. An upgraded Beckham's Curve, especially with a critical hit, could push his free-kick reliability into territory that would frighten every goalkeeper in Europe.
But not yet. The Champions League knockout rounds were ten days away. If a mission triggered during those matches, an upgrade card applied at the right moment could be worth ten of these. He locked the card into his inventory and closed the system for good.
Four hours of daily training and one impulsive click had given him an item he would remember all season.
The doorbell rang at nine.
Mateo was on his second cup of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table with the morning newspaper. The headline was still about his performance: SILVA'S TRIUMPHANT RETURN. Below it was a photograph of his standing ovation, taken from behind the goal, showing a sea of hands raised in applause.
The doorbell rang again. Then a third time. Then someone started knocking on the wood.
Mateo opened the door to find Vardy standing on the step with a heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. He was wearing a jacket that was clearly not warm enough for a German January, accompanied by a hopeful expression suggesting he had rehearsed this conversation on the walk over.
"So, um... I—I'm here to talk, like," Vardy said, rubbing his cold hands together, "- about that spare room."
"What spare room? What are you talking about?"
"Well, I heard from Farfán that you've got a spare room in your house. The one your parents were using."
"You heard what from Farfán?"
"That you've got a spare room, mate. I mean, right now I'm just living out of some hotel the club's paying for, which I reckon they're gonna stop paying for by the end of the month anyway."
Mateo looked at him for a moment. Then at the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Then he felt the freezing January air biting at his neck.
"Alright, come on in then," he said.
Vardy shuffled inside with the subtle relief of a man who hadn't been entirely sure the answer would be yes. He set his bag down on the floor, glanced around the quiet hallway, and grinned.
"Proper upgrade from the hotel, this."
"That's a pretty low bar."
"Yeah, well, fair enough," Vardy shrugged, his grin staying put. "Where's the room then?"
Mateo pointed up the wooden stairs. Vardy hoisted his bag and started heading up.
Halfway up the steps, he paused and looked back down.
"Cheers for this, mate. Really. I'll pay rent, like. Whatever's fair."
"Don't worry about it."
"Nah, I'll worry about it. I don't take charity, mate."
"Fine. We'll figure something out."
Vardy nodded, satisfied, and vanished down the landing. A moment later, Mateo heard the guest room door open and close, followed by Vardy's muffled voice muttering through the wall: "Bloody hell, this is bigger than my whole flat back in Halifax."
Mateo went back to his coffee.
An hour later, Vardy came back downstairs. He had changed into a Schalke tracksuit that was slightly too big for him, his hair still wet from the shower. He stood in the kitchen doorway with an awkward posture, the way a guest stands when they have not yet figured out where the line between guest and housemate lies.
"So," Vardy said, leaning against the counter. "How does this whole thing work, then?"
"How does what work?"
"You know... living together. I've never really lived with a teammate before. Or, well, anyone who wasn't my parents, to be honest."
Mateo considered it for a second. "Well, kitchen's shared. Cook whatever you like, just clean up after yourself. The bathroom on the second floor is yours, the ground floor one is mine. Keep your sweaty training gear in the utility room. And, seriously, don't touch my coffee machine. I'll know if you touch my coffee machine."
"Right, message received," Vardy chuckled.
"I train from four-thirty to seven every morning," Mateo added. "So don't be alarmed if you hear weird noises coming from the garage."
Vardy blinked, his eyebrows pulling together. "Wait, you train from four-thirty? In the morning?"
"Yeah."
"Like, every single morning?"
"Every morning."
"Mate, that is proper mental," Vardy said, shaking his head.
"So people keep telling me."
Vardy nodded slowly, filing that insane piece of information away. "So, uh... do I have to join you at four-thirty then?"
"No. But if you actually want to tag along, I won't stop you."
"I might, reckon. Eventually. Definitely not tomorrow, though," Vardy paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Tuesday, maybe?"
"Whenever you're ready."
Vardy grinned. He opened the fridge, scanned the shelves, and grabbed a block of cheese and a carton of eggs with the easy confidence of someone who had decided this arrangement suited him just fine.
"Right then, I'm making omelettes," he announced. "You want one?"
"Sure, why not."
"Coffee as well?"
"I literally just told you not to touch the machine."
"Well, I was gonna ask you to make me one, wasn't I?" Vardy grinned. "Politely, like."
Mateo laughed out loud. It was the first real, hearty laugh he had shared in his own kitchen since his parents had left, and the sound almost caught him off guard.
He had spent the last two weeks living completely on his own. He had kept telling himself that he preferred the solitude and the strict routine of waking up at 4:30 AM without worrying about waking anyone else.
Yet there was something grounding about having another human being in the house. Hearing boots moving across the floorboards, eggs cracking against the rim of a bowl, and silly questions about his coffee machine brought a unexpected sense of warmth to the quiet rooms.
Mateo stood up and began brewing two fresh cups of espresso.
Out in the hallway, the smell of melting cheese was already drifting from the kitchen while Vardy hummed a messy, tuneless melody to himself through his teeth.
You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!
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