CHAPTER 31: "WHAT IS IT? WHAT’S WRONG?!"

"Dad, what happened? The game, it just—"

"I did it!" his father cut him off, his voice strained with a mix of guilt and urgency. "You were in there, the time was ticking by, I was calling your name, and you were completely gone! I didn’t know what else to do... I pulled the plug!"

"You pulled the plug?!" Ethan scrambled out of the pod, his mind reeling. "But Dad, we were winning 2-0! It was the first game of the season!"

"Winning doesn’t pay the mortgage, Ethan!" his father retorted, grabbing Ethan’s discarded jeans from a chair and thrusting them at him. "Mr. Henderson does! You’re fifteen minutes late for your first-ever shift! Do you have any idea how that looks? Now go! Now!"

The real-world stakes crashed down on him with the force of a tidal wave.

He wasn’t a gaffer. He was a shelf-stacker. And he was late.

He threw on his clothes in a blur, his mind a chaotic mess of football tactics and the fear of his grumpy new boss. He grabbed his bike from the shed, his dad holding the door open for him.

"Ride safe," his father said, his anger already replaced by worry. "Just... do your best, son."

Ethan nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and pushed off, pedaling with a frantic energy he didn’t know he possessed.

The twenty-minute bike ride felt like an eternity.

The wind whipped past his ears, but all he could hear was the ghost of the commentator’s voice and the roar of the virtual crowd.

What happened after I disconnected? he thought, his legs pumping like pistons.

Did the AI assistant manager take over? Did he make a stupid substitution? Did we collapse?

Did we lose?

He pictured Leo texting him, laughing about how he couldn’t even win his first league game. He pictured his dad’s disappointed face. He pictured Mr. Henderson, arms crossed, tapping his foot, ready to fire him on the spot.

He skidded to a halt in front of the CostMart, his lungs burning. He was now twenty-five minutes late. He chained his bike up, took a deep, shaky breath, and walked through the automatic doors, preparing for the worst.

He found Mr. Henderson in aisle five, staring grimly at a leaning tower of canned soup.

"Mr. Henderson," Ethan gasped, still out of breath, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. "I am so, so sorry. My... my alarm didn’t go off. It was a mistake. It will never, ever happen again. I promise."

The manager turned slowly, his tired eyes appraising Ethan’s disheveled state.

He was silent for a long, agonizing moment. "My last new hire was fifteen minutes late on his second day," Mr. Henderson said, his voice a low grumble. "I fired him."

Ethan’s heart sank.

"Sir, I—"

"But," the manager cut him off, "he didn’t have the decency to look as terrified as you do right now. This is your one and only free pass, kid. Don’t waste it."

He pointed a thick finger at a large, flatbed cart piled high with boxes. "That’s the delivery for the cereal aisle. I want every box unpacked, priced, and ’faced up’—that means all the labels pointing forward—by the end of your shift. Don’t just dump them on the shelf. Make it look neat. Ask one of the others if you don’t know what you’re doing."

"Yes, sir," Ethan said, a wave of profound relief washing over him. "Thank you, sir."

The next three and a half hours were a blur of cardboard boxes, price guns, and the relentless beep of the checkout scanners.

It was mind-numbingly boring and physically exhausting.

His back ached. He got a paper cut. He spent ten minutes trying to figure out where the organic, gluten-free quinoa puffs were supposed to go.

At one point, a small, elderly woman tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, young man," she said politely. "Can you tell me where I might find the fig newtons?"

For a second, his manager brain almost took over.

He wanted to analyze her shopping cart, assess her needs, and direct her with tactical precision. Instead, he just smiled. "I think they’re in aisle seven, ma’am. Let me show you."

He walked her to the biscuit aisle, found the fig newtons on the bottom shelf, and handed them to her.

"Oh, thank you, dear," she said, beaming. "You’re a very helpful young man."

It wasn’t the roar of 40,000 fans, but in that moment, it felt just as good.

At ten o’clock, his shift was over.

The cereal aisle was a masterpiece of neat, forward-facing boxes. He found Mr. Henderson in his office.

"Aisle’s done," Ethan said, trying not to sound as exhausted as he felt.

Mr. Henderson grunted, getting up from his chair.

He walked out, inspected the aisle with a critical eye, and came back. "It’ll do," he said, which Ethan was beginning to learn was high praise.

He reached into a cash box and pulled out a handful of crisp bills. "Here’s your pay for the night. See you tomorrow. Six o’clock. Don’t be late."

Ethan stared at the money in his hand.

It wasn’t much, but it was real.

He had earned it. He had faced a challenge in the real world and hadn’t failed.

The bike ride home was much slower, his legs aching but his spirit light. He was tired, but he was proud. He had done it.

He got home to a quiet house. He crept up to his room, his mind now free to return to his other life.

What had happened to his team?

With trembling hands, he lay down in the pod and initiated the connection.

He appeared not in his office, but in a post-match summary screen.

His eyes scanned frantically for the final score.

LEAGUE ONE - FIXTURE 1

FINAL SCORE: Apex United 2 - 1 Luton Town

He had won. They had won. A wave of relief so powerful it made him laugh out loud washed over him.

He clicked on the match timeline.

Viktor’s goal in the 50th minute.

Then, at the 78th minute, Luton had pulled one back with a scrappy goal from a corner.

The last twelve minutes, according to the simulation report, had been a "resolute and disciplined defensive display, with captain Grant Hanley making two crucial blocks."

His tactics, his team, his captain—they had held on without him. They had seen it through. He had won his first league game and earned his first paycheck on the same day. It was, without a doubt, the best day of his life.

He was basking in the glow of his twin victories when his bedroom door flew open with a bang.

"Ethan!"

It was his father, his face ashen, his eyes wide with a terror Ethan had never seen before.

Sarah was right behind him, her hand clapped over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

"Dad? Sarah? What is it? What’s wrong?" Ethan asked, sitting up in the pod, his own joy turning to ice in his veins.

His father’s voice was a choked, broken whisper.

"It’s your mother... there’s been an accident."