CHAPTER 38: IN THE REAL WORLD

The Apex stadium sound system blasted a triumphant anthem, but it was drowned out by the roar of 40,000 ecstatic virtual fans and the jubilant shouts of the players on the pitch.

Viktor Kristensen, the 16-year-old hat-trick hero, was hoisted onto the shoulders of the towering Grant Hanley and the surprisingly strong Kenny McLean.

He looked down, a mixture of shock and elation on his young face, as his teammates bounced around him, chanting his name.

Ethan stood on the sideline, clapping until his hands were sore. He wasn’t just watching a team celebrate; he was watching his team. His vision. His risky, youth-focused project had just delivered a 4-0 thrashing in a game that had been thrown into utter chaos.

He caught the eye of Emre Demir, who had been the architect of so much of their beautiful play. The Turkish prodigy gave him a small, knowing smile and a thumbs-up.

It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes.

We did it, Coach.

As the players completed their lap of honor, soaking in the adoration, Ethan felt a profound sense of satisfaction.

This was more than a game. It was creation. It was leadership. It was the most alive he had ever felt.

The dressing room was a glorious, happy mess.

Music was blaring, players were singing off-key, and the air was filled with the triumphant energy of a team that knew it had just done something special.

Viktor was the center of it all, though he looked slightly embarrassed by the attention.

Josh Sargent was playfully trying to get him to sign his boot.

"Come on, kid! This’ll be worth a fortune one day!" Sargent laughed.

"I can’t believe the ref sent me off," David Kerrigan announced loudly to anyone who would listen, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. "It was a tactical masterstroke, if you ask me. I saw the game was getting too predictable. I created chaos. You’re all welcome, by the way."

Jonathan Rowe threw a rolled-up sock at him. "You got sent off for being an idiot, Davey. We won in spite of you, not because of you."

"Details, details," Kerrigan said with a dismissive wave.

Ethan let the celebration continue for a few minutes before clapping his hands for silence. The music was turned down, and all eyes turned to him.

"Two weeks ago," Ethan began, his voice ringing with pride, "we didn’t exist. We were just a name and a set of colors. Today, we are two games into our first-ever season. We have played two, and we have won two. We have scored six goals and conceded one. We are, as of this moment, top of the league."

A huge cheer erupted in the room.

"I am incredibly proud of every single one of you," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Today was a test. We faced chaos, we faced adversity, and we didn’t just cope; we thrived. We were brilliant. But..."

He let the word hang in the air. "This is just the start. This is the standard now. We’ve shown the league what we can do. Now they’ll be watching us. They’ll be studying us. It only gets harder from here. So enjoy this. Savor it. You’ve earned it. But on Monday, we come back to training ready to work even harder."

He looked at Kerrigan, a stern look on his face that quickly broke into a grin. "And Kerrigan? You’re on cleaning duty for the next week for that stunt."

The room roared with laughter, Kerrigan included.

The team was united, confident, and on top of the world.

"Get showered," Ethan finished. "Enjoy your weekend. You deserve it."

As the players began to disperse, a feeling of deep contentment settled over him. He had built this. This team, this atmosphere, this victory.

He logged off, the triumphant sounds of the dressing room fading away, leaving him in the quiet peace of his own room.

He emerged from the pod feeling light and energized.

The real world felt brighter, calmer.

He could hear the low murmur of the television downstairs and the happy yapping of Gaffer.

He went to his mother’s room and knocked softly on the door.

"Come in," her voice called out, stronger than it had been a few days ago.

He entered to find her sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of pillows, a book resting in her lap. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes, though still tired, were clear and bright.

"Hey, Mom," he said, pulling a chair up to her bedside.

"Hey, honey," she said, her smile warm and genuine. "How was your... big match?"

"It was good," he said, his own smile widening. "We won. Four-nil."

"Four-nil!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "That sounds very impressive. You must be a wonderful coach."

"I have good players," he said, feeling a familiar shyness. "But yeah... it was a good day."

She reached out and took his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. "I’m so glad, Ethan. It’s wonderful to hear you sound so happy, so confident. I was worried... about you."

"About me?" he asked, confused. "Mom, you were the one in the hospital."

"I know," she said, squeezing his hand. "But a mother always worries. I saw how much pressure you were under. The job, the game, us... I was worried it was all too much for you. But look at you. You’re handling it all. You’re helping your father, you’re looking after me, you’re working... you’re becoming a man."

Her words, spoken with such simple, honest pride, hit him with a force that no virtual victory ever could. He felt a lump form in his throat.

All the stress, all the fear of the past week, all the pressure he had put on himself—it all seemed to melt away in the warmth of her gaze.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he just leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her in a gentle, careful hug.

She hugged him back, her hand stroking the back of his head.

"I’m so proud of you, Ethan," she whispered.

He held on for a moment longer, the scent of her perfume and the simple, unconditional love of a mother filling his senses.

In that hug, everything clicked into place. The game was his passion.

The job was his responsibility.

But this?

This was his foundation. This was his team.

And winning here, in the real world, was the only victory that truly mattered.