Dylan Allen had made a quiet promise to himself after that thunderous derby comeback, especially since he isn't that good at acting villain, if someone is interested in him from now, it isn't for publicity but his performance, or maybe that is what he thinks:
No more noise. No more headlines. Just football.
That meant:
No pub nights.
No selfies with fans.
No viral clips shouting "I'm still here!"
He wasn't broke, but he also wasn't splurging.
His flat was decent, a mid-floor unit in a red-brick block with a noisy radiator and a leaky sink, but the bed was soft, and the kitchen had actual pans. That was enough.
He'd learned to appreciate the small victories: finding a parking spot that didn't require a mortgage application, buying groceries without checking his account balance twice, and discovering that his neighbor's Wi-Fi password was still "password123."
He spent the past month living like an old monk with a football addiction.
Wake up.
Jog.
Light training at Leighton's facility.
Protein shake.
Read a book, currently one about how anxiety affects elite athletes.
Nap.
Stretch.
Dinner.
Ignore socials.
Sleep.
The routine had become his religion. No deviation. No exceptions. Well, except for the time he'd spent forty minutes arguing with his radiator because it sounded like a dying walrus at 3 AM.
Sometimes he'd get the itch to scroll through the chaos, comments, hate, praise, memes of his celebration, but he fought it. Only once had he checked his mentions, and the system had mocked him instantly.
[Aren't you being too unrealistic though. That thing was going so well]
He does his best ignoring it as much as he can these days. Although he appreciates its presence, cause he'd already given up, but the system revived his passion, and now he is slowly regaining himself, and has to be consistent so that he can at least come close to being at the top again.
[...]
This routine has worked well so far, and the only one who ever broke the loop was Taz.
***
"Yo, you home?" the teen's voice echoed outside his door.
Dylan sighed, peeled off his hoodie, and let the boy in. He'd given up asking how Taz always knew when he was home. The kid had some kind of sixth sense, or maybe he just camped outside until Dylan's jogging footsteps announced his return.
Tariq Morrison practically lived in training gear. Cleats slung over his shoulder, hair wild from practice, grin loud enough to wake the dead neighbor upstairs.
"Don't you have, like, family or homework?" Dylan asked as he stepped aside.
"I told them I'm learning from a legend."
"Legend's busy making pasta. You want some?"
Taz lit up like a kid on match day. "Mate, you're actually cooking? Last time I was here, you were eating cereal for dinner."
"That was last week. I've evolved."
"Right. What's next, actual vegetables?"
Dylan gestured toward the kitchen counter where a single onion sat like a trophy. "Already there, genius."
Over bowls of Alfredo and orange juice, because Dylan's wine days were firmly behind him, Taz grilled him like a sports documentary interviewer:
"What made you stop caring back then?"
"Did you actually party with rappers?"
"Were those women scandals real or were they all made up?"
"Did you start getting this reliable on yourself after falling that hard?"
Dylan answered most with tired shrugs or sarcastic jabs. But Taz wasn't easily deterred. The kid had the persistence of a debt collector and twice the charm.
"Seriously though," Taz said, twirling pasta around his fork with the concentration of a surgeon, "everyone at the academy talks about your 'comeback story.' They make it sound like some Disney film."
"Yeah? What's the title? 'The Washed-Up Winger Who Could?'"
"More like 'How Not to Throw Your Career Away for Instagram Likes.'"
Dylan nearly choked on his juice. "Jesus, Taz. You're seventeen, not seventy."
"Seventeen-year-olds can't be wise?"
"Seventeen-year-olds are supposed to be making terrible decisions and blaming their parents."
"I'll save that for next week."
But some questions… he didn't laugh off.
"I didn't stop caring," he muttered at one point, when Taz asked about his lowest point. "I cared too much. That was the problem."
Taz blinked, surprised. The cocky grin faded. "You mean like… pressure?"
"Pressure. Pain. Stupid pride. Couldn't take being benched. Then came the booze. Then injuries. Then the tabloids. It's like a combo meal of self-destruction."
"Dang."
"Yeah. Supersized it, too."
Taz stirred his juice, suddenly looking his age. "Coach told me to be careful. He said I'm too close to you."
That made Dylan pause mid-bite. "Oh yeah?"
"Some of them think you'll... rub off the wrong way or something. Like I'll catch whatever made you crash and burn."
Dylan forced a smile, though it felt like swallowing glass. "Well, at least they're not calling me toxic this time. That's new."
"I think you're different now," Taz said quietly. "Like, actually different. Not just pretending."
"What makes you say that?"
"You haven't posted a single gym selfie in a month. Old Dylan would've documented every protein shake."
Dylan laughed despite himself. "You've been stalking my socials?"
"Everyone has. It's like watching a car crash in reverse."
Then Taz leaned back, eyes locked on his, and Dylan recognized the look. It was the same expression he'd worn at seventeen, hungry, ambitious, and terrifyingly naive.
"I just… I wanna go pro. But not like you did."
It wasn't said with malice. It was honest. Raw. And it stung worse than any tabloid headline.
Dylan chuckled, even though it hurt. "Wow. You just called me a 'don't be like him' life lesson."
Taz went pale. "No, I didn't mean..."
"It's cool," Dylan waved it off, still smiling, "You're not wrong."
"I meant like, I want to make it without the drama. Stay focused. You're showing me that's possible."
"Am I though? Or am I just better at hiding the mess?"
Taz studied him for a long moment. "I think you're figuring it out. And that's more than most people do."
Taz left before sunset, guilt trailing behind him like a shadow.
Dylan stood at the window after, watching the streetlight flicker like a busted signal.
He'd never meant to be someone's cautionary tale. But maybe being a cautionary tale who figured it out was better than being nothing at all.
***
Back on the couch, he stretched out and muttered, "Been two days. No quests. You dead, Legacy?"
The HUD blinked to life above him, blue text hovering in the dim light.
[Didn't know you missed me. I had to, y'know, THINK. I'm not some ChatGPT-level algorithm here.]
"Explains why you look like Windows 95."
[That was uncalled for.]
"Nope. Deserved."
[If you knew what was coming, you wouldn't be cracking jokes.]
That line froze him.
"What does that mean?"
[Exactly what it sounds like.]
Dylan sat up, frowning. "You're messing with me."
[Oh, absolutely. Always. But not this time.]
A new quest notification pinged with a hollow DING.
***
🧾 Quest Unlocked: "Build the Core"
Objective: Form 3 meaningful player bonds within 30 days
Conditions:
Cannot include Taz
One must be Captain Ryker
No faking it. System will evaluate sincerity.
Reward: Hidden
***
He read it twice, then three times. "Friends? That's the big quest?"
[Trust me. You'll wish you had them when the lights go out.]
"The hell does that mean?"
[You'll see. Sleep now. Cup match in two days. You're finally recovering.]
Dylan muttered under his breath and turned off the lights.
The system flickered one last time in the dark:
[Also, Ryker still hates your face. Just saying. Don't get your hopes up cause of that last reaction. I wonder what the reason could be?]
Dylan stared at the ceiling, suddenly wide awake. In the darkness, he could almost hear the distant sound of his carefully constructed routine beginning to crack.