World football system-Chapter 38: Cracks in the Glass

The stadium had been electric just days ago — roaring fans, flashbulbs, the scent of freshly cut grass still sharp in Tobi’s memory. His name had been chanted from the stands like a hymn. "Oliveira! Oliveira!" That one match — one glorious goal and an assist — had made him a rising name in La Liga.

But glory was fleeting.

Now, under the harsh fluorescent lights of the training ground, Tobi felt like a shell. His calves burned. His passes were half a second late. Even his usually sharp vision seemed clouded. The energy that had propelled him so high now seemed to have drained from his body.

"Again," Coach Ramos ordered, his voice clipped.

Tobi grunted and jogged back to the start of the passing drill. Sweat dripped down his temples. He bent over slightly, trying to catch his breath, but the assistant coach clapped sharply beside him.

"Upright, Oliveira! We don’t lean on fatigue."

He straightened immediately, biting the inside of his cheek. Pain he could handle. Humiliation was harder.

They ran the drill again. And again. Until the sting of failure settled deep in his muscles.

By the end of the session, his training bib clung to him like a wet towel. He staggered to the bench and dropped down, not even bothering to unlace his boots. For a moment, he closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to think.

But the system never stopped.

---

[System Notice]

Warning: Performance metrics have dropped across the last 3 sessions.

Dribbling Efficiency: ↓

Passing Accuracy: ↓

Composure: 66

Mental State: Unstable

> Suggested Action: Take 1 full rest day or risk minor stat penalties for next fixture.

---

He dismissed the notification with a flick of his mind. There was no time for rest. He had school in two hours. A tactical meeting at six. A film session before bed. And finals coming up.

As he changed in the locker room, his teammates joked and bantered around him. Some mentioned last week’s game. Others talked about the next opponent. But Tobi stayed silent. He didn’t feel like he was part of them today.

The glow of the spotlight was starting to burn.

---

He made it to school late. Again.

He slid into his desk in the back of the class just as the literature teacher wrote the word Metáfora on the board. She paused when she saw him.

"Señor Oliveira," she said. "Glad you could join us. Finally."

A few students chuckled.

Tobi kept his head down.

He wanted to focus, but the words on the page blurred. The exhaustion was physical, but worse — it was emotional. His mind was everywhere: the bad training session, the low stats, his sister’s upcoming match, the media story brewing about his last poor press appearance.

And the system — the damn system — kept hovering at the edge of his vision, reminding him of everything he wasn’t doing right.

---

When he got home, the apartment was quiet.

His mother was in the kitchen, still in her work blouse, typing fiercely on her laptop — probably handling another endorsement deal. Leonor was sprawled on the floor, half-watching a match replay on her tablet while doing stretches.

Tobi dropped his bag and flopped onto the couch.

His mother didn’t even look up. "You look dead."

"Feel worse," he mumbled.

"You’re pushing too hard again," she said. "Your eyes are red."

Leonor rolled over to look at him. "You okay, Tobz?"

He looked at her. Her face was rounder than it used to be. Still young, still innocent. She’d grown fast in the last year — faster than he had at her age.

"I’m fine," he lied.

But she knew. She always knew.

"You didn’t pass much in the last match," she said. "You looked... tight."

Tobi exhaled. "I was trying to impress. Maybe too much."

His mother finally closed her laptop. "Sit up. Eat. And tomorrow? You skip training. Tell them you’re sick."

"I can’t—"

"You will," she interrupted. "Because I won’t watch you destroy yourself again."

Tobi froze.

He knew what she was referring to.

The past life. The one she didn’t remember, but he did. The one where he never stopped, never rested, never asked for help — until it was too late.

---

He stayed home the next day.

It felt alien. Wrong, almost. But also... needed.

He woke up late for once. Helped Leonor with her dribbling drills. Played a board game with his mother after dinner. Watched an old match replay of Ronaldinho in his prime. And for a few hours, the pressure lifted.

That night, the system activated again.

---

[System Notification]

Rest Day Registered. Mental State: Stabilizing.

Composure +4

Focus Recalibrated. Performance Prediction for next fixture: Improved.

---

He smiled faintly.

He wasn’t fixed. Not by a long shot.

But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Tobi returned to training the next morning with a clearer head.

The sun was barely cresting over the rooftops of the training complex when he arrived, dressed and ready an hour earlier than required. The familiar scent of dew-covered turf and liniment filled his nose. This time, it wasn’t adrenaline pushing him forward — it was choice. A calm determination. The kind that didn’t burn fast and fizzle out, but smoldered steady and deep.

Coach Ramos noticed immediately.

"Didn’t expect you back already," he said, arms folded as Tobi jogged up.

"I needed a reset," Tobi admitted.

The coach nodded once. "We all do."

The warmup felt smoother. His touches were cleaner. His passes zipped across the grass with renewed sharpness. It wasn’t a miracle — his legs still ached, and he wasn’t suddenly flawless — but there was a rhythm to his movements again. A quiet confidence.

During a short-sided match drill, he picked up the ball in midfield, let it roll across his body, and threaded a perfectly-timed pass through two defenders. Goal.

Someone clapped from the sidelines. It was Paco, one of the senior midfielders, known for his bluntness and dry humor.

"Now that’s more like it, chaval," Paco called.

Tobi offered a small smile, breathless but grateful. The old guard was hard to impress — so when they noticed, it meant something.

That afternoon, as he changed in the locker room, the system updated again.

[System Notice]

Mental State: Stable

Composure: 72

Vision: +1 → 91

Performance Projection: ↑

You have recovered from fatigue. Keep momentum steady.

He tapped the notification closed and took a long breath. Small steps — but the right ones.

He still had schoolwork to finish. Exams to prepare for. A media interview to film next week. And a weekend fixture against a team known for brutal counter-pressing.

But for now?

He was okay.

And that was progress.

Back home, Leonor was bouncing around the living room, juggling a football while watching a replay of a Barcelona women’s youth match.

"Watch this, Tobi!" she shouted, flicking the ball up with her heel and catching it behind her head.

"Show off," he laughed.

"I learned from you."

She dropped the ball and looked up at him seriously. "Are you feeling better now?"

He nodded. "I am."

"Good. Because I want you in the stands when I score next week."

"Front row," he promised.

Their mother emerged from the kitchen with a dishcloth in her hand. "And maybe you’ll finish your math homework tonight too, hm?"

Tobi winced. "I can’t win in this house."

"You already are," she said softly.

He blinked, the weight of her words sinking into his chest. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe it.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦