'What am I doing here?' I think for the hundredth time, as I set up yet another rock configuration for a new drill.
I took off the second I hit pavement outside the hospital, but it wasn't like I had a plan. Wasn't like I had somewhere to go.
I just kept hearing the System telling me to {Run} over and over, and every time I'd think about slowing down or stopping to breathe, that voice would be back in my head, pushing me forward.
I'm not even sure it was really my System this time.
Might have been the sound of my own self-preservation, and my mind morphed it to sound like the safest thing I have in my life right now.
Either way, once I hit this park, laid eyes on this empty green, the voice in my head stopped.
As I have ever since I was a kid visiting my mom at practice, I felt safe the second I stepped onto the field.
When I pulled the worn ball from my bag, the System spoke up again, and this time I knew for sure it was the real System Lady and not just my own personal brand of crazy.
No way my brain could come up with a training menu this hardcore.
It's not like I had something better to do, and besides, there was another {Penalty: [Football Hellscape] – Six Hours} attached to this challenge.
As much as my curiosity is burning to find out what a Football Hellscape might be, I haven't even truly escaped my real-world hellscape yet, so I'd rather not drag myself into another one.
So I've been doing what I always do when my life's in shambles and there's nothing I can do about it; I've been training until I can't feel or think or worry about anything at all.
The cookies are a memory by this point, and I've only got a few granola bars left for who knows how long before I can score my next meal, so I really should stop and rest.
I completed the System's training drills over an hour ago.
But then I think about the fact that once I stop these mindless drills, I'll have to actually consider my life and come up with a plan. I don't even know where I'm going to sleep tonight, let alone some grand strategy to avoid being found and dragged back to my death.
So, for the third time in a row now, I think, "Just one last drill," and put off the inevitable a little longer.
----------
The late afternoon sun is sitting low in the sky when two more people join Rafe Guerra on a park bench next to a grassy field.
The older of the newcomers, a man in his forties athletic enough to pass for ten years younger, speaks first. "What's this about, Rafe?"
"Coach?" Rafe tears his eyes away from the field in surprise. He looks between Coach Wilcox and the teammate he'd actually texted, Jonas Becker.
"I was meeting with Beck when he received your summons," Coach explains. "He said he'd never seen you use an exclamation point before. I figured it must be important."
'Damnit, Beck,' Rafe thinks, frowning. The tips of his ears turn red, but he pushes away his embarrassment. There are more important things to focus on. "Actually, it's good you're here too, Coach. I found something, or rather someone, amazing on this random field."
"Care to tell me how you just happened upon this soccer field? You weren't thinking of training mere hours after a game, were you?"
"Of course not," Rafe lies.
Coach looks pointedly at the ball nestled between Rafe's feet.
"That's not what's important anyway," Rafe barrels on. If he ignores it hard enough, maybe Coach will get distracted enough by his news to forget about it. "I've been watching this guy for an hour now."
"Creeper," Beck deadpans.
"I was scouting, dang it," Rafe grumbles. He's never understood why everyone considers Jonas Becker to be a stoic, expressionless captain. He personally can't catch a break from the guy.
"Sure sure."
"I was observing from behind that tree at first—"
"Again, I say, Creeper."
"—but I realized it didn't matter if I moved closer," Rafe continues, ignoring his captain. "This dude's focus is next level. He's only stopped to refill his water bottles a few times from the fountain on the far side of the field. Otherwise, he's never wavered his focus even long enough to notice me recording from this close."
"Creep—oof!"
Rafe elbows Beck in the stomach as he maneuvers his phone so Coach can see it. Then he pushes play.
All three of them watch the boy in silence. Soon, the other two see it as clearly as he did. Rafe knew they would.
It's not just the flawless drills; it's how the ball seems stuck to the kid's feet. At times, it doesn't even look like he's leading the ball, but rather like the ball's just been sucked into his jet stream and brought along for the ride.
"And look how drenched he is; he's that solid even after practicing for who knows how long already," Rafe points out.
When the video ends, another auto-cues up, but Coach and Captain turn to the field instead.
The boy is now running his own version of an agility shoot drill; instead of the usual agility ladder and cones set up, though, he's performing complex, agile footwork between carefully-placed rocks, then approaching the ball from various pre-determined angles to fire off shots.
Every time he goes to the net to retrieve the ball, he marks something down in a notebook he's storing in the goal.
After watching a few rounds in a row, Rafe and the others realize regardless of where the ball is placed or which angle he's shooting from, the boy is consistently aiming for one of two spots: extreme top-left or extreme top-right corner. He's not hitting them perfectly every time, but he's doing well enough they can tell what he's trying to do, and that's pretty incredible as it is.
Rafe grins.
Mystery boy has something special, and Rafe's always been greedy. He wants that special quality on his team.
Coach, of course, can read his best midfielder's expression plain as day.
"He probably already plays for a team," he warns.
"Not USSDA, though," Rafe replies, confident. "We're spitting distance from Portland FC, and he wasn't playing in our game earlier. If anything, we should snatch him now before they find him!"
"Dude, now you straight-up sound like a kidnapper."
"Shove it, Cap."
Coach coughs in a way that suspiciously sounds like he's covering a laugh.
"What do you think, Coach?" Rafe asks, in an effort to keep him on point.
Coach looks thoughtful. "Watching a kid playing alone in a park is no way to know if he's good enough for our team."
Rafe frowns, he clearly knows this. But something about the player is calling him.
It's quiet for a moment, as they watch the ball fly straight into the upper-right net.
"Beck. Go steal the ball from that kid."
Whatever Beck and Rafe thought Coach Wilcox might say, this was not it.
"Coach, if you're that worried, give the kid a real trial," Rafe argues. "We both know Beck's gonna be called up to the Youth National Team as soon as he finishes the season, if not sooner. They just wanted to make sure his injury had fully healed."
"And?" Coach asks lightly, as if that shouldn't matter.
"And you're pitting a nobody against a nationally-ranked defender! What's this going to prove?"
"Maybe everything," Coach replies.