The next few days passed in a blur. Lane trained relentlessly, pushing himself harder than ever before.
Each night, he slipped into the dream world, where his father waited on that endless, glowing field.
The shadowy opponents grew faster, stronger, and more cunning, but so did Lane.
His father's voice guided him, correcting his stance, sharpening his instincts, and teaching him moves he'd never even seen before.
By the time he woke up each morning, his muscles ached as if he'd been training for hours—and in a way, he had.
At the academy, his teammates began to notice the change.
"Did you see that?" Marcus, the team's star striker, muttered after Lane effortlessly dribbled past two defenders during a scrimmage.
Since when does Lane have footwork like that?"
Lane didn't respond. He was too focused, too in tune with the rhythm of the game.
The bracelet on his wrist seemed to pulse with every step, every pass, every shot.
It was as if it was feeding him energy, knowledge, and confidence—things he'd always lacked.
Coach Hargrove watched him with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed over his chest.
Lane," he called after practice one evening. "A word."
Lane jogged over, his heart pounding.
He'd been waiting for this moment, dreading it and craving it all at once.
"You've been different lately," Hargrove said, his tone unreadable. What's going on?"
Lane hesitated. How could he explain something he didn't fully understand himself? "I've just been working harder, Coach," he said finally.
Trying to make my dad proud."
Hargrove studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. But don't let it go to your head. Talent's nothing without discipline."
"Yes, Coach," Lane said, relief flooding through him.
But as he walked home that night, the bracelet felt heavier than ever.
It wasn't just a tool anymore—it was a responsibility. His father's words echoed in his mind: *
The road ahead won't be easy.*
Lane knew he was only scratching the surface of what the bracelet could do, and part of him was terrified of what lay ahead.
---
The first real test came during the academy's match against their biggest rival, Blackwood FC.
The stands were packed, the air electric with anticipation.
Lane sat on the bench, his leg bouncing nervously as he watched the game unfold. The score was tied 1-1, and the tension on the field was palpable.
"Lane," Hargrove barked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"You're in. Let's see what you've got."
Lane's heart leaped into his throat as he jumped to his feet.
This was it—his chance to prove himself. He jogged onto the field, the bracelet warm against his skin, and took his position on the wing.
The moment the ball touched his feet, everything else faded away.
The roar of the crowd, the shouts of his teammates, the pressure of the moment—it all dissolved into the background.
Lane moved with a confidence he'd never felt before, weaving through defenders like they were standing still.
He passed the ball with pinpoint accuracy, his vision sharp and clear.
Then, in the 85th minute, it happened.
Marcus sent a cross arcing toward the box, and Lane saw his opening.
He sprinted forward, his feet barely touching the ground, and leaped into the air.
Time seemed to slow as he connected with the ball, sending it rocketing into the top corner of the net.
The pitchside fans erupted. His teammates mobbed him, their cheers deafening, but Lane barely heard them.
He looked down at the bracelet, his chest heaving, and for a moment, he thought he saw it glow.
---
That night, the dream was different. The field was darker, the air thicker, and the shadowy opponents were faster and more aggressive.
Lane struggled to keep up, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
"Focus, Lane!" his father's voice boomed.
Do you think this is enough? You think one goal makes you a star?"
Lane gritted his teeth, pushing himself harder.
But no matter what he did, he couldn't break through the shadows.
They swarmed him, their movements relentless, until he stumbled and fell.
When he woke up, his sheets were soaked with sweat, and his legs felt like lead.
The bracelet was cold against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he'd grown used to.
Lane sat up, his mind racing.
His father's words echoed in his head: *You think this is enough?*
He knew the answer.
It wasn't. Not even close.
---
The next morning, Lane arrived at the academy before anyone else.
He ran drills until his legs burned, practiced shots until his foot was sore, and worked on his passing until his arms ached from retrieving the ball.
His teammates trickled in, their eyes widening as they watched him.
"Lane, man, you're gonna kill yourself if you keep this up," Marcus said, half-joking.
Lane just shook his head.
"I've got a long way to go."