c7 - I Am a Scout
The Steel Team's opponents, emboldened by their earlier dominance, pressed high up the pitch again, seemingly forgetting Vardy's electrifying goal. Their defensive line pushed forward, leaving a dangerous gap behind them.
Vardy knew—this was his moment.
A high-flying corner was confidently plucked out of the air by the Steel Team's goalkeeper. He quickly scanned the pitch and spotted Vardy, who was already signaling for a long ball near the center line. Given Valdy's earlier display of raw pace and finishing, the goalkeeper didn't hesitate. He launched a pinpoint, driven goal kick over the halfway line, sending it into no man's land behind the opposition's backline.
The ball soared like a guided missile, and every pair of eyes in the stadium followed its trajectory. As it began its descent, a sudden blur of movement sent shockwaves through the field.
Vardy had already taken off.
Like a cheetah launching into a sprint, his acceleration was explosive. The speed that had left defenders for dead earlier was now on full display again. He surged forward, eating up the yards in seconds, his strides powerful and fluid. The opponent's last defender, caught out of position, turned to chase but immediately realized the gap was widening with every step.
The sight of Vardy storming down the pitch triggered a flashback for the defenders. It was the same unstoppable sprint that had embarrassed them earlier. Only this time, it felt even faster.
The panicked center-back tried to shield the ball, hoping to delay Vardy's charge, but it was futile. Vardy shifted gears, breezing past him like a gust of wind, his right foot making first contact with the ball just as it dropped. A slight flick forward, and he was gone.
Desperation kicked in—the defender lunged to pull Vardy back, but a moment of hesitation sealed his fate. In that split-second, the opportunity to foul was lost. By the time he reached out, Vardy was already beyond his grasp, his speed creating a vacuum that sucked the defender into irrelevance.
The goalkeeper, recognizing the danger, charged forward. He had learned from the earlier goal—not wanting to be embarrassed by another audacious chip, he adjusted his approach. This time, he spread his frame wide, preparing to smother the ball before Vardy could get too close.
But Vardy was calm. Composed. Deadly.
A delicate feint with his right foot sent the keeper diving prematurely. With surgical precision, Vardy cut left, skipping past the sprawled shot-stopper. The goal was empty, the path clear. A gentle side-footed touch sent the ball rolling into the net.
The stadium erupted.
The fluidity of the entire sequence—from the blistering run to the ice-cold finish—was something straight out of a top-tier highlight reel. It was a goal crafted by sheer pace, intelligence, and technique.
Standing before the net, Vardy clenched his fists and raised them high, his expression dripping with defiance.
"Now open your damn eyes and see," his smirk seemed to say. "The kid you mocked just burned you alive."
The defenders, who had been so eager to rough him up earlier, now avoided eye contact. Their arrogant smirks had vanished, replaced by the hollow stares of players who had just been dismantled by a phenomenon they couldn't comprehend.
Before Vardy could fully soak in the moment, his teammates swarmed him again, crashing into him with the force of a rugby scrum. Arms wrapped around him, fists rained playfully on his back. The celebration was pure chaos.
"You're a star now, you bastard!" David roared, punching Valdy in the chest.
Wincing, Vardy shot back, "A star no one in this town has even heard of?"
David waggled his eyebrows. "That's not a bad thing. You know how many hot girls live in this area? Imagine them all wanting to hug you after the game!"
Vardy groaned. "Do you think about anything other than girls?"
"Nope. And proud of it."
Vardy shook his head. He had bigger dreams—Premier League, Champions League, World Cup. But still… if a cute girl happened to come his way, who was he to refuse?
With the game winding down, the opponents sat deep, unwilling to risk another counterattack. Vardy knew a hat trick was off the table—without service, even he couldn't conjure goals from thin air. He wasn't a one-man army, after all. He wanted to be a superstar, not a god.
As he walked off the pitch, the Steel Team's coach met him with a firm handshake. "Jamie, that was outstanding. Moving you to the first team was the best decision I've made. Now go home and rest."
Vardy nodded but didn't say what was on his mind—this was likely his first and last game for the Steel Team. His destiny lay far beyond amateur football.
As he made his way toward the locker room, David nudged him.
"Damn, Jamie. I never knew you were that fast. You looked like a damn sprinter out there! Have you been playing dumb this whole time?"
Vardy smirked. "I've always been this fast. It's not my fault you've got the awareness of a potato."
Even as he joked, he knew the truth. His speed wasn't normal. Not long ago, he was just another amateur player with decent pace. But ever since the system activated, something had changed. He felt stronger, faster—almost like a different person.
Before they reached the locker room, a middle-aged man stepped into their path.
David, ever the clown, smirked. "Sir, do you want Jamie's autograph? Or are you here to introduce your beautiful daughter to him? I'm Jamie's manager, by the way. And personally, I'm even more talented than him—so if you have a gorgeous daughter, introduce her to me first!"
Vardy palmed his face.
The man chuckled, unbothered. "My daughter weighs over 200 pounds, and I've been worried she won't find a boyfriend. Since you're so eager—should I introduce you?"
David's grin vanished. "I'll… I'll pass."
Ignoring David's embarrassment, the man turned to Vardy, his gaze sharp.
"My name is Drake Langley. I'm a scout. Can we talk? Your friend called you Jamie—can I call you that?"
Vardy's heart skipped a beat.
A scout?
For the first time, his dream of playing professional football didn't feel distant. It felt real.