A searing, blistering white light tore across Eric Maddox’s vision, as if the heavens themselves had decided to blind him with celestial fury. His eyes burned under the unrelenting assault, forcing him to squint against the glare.
The heat from a thousand stadium floodlights bore down on him, cooking the beads of sweat that had already begun to form on his furrowed brow.
He hadn’t even had a moment to process where—or when—he was, but his body seemed to know instinctively that something was terribly, horribly wrong.
Then came the sound.
It didn’t just hit him—it slammed into him with the force of a runaway freight train. Cheers erupted like thunderclaps, screams pierced the air with primal intensity, and whistles shrilled in a chaotic symphony that rattled his eardrums.
This wasn’t the hum of a city street or the rhythmic pulse of a concert hall. No, this was something far more visceral, far more electric. It was the raw, unfiltered roar of a football crowd in the throes of ecstasy, a sound so overwhelming it felt like standing next to a jet engine at full throttle.
Eric Maddox’s eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the blinding stadium lights. His surroundings slowly swam into focus, the blurry edges sharpening into a scene he could barely comprehend.
Before him stretched a pristine football pitch, the grass a vibrant green under the artificial glow of the floodlights. White chalk lines marked the boundaries with stark precision, and behind him loomed the shadowed outline of a dugout, its benches sparcely occupied. On the sides were a few scattered water bottles and crumpled towels.
To his left, a massive replay screen flickered to life, and what he saw made his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach.
A fifth goal. The Crestford Colts had just scored their fifth goal.
His gaze darted to the scoreboard, and the numbers there confirmed his worst fears.
### Crestford Colts 5 – 0 Silvergate Youth Sailors
### 37:18
The clock was still ticking, each second a fresh stab of humiliation. Fifty-eight years of coaching experience—twenty-five of those as a respected professional in the U.S.—and nothing, nothing, had prepared Eric Maddox for this moment.
He was standing on the touchline of a youth match, but this wasn’t any match he recognized. The players’ jerseys, with their unfamiliar designs and logos, the team names—Crestford Colts and Silvergate Youth Sailors—and even the league name and sponsors emblazoned on the advertising boards... none of it existed in his world. In Earth’s world.
And he sure as hell didn’t remember waking up here.
"Where... where am I?" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of the crowd.
He reached instinctively for the familiar curve of his stomach, expecting the soft, rounded paunch that had been his companion for the last decade of his retirement. But it wasn’t there. Instead, his hands met a flat, taut torso, the lean muscle evident even beneath the slim-fit training top he was wearing—a top that was soaked through with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
He looked down at his hands, blinking in disbelief. They were younger, smoother, devoid of the age spots and calluses he’d grown accustomed to. These weren’t his hands. This wasn’t his body.
A sudden, crackling voice sliced through his spiraling thoughts, sharp and mocking, amplified by the stadium’s speakers.
[> "You’ve got to wonder what the Sailors’ coach is thinking right now! Look at him—he’s frozen on the touchline like a deer in the headlights! Absolutely shellshocked!" "If Silvergate came here to make a statement, they’ve certainly done it... just not the one they intended! Down 5–0, and we’re not even at halftime! Maddox looks like he just woke up—literally!" "Will Silvergate even survive until halftime? Or should the league just call this off and spare them the embarrassment? Bottom of the league with three games to go and on the verge of being excluded from youth league football for the next three years... This is appalling"<]
The crowd roared in agreement, their laughter a cruel echo that reverberated through the stadium. Maddox clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the relentless mockery from the stands or the cold, mechanical voice in his head that seemed to think he was capable of turning this disaster around.
Finally, he found his voice, though it came out as little more than a hoarse growl, laced with equal parts disbelief and frustration.
"...You’ve got to be kidding me."
The words hung in the air, swallowed by the roar of the crowd as the Crestford Colts launched yet another attack. Maddox stood frozen on the touchline, a man out of time, out of place, and out of his depth. But deep within him, buried beneath the confusion and humiliation, a spark of determination flickered to life.
He didn’t know what this "Pro Manager System" was or why it had chosen him, but if it thought he could dominate the football world, then maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to survive this nightmare.
The clock ticked on, each second a reminder of the impossible task ahead. But Eric Maddox wasn’t a quitter. Not in his old life, and not in this one, whatever it was.
He straightened his shoulders, his jaw set with grim resolve, and turned his gaze back to the pitch. The game wasn’t over yet. And neither was he.