The morning training session wrapped up just as Tomás finished the last of his teammates’ demands.
Wiping the heavy sweat from his forehead, he caught his breath.
Three hours of running around completing System missions had left his legs completely exhausted, but beneath it all, he was secretly satisfied.
The experience points were racking up.
“Hey Tomás, make sure you feed me those passes again in the scrimmage this afternoon, yeah? See ya!” Sam called out, tossing a bib at him.
Another boy laughed, shoving Sam’s shoulder.
“Give it up, Sam. Did you miss Marcus’s face earlier? Tomás is just gonna be glued to him all afternoon. Catch you later, Tomás!”
Tomás kept a polite, steady smile plastered on his face, waving off his teammates as they trooped toward the locker room.
Let them joke, he thought.
They just think I’m fetching the ball, but they’re actually farming experience for me.
“Still hanging around waiting for me? Why didn’t you head in with the others?” a voice called out, followed by a heavy, playful slap on his back.
“Look at you, Mr. Popular.”
Tomás sighed, turning to face Rashford.
“I hope you’re buying lunch, Marcus. I’m starving.”
Rashford barked a laugh and squeezed his shoulder tight.
“You think I’d leave you hanging? Mate, listen to this… I’m about to be rich. You’ll never guess who was just looking for me.”
“Moyes?”
Was the manager about to promote Rashford straight to the first team?
Tomás stared at him.
Surely not?
Rashford had been picked for England’s U16s at fourteen, and at sixteen, he was already turning heads nationwide.
But was he actually ready for the first team?
And was the current squad under David Moyes in any position to promote academy kids?
Moyes was fighting just to keep his job.
He hardly had time to scout the youth pitches.
“Tomás, did you forget what I told you? Someone important was coming to watch training today.”
Tomás widened his eyes and lowered his voice.
“Ferguson? Marcus, Sir Alex Ferguson came looking for you himself?”
Rashford straightened his posture, grinning.
“That’s right, bro. Told you I’m about to strike it rich.”
He pulled out two tickets and pressed one into Tomás’s hand.
“Here. United versus Liverpool this afternoon.”
Tomás stared at the slip of paper.
Matchweek 30, Premier League.
March 16, 2014, 1:30 PM kickoff.
Venue: Old Trafford.
Opponent: Liverpool.
A real ticket.
Manchester United against Liverpool, at home.
Tomás swallowed hard.
He had been in England for three years and still had not seen many United matches live.
He usually stuck to the cheaper FA Cup or League Cup fixtures.
Splurging on a massive league game against Liverpool was completely out of the question.
“Marcus… thank you.”
“We’re brothers, don’t get shy on me now. Come on, I’ll take you out for a big meal first. Then we’ll head straight to Old Trafford and watch United thrash Liverpool!”
Rashford led him to a place called Naples Pizza.
It was cheap by most standards.
Even so, the two of them just stopped outside and looked through the window.
Neither could afford a table.
Tomás’s family was struggling, and Rashford’s was barely scraping by.
His father had left before Marcus was old enough to remember, leaving Aunt Melanie to raise five kids on a cashier’s wages.
“Tomás, order whatever you want. Whatever looks good. I’m not short on cash.” Rashford said it, but he didn’t move toward the door.
“When I’m rich, first thing I do is buy my mum a house.
Three floors, a garden, home theater, a sauna.
Has to be white.
She loves white.
And I’m buying myself a stack of cars.
Lamborghinis, Range Rovers, Mercedes.
Bentleys are a bit much, yeah?
Actually, I saw a gorgeous MG yesterday.
Don’t worry, Tomás, when I’m rich you’re getting your cut.
You like Porsches?
I’ll get you a 911.”
Rashford kept dreaming out loud on the sidewalk.
Tomás stared at the menu taped to the glass, his brow furrowing.
A single pizza cost what Aunt Melanie or his own mother earned in several hours.
He wanted to eat it.
The picture looked incredible, and the smell drifting onto the street made his mouth water.
He closed his eyes, turned away from the window, and grabbed Rashford’s arm.
“Tomás?”
Rashford’s daydream cut off mid-sentence.
Tomás didn’t speak.
He just pulled Rashford away from the restaurant without looking back.
He knew if he lingered, he wouldn’t be able to leave.
“Tomás, what are you doing?”
“Marcus, let me treat you.”
Rashford dragged his feet.
Broke as he was, how was Tomás going to treat anyone?
He probably didn’t have a single pound in his pocket.
A sinking feeling hit Rashford’s stomach.
“I mean it,” Tomás said.
Minutes later, Tomás pulled him into a queue of people waiting for free food.
A minute ago, Rashford had been talking about mansions and sports cars.
Now, standing among destitute and ragged strangers, reality hit.
The excitement drained from his face.
He went quiet.
“Marcus, you aren’t mad at me, are you?”
“No. You were right to bring me here.” Rashford shook his head, expression entirely serious.
Tomás exhaled slowly.
Ten minutes later, they made it through the line.
They sat on the curb with their haul: a croissant, a box of fish and chips, and a cup of yogurt.
“Whoever donated all this must run a fancy restaurant,” Tomás said, filling the silence.
The food was surprisingly good.
Rashford chewed his bread, staring at the pavement.
He thought of the years his mum had raised them on welfare, skipping meals so the kids could eat.
He suddenly stood up.
“Tomás, I’ve decided. When I make it, I’m going to be a philanthropist too.”
Tomás noticed the people around them pausing over their own food, staring at the two teenagers shouting on the sidewalk.
Tomás’s ears burned.
He tugged at Rashford’s trouser leg.
“Aunt Melanie always says not to talk with your mouth full.”
“Oh.”
Rashford sat back down and quietly took another bite of his bread.
The line outside the charity kitchen stretched down the block.
This meal was a feast for Tomás and Rashford, just as it was for everyone else there.
When they finished, they threw away their trash and kept walking toward Old Trafford.
“After Sir Alex and I talked today, the youth coach told me most of the U18 squad is moving up to U21 at the end of the season, and a bunch of others are leaving,” Rashford said as they walked.
“They’re basically clearing out the whole U18 team. Promotion this year might not be as strict. There’s room for a lot more of us. Tomás, you need to be ready.”
Tomás blinked.
“Really? Can the U21s even fit that many players?”
“Why would I lie? At least twenty-five U21 players are leaving in the summer. Transfers, loans, free releases. And the ones who do move up to U21 still play U18 matches anyway. Getting promoted to the U18s and actually getting minutes for them are two different things. But if you get promoted, you have a shot.”
Tomás nodded slowly.
At Manchester United, making the U18s meant you had a path to the U21s.
Even if a player never sniffed the first team, lower-league clubs watched those squads closely.
Reaching that level meant you were in the professional ecosystem; you could make a living.
Even if his future wasn’t at United, his odds of a real career elsewhere would skyrocket.
Look at Paul Pogba.
He never got a proper chance at United, and now he was starting for Juventus.
Pogba was a rare exception, but plenty of United academy graduates made comfortable livings in the Championship or League One.
Before the system appeared, Tomás’s plan had been straightforward: scrape into the U18s and U21s, move to a Championship or League One club, and turn pro.
Build enough of a reputation to catch the eye of a Primeira Liga team back in Portugal, then go home and earn real money.
Buy his parents a house.
Find a wife, buy a decent car, live comfortably.
Playing his way into Manchester United’s first team had never factored into the plan.
He didn’t let himself dream that big.
Most graduates from United, City, Chelsea, or Liverpool made their names somewhere else.
Hearing that the odds of promotion had improved lifted a heavy weight off his chest.
He had his system now.
He knew he would improve, but it would take time.
He wasn’t good enough yet, and he had been dreading the U18 cut.
A wide smile broke across his face.
“Play well for the U18s, show what you’ve got,” Rashford said.
“As long as you aren’t completely off the pace, I’ll see if I can get the coach to keep you around, even if it’s just to pass me the ball.”
Tomás would be perfectly happy being Rashford’s setup man, as long as it meant making the squad.
He had been Marcus’s shadow for three years.
Don’t forget where you came from, he told himself.
Don’t get arrogant just because you have a cheat code.
“Tomás, you pass fine in training, but you freeze up in real matches. You get nervous too easily. We’re all under pressure, but you need to relax. Don’t do that once we’re playing U18 games, alright? We’re men now. Stand tall, you understand?”
Tomás nodded, looking at Rashford.
“Thank you, Marcus.”
Rashford slapped his back and laughed.
“Don’t thank me. We’re brothers. It’s only right I help you out.”
Raising five kids on her own made Aunt Melanie a force of nature.
It made sense she raised someone as solid as Marcus.
Old Trafford.
Tomás was currently operating at the stress level of a bomb disposal expert on his first day.
Sitting directly below a hospitality box containing Sir Alex Ferguson, half the United board, and an assortment of intimidating club legends, Tomás’s stomach was doing aggressive gymnastics.
He sat so rigidly in his chair he could have been mistaken for a piece of stadium architecture.
Beside him, Rashford leaned back, chewing gum and soaking in the atmosphere like he already owned the place.
Up in the VIP box, an executive leaned over.
“Sir Alex, Moyes says he’s confident. Liverpool won’t be winning the league by beating us today.”
Sir Alex nodded thoughtfully.
Then, his gaze drifted downward, landing squarely on Tomás.
The kid was currently vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass.
“This one…” Sir Alex muttered, his mouth twitching.
The legendary manager looked like he was fighting a losing battle against a belly laugh.
Down on the pitch, the TV cameras swept over the crowd and locked onto the two boys.
“Ah, and there’s Marcus Rashford,” the lead commentator said smoothly.
“Sixteen years old, arguably United’s brightest academy prospect. Word is City, Liverpool, and Chelsea have already put in offers.”
“Is that right? Quite the talent,” the co-commentator chimed in.
The lead commentator was famous for his encyclopedic knowledge of the Premier League.
He knew every youth player’s dominant foot, their youth stats, and probably what they had for breakfast.
But then, the camera panned slightly to the left.
It zoomed in on the boy sitting next to Rashford.
The boy who was currently death-gripping Rashford’s hand like a frightened toddler crossing a busy street.
Three agonizing seconds of dead air stretched over the broadcast.
Usually, when the camera lingered on a youth player, the commentator had a name and a scouting report loaded in the chamber.
This time?
Nothing.
Fans watching the feed immediately swarmed Twitter and the football forums.
@RedDevilFan99: “Is that kid okay? He looks like he’s about to be executed.”
@FootyBanter: “Bro is literally holding Rashford’s hand 💀 Are they crossing the road?”
@StretfordEnd: “He’s sitting right under SAF. He must be in the academy too, right? Why is his jaw shaking like a washing machine?”
@TheGaffer: “Whoever that random kid is, he just made the commentator blue-screen on live TV. Absolutely massive effort.”
@UtdScout: “Seriously, WHO IS THIS KID???”
By the next morning, half the football boards in the country would have a massive thread dedicated to the unknown, terrified boy who broke the commentary box.
Meanwhile, Tomás sat entirely frozen, blissfully unaware that millions of people had just watched his soul temporarily leave his body.
[Ding!]
[Congratulations, your affinity with Rashford has reached 90. The ‘View Other Players’ Attributes’ module is now unlocked. You can now view Rashford’s attributes in full.]
[Ding! ]
[Congratulations on making your first best friend on the football field. Your best friend can issue more missions, and completing your best friend’s missions earns larger rewards.]
What was that?
Tomás’s racing heart settled at the sound of the familiar electronic chime.
Then he looked down.
He realized he had been squeezing Rashford’s hand for the last five minutes.
He yanked his arm back.
Rashford stared at him.
Tomás stared back.
They both wiped their hands on their jeans in mock disgust.
“Tomás, you’ve got a bright future,” Rashford said.
“Don’t ruin it by going down the wrong path, yeah?”
Like I’m the one who needs that warning.
[Ding! Your best friend has shared something with you. ]
[Your best friend hopes you will toughen up.
Your best friend has shared the [Lion Heart] trait with you.
Ding!
]
[Congratulations, your [Lion Heart] experience +50!]
Is that even allowed?
He had done absolutely nothing, and the system just handed him free experience through Rashford.
Was this the perk of having a best friend?
Tomás opened his attribute panel.
[[Trait]: Lion Heart LV0 (100/100) [Upgradeable]]