Building the Foundation

Luca sprawled across his bed, the ache from the U17 training sessions still lingering in his bones. Coach Santini's words echoed in his skull: "Build your physicality—or you won't stick here permanently."

The U17s had tossed him around like a leaf in a storm, their strength a wall he couldn't crack. At 72 Overall, he'd held his own with agility and skill, but his wiry frame—barely holding at 62 Strength—betrayed him against their muscle.

Matteo had fared better, his broader build and poise shining through, but Luca knew he had to catch up. Determination burned hot in his chest; he wouldn't settle for almost good enough.

He swiped open the Football Prodigy System, its golden panel glowing.

With 18,800 points banked from goals, assists, and wins, he had power to wield. Santini's critique gnawed at him—physicality meant strength and speed, the tools to stand tall.

He tapped the interface, allocating points with purpose: seven to Strength, pumping it from 62 to 69, and three to Speed, nudging it from 74 to 77.

Ten thousand points vanished, leaving him with 8,800. A ripple coursed through him—his arms felt denser, his legs springier. He flexed, marveling at the shift, but knew this was only the start.

Points alone wouldn't cut it; he needed real bulk. Luca scribbled a plan—more calories, more muscle.

Downstairs, Emily hummed over a pot of pasta, the kitchen warm with garlic's bite. "Mom, we're hitting the store tomorrow," he called, leaning on the counter.

"Need chicken, rice, eggs—stuff to pack on size." She grinned, tossing him an apple. "Turning into a tank, huh? About time—you're all string bean." He smirked, catching it. "Gotta keep up with the big boys."

The system's boost was a shortcut, but food was the foundation. He'd been coasting on lean meals—time to pile the plate high.

Gianpiero poked his head in, nodding approval. "Smart move, Luca. Strength's half the game—your legs can't carry you if they're twigs." Luca laughed, already picturing protein shakes and heaping bowls of rice.

It'd be a grind, but he'd fill out, match the U17s blow for blow.

His phone buzzed—Chiara.

Guilt pricked him; he'd pushed their date aside for training, leaving her hanging.

Saturday, 7 PM? Arcade? he texted, heart thumping.

Her reply was instant: Yes.

He grinned, nerves sparking. What to wear? He rummaged through his closet, tossing aside a ratty hoodie and a too-tight tee. Dark jeans, a crisp white shirt—casual but sharp.

Then his Jordan boots, black and sleek, caught his eye. Perfect. He'd match style with swagger, hoping she'd notice.

Sophia slunk in, smirking at the clothes strewn across his floor. "What's this, loverboy? Dressing up for Chiara?

Don't trip over your ego on the way out." Luca lobbed a sock at her. "Least I don't dress like a walking laundry pile, swamp rat." She dodged, cackling, "Better bring your A-game—she's too cool for your dorky ass!" He rolled his eyes, but her jab stuck. Saturday loomed—football wasn't the only thing he had to nail.

The system panel flickered, updating his stats. He scanned it, pride swelling, a step closer to greatness.

[Player Stats]

Physical Attributes:

Speed: 77

Stamina: 65

Strength: 69

Agility: 83

Technical Skills:

Dribbling: 73

Passing: 60

Shooting: 59

Ball Control: 71

Mental Attributes:

Determination: 80

Focus: 60

Teamwork: 64

Vision: 63

Overall Rating: 73

Potential: 87 Total

Points: 8,800

Luca flexed again, feeling the new heft in his arms.

Strength at 69, Speed at 77—he was faster, tougher, but not done.

The U17 squad demanded more, and he'd deliver. Saturday's date with Chiara was a breather, a chance to feel normal amid the grind. He'd prove himself on the pitch and off it, one calorie, one step at a time.