Revalation

The glow from the interface remained cold, clinical, as the letter "C" stared back at me. Average. That's what it boiled down to. Lower-league fodder, at best. All those hours of sweat, grit, and sacrifice—reduced to a single grade, as though my entire potential as a footballer could be neatly summed up by one letter.

I clenched my fists. It wasn't like I hadn't known where I stood, but seeing it there, staring back at me, felt like a punch to the gut. I wasn't a Messi, or even a Ronaldo. Hell, I wasn't even on the radar of those guys who made headlines once a season for scoring wonder goals. But I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. I couldn't.

I'd seen players—ones like me—grind their way to the top. Late bloomers. Hard workers. The guys who weren't necessarily gifted, but had something else. Hunger. The kind of hunger that kept them out in the rain long after practice ended, taking shots until they couldn't feel their legs.

The question was, did I have that? Did I have the patience, the willpower, to keep pushing, knowing I'd likely never be world-class, but maybe, just maybe, I could inch closer to something greater?

That's when I saw it.

A new message blinked on the screen, almost as if it were taunting me, daring me to rise to the occasion. I leaned forward, my pulse quickening as the milestones flashed one after the other:

Guiding Hand Protocol Initiated. Generating milestones for the player:

#Score 30 goals in a season across all matches.

#Deliver 20 assists across all matches.

#Play 3000 effective passes in the season.

#Cover 150 km in total distance.

#Maintain a 7.5 or above 'average training rating'.

#Perform 60 successful dribbles.

#Score 5 dead-ball goals.

#Score 5 goals from corners or free kicks (not as the taker).

#Deliver 5 assists from corners.

#Maintain a 7.0 or above 'average match rating'.

#Participate in 25 or more matches in the season.

#Achieve 7 or more P.O.M. (Player of the Match) performances in the season.

Reward: Potential upgraded to "B."

I let out a low whistle. It wasn't just a list—it was a mountain. Each milestone felt like a separate challenge, the kind that required more than raw talent or natural ability. They needed brains and experience. And planning—lots of it.

But as daunting as it was, it was also… achievable. Sure, it would take some serious work, but if I played it right, if I leveraged everything I'd learned from my years on the pitch, I could see a path forming. The trick was hitting those numbers without burning out. It meant controlled aggression on the field, finding pockets of space, not just aimlessly running until my legs gave out. Precision. That was the key.

I couldn't play the game I used to. Not anymore. I wasn't the same kid who could run all day and still find the energy to sprint in the 90th minute. But what I had now was experience, a footballing brain that could outthink the younger players buzzing around me. The extra work had to be calculated—no reckless training sessions that would send me back to the hospital. This time, it had to be smart, and controlled.

And that's when the realization hit me: I couldn't do it alone. No, this needed a strategy—a full-on operation.

-------

I found my dad, Mark Williams, sprawled on the couch later that day, flipping through channels. He had that casual, worn-in look about him, like he'd long since figured out how to navigate the daily tides of family life without getting caught in too many squalls. In the background, I could hear Mum clattering around in the kitchen. This was my window—if I could get Dad onside, maybe, just maybe, we could bring Mum around without too much drama.

"Dad," I began, sliding into the room with what I hoped was a confident tone, "I need your help with something."

He glanced up, his brow furrowing slightly as he muted the TV. "What's up, mate? You look like you've got something serious on your mind."

I sat down across from him, doing my best to keep my voice steady. "I want to train harder—put in some extra work outside of the team. But you know how Mum is. She's going to flip the moment I mention extra training."

Dad's eyebrow arched. "Extra training, eh?" He shifted a bit on the couch, giving me a more appraising look. "And you think I'm the one who can smooth that over with your mother?"

"Exactly," I nodded, leaning forward. "She's going to shut me down the second I mention it. But if you're with me on this, I think we can convince her."

He chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Son, I've been married to that woman for close to 10 years. 'Influence' isn't exactly the word I'd use. You might want to rethink your strategy if you expect me to come out of this with my bed privileges intact."

I gave him a knowing smile. "Remember that football conference you took Mum to in Manchester a few years ago? The one you called a 'romantic getaway'? You still owe me for keeping quiet about that."

He groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "That's a low blow, Jake. Real low." But the amused gleam in his eyes gave him away. He was enjoying this.

"Desperate times, Dad," I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. "Besides, I need this. I can't just coast on what I've been doing. You know that. You've always told me if I want to get anywhere in football, I need to push harder than everyone else. Well, now's the time."

Dad rubbed his chin, considering. "You're not wrong about that, but you know how your mum feels about it. Last time you pushed too hard, we ended up in the hospital, remember? She won't forget that easily. It's not just about her being overprotective—it's about trust. She's afraid you're going to burn out or get hurt again."

I nodded, feeling the weight of those words sink in. Mum wasn't just being difficult for the sake of it. She had real fears, grounded in that hospital visit. I'd collapsed during training—pushed my body past its limits—and it had scared her more than I'd ever realized.

"That's why I need your help," I said quietly. "I've got a plan this time, a real strategy. It's not just about running myself into the ground. I'm smarter now. I can work on my potential without risking another collapse."

Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Alright, say I agree to help. What's your plan? How do we convince her that this is a good idea?"

I took a deep breath, glad that we were now getting into the practical side of things. "First off, I'm going to be more structured about it. No more just training for the sake of it—I'm talking about working smarter, not harder. I've been thinking about breaking it into milestones, manageable goals that'll push my potential but keep me from overdoing it."

"Milestones, eh? Like what?"

"Things like increasing my stamina gradually," I said, my mind ticking through the checklist I'd been building. "Working on my technique. My positioning. I've been thinking back to all the mistakes I made before, and I want to avoid those. You know, leverage the experience I've had, especially the stuff I've learned from seeing how the pros handle things."

He nodded, clearly interested. "And what's your endgame here? What's the final milestone?"

I looked him straight in the eyes. "I want to be the best player I can be. I know I'm not top-tier right now, but I've seen players grind their way up from the lower leagues, and I know I can do it too. If I hit the right targets, I can unlock more of my potential, get to a level where I can compete with the best."

Dad exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

I grinned. "I've had some time to think."

He sat back, folding his arms across his chest, and gave me a long look. "Alright, Jake. I'll give you this—you're serious about it, and you've clearly thought it through. But that still doesn't answer the big question—how are we going to convince your mother? She's not going to buy into this just because you've got a few milestones lined up."

That was the tricky part, and I knew Dad was right. Mum was emotionally invested in keeping me safe, and logic alone wouldn't work on her. She needed reassurance, something to hold onto so she could feel like I wasn't spiraling out of control again.

"We start small," I said, pacing myself through the plan I'd built in my head. "First, I tell her I'll keep her involved in every step. Weekly check-ins. She gets to see my progress, not just hear about it after the fact. That way, she'll feel like she's still part of it."

Dad nodded, scratching his chin. "Smart. She'll like that."

"And I'll limit how much extra training I do at first," I added. "That way, she won't feel like I'm jumping straight back into overdoing it. We can present it as something gradual, something I'm doing alongside the team's program."

"Good. But you're going to have to give her something concrete to hold onto, Jake. You can't just sell this as 'trust me.'"

"I know," I said, thinking hard. "What if we say I'll work with a professional trainer outside the team? Someone who knows how to monitor me, keep track of my condition, and make sure I'm not pushing too hard?"

Dad's eyebrows shot up. "That could work. She'd feel better if there was a professional involved—someone who could give her an outside opinion on how you're doing. It'd take some of the burden off her."

"Exactly," I said, the plan solidifying in my mind. "I'll do some research, find a trainer who has experience with players at my level, and present it to her as part of a comprehensive plan."

Dad tapped the side of his head, a grin spreading across his face. "You're starting to sound like one of those managers you're always playing as in Football Manager. You sure you're not angling for a coaching role instead?"

I laughed. "Maybe if the football thing doesn't pan out."

He leaned back again, a deep sigh escaping him. "Alright, son. You've convinced me. I'll be your wingman. But I'm telling you now—if your mum catches even the faintest whiff of manipulation, I'm throwing you under the bus. This one's on you."

I smirked. "Fair enough. But you won't regret it. We'll present it as a united front—me, you, and the trainer."

Dad stood up, stretching his back before walking toward the kitchen. "Alright then. Let's go talk to the boss.

---------

The Master Plan

Dad and I sat at the kitchen table, heads close, plotting like a pair of secret agents. If Mum caught wind of our scheming too soon, she'd shut it down before we even got started. I could already picture the moment—her disapproving look, arms crossed, brow furrowed. She was too sharp to let us just waltz in with a half-baked plan. No, we needed to be smart about this.

"We'll have to be strategic about this," Dad muttered, rubbing his chin like he was deep in tactical thought. "Can't come at her directly. We need a softer touch—build up to it, you know?"

"Right," I agreed, jotting down notes on a scrap of paper. "We'll start by casually mentioning how well I've been doing at training. Ease her into the idea."

I could feel the gears turning in my head as we hashed out our approach. Mum wasn't unreasonable, but I'd learned the hard way that the direct route wasn't always the best with her. Especially when it came to football and my health. After what happened last time, she was still on high alert, so we needed to tread carefully.

Dad nodded, leaning back in his chair as he pieced together his part of the operation. "And then, I'll handle the... finer points. A little romantic dinner, some wine, soften her up. You know how your mother gets when she's had a couple glasses of pinot."

I raised an eyebrow at him, a grin starting to pull at the corners of my mouth. "You're not seriously going to use wine to get her on board, are you?"

Dad chuckled, that mischievous spark lighting up in his eyes. "Son, you've got a lot to learn. You've been in the game a while, but this? This is next-level strategy." He leaned forward, tapping the side of his head. "Your mum's sharp, but even she can't resist a well-timed glass of her favorite wine and a bit of romance. I'm telling you, we'll have her eating out of the palm of our hands."

I couldn't help but laugh at the confidence in his voice. "So, your plan is to wine and dine her into submission?"

"Not submission," he corrected with a smirk. "Persuasion. You've got to approach these things with finesse. We don't want her to feel like we're cornering her. No, we're presenting a reasonable, well-thought-out idea in a setting where she feels relaxed and... open to suggestions."

I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms and looking at him skeptically. "And you think this is going to work?"

"Trust me," Dad said, his grin widening. "You're about to see a master at work. Your mum and I have been through a lot of negotiations over the years, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that timing is everything."

I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Alright, Dad. I'll let you handle the... finer points. But you better not forget to make it about me at some point. You're not just romancing her for the sake of it."

Dad gave me a playful wink. "Don't worry, I know when to bring you up. We'll lay the groundwork first, make her feel like everything's under control, and then I'll drop in how mature you've been lately. How responsible. You know, all that good stuff."

I couldn't help but shake my head, amused but also genuinely impressed. My dad might joke around a lot, but he knew Mum better than anyone. If anyone could pull this off, it was him.

"So," he continued, "the next step is to pick the right moment. She's had a long week at work, so I reckon Saturday's our best bet. I'll suggest we get a takeaway, open a nice bottle of wine, and just have a relaxed evening. Nothing too fancy—just enough to get her guard down."

"And then what?" I asked, leaning in, fully invested now.

"Then we'll ease into the conversation," Dad said, mimicking the way someone might slowly slip into a warm bath. "I'll bring up how you've been sticking to your training schedule, how disciplined you've been, and how proud we are of you. Once she's in the right mood, we'll suggest the idea of adding a bit of extra training. But I'll make sure she knows it's not about pushing you too hard—it's about building on what you've already done."

"And if she starts to panic?"

Dad waved a hand dismissively. "That's where the wine comes in. A little sip, a little reassurance. I'll tell her we'll take it slow, that it's all structured. And, crucially, I'll tell her that you've already thought everything through. That you've got a plan in place to avoid any risks. She'll still worry, of course, but it won't feel like we're springing something reckless on her."

I nodded slowly, impressed despite myself. "Alright. I see where you're going with this. But what if she still says no?"

Dad paused for a moment, then gave a thoughtful hum. "If she says no, we regroup. But by that point, we'll have planted the idea in her head. She won't just be thinking about the risks—she'll be thinking about the benefits too. And that's what we need. We're not going to force her into anything. We're just giving her time to come around to the idea."

I stared at him, leaning back in my chair. "You really have this all planned out, don't you?"

"Mate, you don't get through almost three decades of marriage without learning a thing or two," Dad said, his grin back in full force. "Your mum's a tough negotiator, but she also wants what's best for you. She'll come around once she sees how serious you are."

I let out a breath, feeling a mix of relief and nervous anticipation. "Alright, I'm in. But just so we're clear—if this all blows up in our faces, I'm not taking the fall alone. You're in this with me."

Dad held up his hands, feigning innocence. "If it blows up, I'll be right there with you... on the couch. But trust me, it won't come to that."

-----------

Dad had been biding his time all week, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He knew Mum better than anyone—her moods, her worries, and more importantly, what softened her defenses. He wasn't just going in for the kill; he was setting the stage, slowly weaving his charm into the fabric of their everyday life. And Friday night was his chosen battleground.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow through the kitchen windows, Dad went into full operation mode. He'd spent the afternoon shopping for ingredients and now, the smell of freshly baked lasagna filled the house. This wasn't just any dinner—it was Mum's favorite, complete with garlic bread, a salad, and a bottle of her beloved pinot noir. Every detail had been meticulously planned.

By the time Mum got home from work, the house was filled with the kind of warmth that suggested nothing but relaxation and comfort. She looked pleasantly surprised as she walked through the door, her nose catching the scent of the lasagna wafting from the oven.

"Oh, you've cooked," she remarked, dropping her bag by the door and slipping off her shoes. "What's the occasion?"

Dad appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel and offering her a roguish grin. "No occasion. Just thought you deserved a nice meal, that's all."

Mum raised an eyebrow but smiled, clearly charmed despite her suspicions. "You're up to something."

"Maybe," Dad winked, "but can't a man cook a meal for his wife without being accused of ulterior motives?"

Mum laughed, shaking her head as she went to change out of her work clothes. By the time she returned, Dad had set the table, complete with lit candles, and poured two glasses of wine. The house looked like a cozy haven, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows on the walls.

They sat down to eat, and for the first half of dinner, the conversation was light, filled with small talk about work and football, and the usual banter that marked their comfortable companionship. Mum had visibly relaxed, her posture softening as she sipped her wine, a small smile on her lips as Dad regaled her with a story about something funny that had happened at the supermarket.

Once the wine had worked its magic, and Mum was clearly in a relaxed mood, Dad subtly transitioned the conversation.

"You know, Lill," he began, swirling his glass with an air of casualness that I knew was entirely calculated, "Jake's been really serious about his training lately. I mean, he's always been committed, but there's something different this time."

It wasn't until the wine had started to work its magic that he made his move.

"You know, Jake's been really stepping up lately," he said casually, swirling the wine in his glass. "He's been focused. Disciplined. I think he's starting to find his rhythm again."

Mum paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Really?"

"Yeah," Dad continued, his tone easy and conversational. "He's been sticking to the team's training schedule, and he's been talking a lot about his goals. It's like he's got a plan now. A real one."

I could see Mum softening, her expression shifting from cautious to curious. "That's good to hear. I've been worried he might be... you know, overdoing it again."

"And that's the thing," Dad said, leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice as if letting her in on a secret. "He's not. He's smarter about it now. More calculated. I think he's learned from what happened last time. He's got this idea to train a bit more, but not in the way you're thinking. It's structured. He's even thought about working with a professional trainer to monitor him, keep things balanced."

Mum's eyebrows lifted, and she put down her fork, giving Dad her full attention. "A professional trainer?"

"Yeah," Dad nodded. "Someone who knows how to manage young players, make sure they don't burn out. It's part of a bigger plan he's working on. He's really thought it through."

Mum was quiet for a moment, processing. "And you think this is a good idea? After everything that happened?"

Dad reached across the table, gently taking her hand. "I do. Because he's not that kid who collapsed on the pitch anymore. He's matured. He's taking a measured approach this time, and I think if we support him, it could be exactly what he needs to take the next step."

Mum sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around Dad's. "I just don't want to see him hurt again."

"I know," Dad said softly. "Neither do I. But we can't hold him back forever. He's got potential, and he's ready to work for it. We just need to trust him—and maybe keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't push too hard".

Mum looked down at their hands, squeezing his fingers gently as she processed everything he'd said. Her face was a mixture of anxiety and hope, her love for me battling with her fear of history repeating itself. She took a deep breath, her eyes still glistening, and nodded. "I'll think about it."

Dad, ever the opportunist, didn't miss a beat. He gave her a soft smile, his tone lighter now. "That's all I ask, love. Just think about it. And while you're at it..." He stood up, offering her his hand. "How about a dance?"

Mum blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "A dance?"

Dad nodded, motioning toward the living room where soft music played on the radio. "Come on. It's been a while."

Mum laughed softly, clearly warmed by the gesture. "Alright, alright. But only because you made lasagna."

They moved into the living room, their voices fading into the background as they swayed to the rhythm of an old song, the wine and the warmth of the evening melting away the tension. As they danced, I knew Dad had successfully laid the final piece of the puzzle. By the time they stumbled upstairs, laughing and reminiscing like they were teenagers again, Mum's guard was down.

The atmosphere had shifted. Dad had nudged her just enough without pushing too hard. Now, all I had to do was wait for the final verdict.

That night, as the house settled into its quiet routine, I could hear the soft murmur of Mum and Dad's voices through the walls. They were talking in their bedroom, the conversation muffled but discernible. Dad's voice was calm, patient, but persistent—he was pushing just enough, gently reminding Mum about my passion for football and how much I needed this.

"I know you're scared, love," I heard him say softly. "But he's not a little boy anymore. He's grown, and he's more careful now. We'll be there every step of the way."

Mum's voice was quieter, filled with hesitation. "But what if something happens again, Mark? I don't want to go through that again."

"He's not going to get hurt," Dad replied firmly. "We won't let him."

There was a long pause, and I held my breath, waiting. Finally, I heard Mum's voice again, softer this time, resigned. "Alright... But if I see the slightest sign that he's pushing too hard, we stop. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Dad said, his voice filled with relief.

-------

The next morning, the tension that had hung over the house for the past week finally lifted. Mum sat at the breakfast table, her expression still a little weary but no longer defensive. She pushed her toast around her plate before finally meeting my gaze.

"Alright, Jake," she said with a sigh. "You can start your extra training. But the second I see you overdoing it, we're done. Understood?"

I fought the urge to cheer, instead giving her a serious nod. "Understood, Mum. I promise, I won't let you down."

She gave me a small, tired smile, still not entirely convinced, but willing to trust me—at least for now. Dad, sitting across from me, shot me a triumphant wink from behind his coffee cup, clearly pleased with himself.

It wasn't a total victory—Mum would always worry. But I had the green light, and that was all I needed.

The real work was about to begin.