IShowSpeed:Never Stop Dreaming!

The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, grass, and the faint trace of rain that had fallen earlier. Cleats thudded against the damp earth, the rhythmic pounding echoing in Dante's ears as he tried to steady his breath. The faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional caw of a crow blended into the background, drowned out by the sharp, demanding voice of Coach Brooks.

"Faster, Walker! You're not here for a stroll!"

Dante's lungs burned as he sprinted across the field. His pulse pounded in his head, and his muscles, though stronger than in his past life, were still adjusting to the strain. Sweat clung to his skin, and each breath tasted of the cold morning air. His mind was a whirlwind of frustration and determination.

"Control the speed… control the speed…" he muttered to himself.

The day's drill was simple: dribble the ball from midfield to the goal as fast as possible, dodging cones along the way. For most players, speed wasn't the issue—balance and control were. For Dante, speed was both a blessing and a curse. His body moved faster than his mind could process, making each touch of the ball unpredictable.

The whistle blew. He pushed off the ground, accelerating like a bullet. The wind whipped against his face as he weaved through the cones. For a moment, it felt exhilarating—like flying. But then, his right foot tapped the ball too hard, sending it skidding ahead.

"No, no, no—"

He lunged after it, but the momentum betrayed him. His left cleat slipped on the slick grass, and he tumbled forward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The damp earth clung to his jersey, the metallic taste of adrenaline sharp on his tongue.

"Again!" barked Coach Brooks.

Dante forced himself up, clenching his fists as frustration coiled tight in his chest. His teammates exchanged glances—some amused, others indifferent. Among them, Jack Coleman stood with his arms crossed, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

"Maybe you should slow down, Walker. Can't score if you're eating dirt," Jack called out. His voice was laced with mockery, but his eyes carried a glint of genuine challenge.

"Why don't you shut up and let me focus?" Dante shot back, wiping mud from his face.

Jack chuckled. "I'll shut up when you actually hit the goal."

Before Dante could retort, a hand clapped his shoulder.

"Don't let him get in your head," said Ethan Clarke, the team's central midfielder. His grin was easygoing, his eyes bright with amusement. "Jack's just scared you'll outrun him one day."

Dante snorted. "Yeah, right. I can't even keep the ball at my feet."

"Yet," Ethan corrected. "Come on, man. You've only been with us a couple of months. Give yourself some slack."

Dante bit back a sarcastic reply. Months? For everyone else, he'd been training here for a while, but to him, it had only been days since he woke up in this world. The pressure of living someone else's life—and chasing a dream that now felt within reach—was suffocating.

"Alright, boys! Enough chatting!" Coach Brooks clapped his hands, commanding their attention. "Scrimmage time! Blue jerseys versus red jerseys. Walker, you're with the blues. Coleman, reds. Let's see what you're made of."

Dante swallowed hard. This was it—his first real chance to prove himself.

The field buzzed with anticipation as the players took their positions. The air was heavier now, thick with the promise of competition. Dante stood near the center circle, bouncing lightly on his toes as the grass squished faintly beneath his cleats. His pulse drummed against his ribs, each beat echoing the mantra in his mind: Stay calm. Stay in control.

The whistle shrieked, and the game exploded into motion.

Ethan, acting as the Blues' playmaker, intercepted the ball with a swift touch and drove it forward. Dante sprinted down the right wing, feeling the wind bite against his face. His cleats dug into the soft earth with each stride, propelling him faster and faster.

"Walker—here!" Ethan's shout cut through the air as he threaded a pass between two defenders.

The ball shot toward Dante, rolling perfectly along the grass. He lunged for it, tapping it ahead with his right foot. It responded smoothly, and for a split second, hope flared in his chest. But as he tried to accelerate past the last defender, the familiar problem struck—too fast, too soon. The ball slipped beyond his reach, and the defender swiftly cleared it out of bounds.

"Damn it!" Dante hissed through clenched teeth.

"Slow down, rookie!" Jack's taunting voice echoed from across the field.

"Focus, Walker!" Coach Brooks barked. "Speed's useless if you can't control the ball!"

Heat rushed to Dante's face as frustration gnawed at his confidence. I can do this. I have to do this.

Minutes later, the chance came again. Ethan threaded another pass toward Dante, this time closer to the penalty box. Dante surged forward, his legs pumping with controlled force. His pulse thundered in his ears as he angled his foot and tapped the ball forward—lightly this time.

"Yes!"

The ball stayed close, rolling smoothly as he sprinted past the last defender. The goalkeeper's eyes locked onto him, crouched and ready to pounce.

Dante drew back his foot, heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. His chance to shut everyone up.

"Come on!"

He swung his leg with all the power his new body could muster. The impact reverberated up his calf, sharp and exhilarating—

—But the ball rocketed straight into the goalkeeper's chest. The thud echoed across the field as the keeper caught it against his torso, stumbling back a step before securing it in his gloves.

A chorus of groans and laughter erupted from the sidelines.

"Seriously?!" Dante clutched his hair in disbelief.

"Too predictable!" Jack shouted from midfield. "You telegraphed that shot from a mile away!"

"Walker!" Coach Brooks' voice sliced through the noise like a whip. "This isn't a damn sprint! Use your head, not just your legs! You're trying too hard—control comes first, speed second!"

Dante's pulse pounded in his ears as frustration swirled in his chest, tightening like a knot. He wanted to scream—to curse, to kick the ground until his muscles burned. But instead, he inhaled deeply, the cool air biting his lungs, and forced himself to stand tall.

You have one shot at this world. Don't waste it.

The game resumed, and this time, Dante forced himself to slow down—not physically, but mentally. He watched the ball, focusing on each touch, each movement. When Ethan sent another pass his way, Dante met it with a controlled tap, keeping it close as he sprinted along the edge of the penalty box.

Jack charged toward him, eyes locked on the ball, ready to intercept. But this time, Dante anticipated the move. He feinted right, then flicked the ball left with just enough force to slip past Jack's reach.

"Watch it, Coleman!" Dante shouted with a grin as he sped past, heart pounding with exhilaration.

The goal loomed ahead, the goalkeeper already shifting to cover the angle. Dante's muscles tensed as he approached the penalty box. The memory of his last failed shot flashed through his mind, but he shoved it aside.

Stay calm. Focus.

This time, he didn't blast the ball with all his strength. Instead, he angled his foot and struck with precision. The ball curved low and fast, slipping just past the goalkeeper's outstretched fingers and hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

"Yes!" The shout tore from Dante's throat, raw and unrestrained. His fists clenched in triumph as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

A smattering of applause echoed from the sidelines. Ethan jogged over, clapping him on the back.

"See? Told you—you've got this."

Dante grinned, the weight of frustration lifting from his chest. But as he glanced toward the other side of the field, his gaze locked with Jack's. The captain's smirk was gone, replaced by a faint scowl. But beneath the annoyance, there was something else—something that looked almost like respect.

Almost.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the scrimmage.

"Good finish, Walker," Coach Brooks called out as the players began jogging toward the sidelines. "But you've still got a long way to go. Speed's your weapon—learn to control it, and you'll be unstoppable."

Dante wiped sweat from his brow, his breath still ragged from the exertion. The air tasted sweeter now—like victory, no matter how small.

As he walked off the field, he clenched his fists and made a silent vow:

This is only the beginning. I'll prove I belong here. And one day, I'll stand on the same field as Cristiano Ronaldo.

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