Football singularity
Chapter 525 525 Prepearion For The Red's

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[FOOTBALL SINGULARITY SYSTEM]

USER: Rakim Rex

AGE: 16 yrs

TALENT ASSESSMENT: Grade - S

Singularity Points: 2400 + 3,000 =5400

Position: Winger

(Evaluation: A wunderkind in the truest sense, who has proven his ability to the world throw a boulder into a still pond)

[ USER STATS: Under 23 Grade]

>Physical Fitness: A

Balance and Coordination: S

Speed: A- -> A+

Agility: A++

Strength: B- -> A-

Stamina: B- -> A+

>Football Technique: S

>Game Intelligence: A

>Mental Ability: S+

>Singularity Traits:

MR ShowTime: Grade -A, Mamba Mentality (Garde Unique),

>Skills

*Silver Grade: Eagle King's Goal Sense (Passive)

*Silver Level Comeback Kid (Passive)

*Bronze Ankle Brace's (Passive)

*Bronze Heavy artillery (Active)

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"Coach, what is up with this schedule if I didn't know better, I would think that my enemies have succeeded in plotting against me," Rakim complained after glancing at his status screen as he continued to roll on his thigh on the foam roller. "It feels like they plotted to make us face all our biggest opps back-to-back,"

"My guy, shut up in what world is Union Berlin an opp?" Diaby exclaimed from a couple of meters away on his own foam roller, resisting the urge to throw his gloves. "As a matter of fact, what opps do you have?"

"Old man, right now you're my biggest opp," Rakim retorted, lightly spraying his water bottle in his direction, but the Frenchman was quick enough to dodge, letting it harmlessly land on the 5G grass. "But you know your boy handsome half the human race be plotting against me,"

"You handsome? I've seen better-looking bulldogs, my guy," he retorted, gaining a few bouts of chuckles from those listening to another session of unprompted roast session between the two wingers.

"Wait, wait, hold up, y'all smell that?" Rakim suddenly asked, sitting up on the turf, prompting the thousands laughing to stop and look his way in confusion.

After moments of confused glances with occasional sniffing, trying to locate a smell, Kereem finally spoke up. "What?" voicing the confusion of the almost 12 players listening in and some trainers on the side.

"(sniff) I smell a man who gets no b—" A sharp blast of the coach's whistle sliced through the banter.

"All right, comedians," Assistant Manager Fredrick Bauer exclaimed just as a few players spat out the water in their mouths. "As for opps, is that even a word? Never mind, the only enemies we've got right now are fatigue and our own ego. Treat them like Madrid and we shall conquer. Now get back to work."

"Yes, sir," The players exclaimed with more seriousness as they now actively paid attention to the trainer's instructions.

[45 minutes later]

All their training kits were now soaked in sweat, with their muscles warm and slightly aching. The aching was the good kind that unlocked muscles that had begun to set following yesterday's match. They had only done Yoga and Pilates, but their breathing was heavy as if they had just played for a full 90 minutes.

"Alright, get up and get cleaned up, you all are starting to smell for real. Pick up a snack on your way to the film room will host a 60-minute session, and then you're free to go." Coach Mattias Wagner, the Strength and conditioning coach, exclaimed, clapping his hands as he urged the players to get a move on.

No one lingered lest they be forced to go through a round of yoga exercises that the eccentric coach had picked up from one of his seminars. He was a man who loved his job with a passion, and this often or not turned the players into Ginni pigs after he reached new exercises. He was like a Sunday league coach who happened to watch a clip of Barcelona training and decided to implement it at the next training session.

The squad filed toward the doors of their indoor pitch, boots squeaking on the stone tiles. They quickly made their way towards the changing rooms with no one bothering to start conversations. They were all busy trying to recover the tiniest amounts of energy they had expended, as despite it being a recovery session, it still took a lot out of them.

[15 minutes]

Rakim had finished his shower and changed into a fresh pair of the team's tracksuit with his name and number embroidered. One of the perks of being a professional player is the free gear you get from the club. It was to the point that they put American colleges to shame when it came to wanting you to rep the club logo for free.

Picking up a blueberry muffin, a banana protein shake, and a hazelnut cookie, he made his way to the film room, doing his best not to trip with his sliders. Picking up a blueberry muffin, a banana protein shake, and a hazelnut cookie, he made his way to the film room, doing his best not to trip with his sliders. The room was quite spacious, resembling a mix between a private cinema and a university lecture hall.

He slipped into one of the middle rows at a slightly elevated angle, taking a seat close to the middle. The lights were still up, so the low hum of teammate chatter bounced around the room as they settled in. Diaby flopped into the seat beside him, shoving two granola bars into Rakim's cup holder. "Dr. Clara wants us loaded on carbs," he said, cracking one open with his teeth.

"Say less, I prefer the muffins, though Olie's talents are wasted on us," Rakim responded as he raised his half-eaten blueberry muffin. "Though when I first met him, I thought he was one of the strength and conditioning coaches."

"Sounds about right, from what I heard, he was Polish special forces before picking up baking," Diaby retorted with a light chuckle, "What do you think of Liverpool though? Should be your first Premier League team, right?"

"Well, they are the defending champions, plus from what I have seen, they are on fire this season as well," Rakim replied as he pulled up his iPad, pulling up links the club's research department had sent them the moment their opponents were confirmed. "It's weird getting to play against one of the best coaches of our time, though."

"Kloops is more like a cult leader than a coach." Diaby muttered, half-serious, half in awe. "Trust me, man's got grown strikers running a marathon just to win a throw-in."

"Yeah, Kind of scary how they gave a genius of his calibre a team with actual money to invest," he stated with a light smile as he played one of the clips where Trent chased down Hazard in a footrace to reclaim the ball.

Diaby grinned, wiping stray crumbs from his chin. "Look on the bright side—beat Liverpool at Anfield and your Insta will explode."

"Bro, my DMs are already a warzone, mum's even considered hiring the FIB to act as cybersecurity." Rakim chuckled, but the nerves underneath felt real since they were playing in the greatest club competition of their time.

"Bro, how do you even have time to play GTA with how much you train?" Diaby asked instantly, catching the reference, but before Rakim could respond, the door at the front hissed open. Video analyst Sören Pfeiffer strode in, carrying an iPad, followed by Assistant Manager Bauer with a laser pointer already clicked on.

Pfeiffer plugged his tablet into the projector, and a still frame of Liverpool's Red Sea froze on the screen. Anfield under the lights—terrifying and beautiful in equal measure. "Gentlemen," Bauer began, sweeping the laser across the crest in the corner, "9 days from now, this is the noise you'll be wading through at our home pitch. We beat Union Berlin in five days, but we need to start thinking about Liverpool."

Bauer's pointer circled the crest, then flicked to a freeze-frame of Liverpool's 3-2-5 build-up shape. The fullbacks were so high they looked like extra wingers.

"First concept— rest-defence." He double-tapped the screen; the image zoomed and came alive. The Reds lost the ball and, in the space of three seconds, swarmed the carrier like locusts. "They've conceded the fewest transition goals in Europe because, when they lose it, the nearest four sprint downhill as if their mortgage depends on it. If you dawdle, they'll eat you."

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To Be Continued...