Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

We had done it. We had actually done it. The scoreboard, once a symbol of our defeat, now flashed with our victory: Inter 3, Roma 2.

The world around me turned into a beautiful, confusing blur of sweaty hugs, ecstatic shouts, and flying jerseys.

I was lifted off my feet, my teammates hoisting me into the air, chanting my name. I saw Lautaro Martínez's face, streaked with tears of joy, and Julián Álvarez's wide, toothy grin. I looked over at Cole Palmer, and he just nodded, a deep, knowing look in his eyes that said, "I told you so."

After what felt like an eternity of celebration on the pitch, we finally stumbled back into the dressing room, the air thick with the smell of champagne and victory.

The music was blasting, everyone was singing, and the noise was a constant, joyous thunder.

Coach Chivu stood in the center of the room, holding the gleaming silver trophy above his head, a wide, genuine smile on his face.

"You see this?" he shouted over the noise. " You bled for this, you fought for this, and you earned it! Every single one of you!"

The team erupted, cheering and banging on the lockers. The coach, beaming with pride.

I found myself standing next to Álvarez, Palmer, and Marcus Thuram, our faces still flushed with adrenaline.

"Man, that fake shot, Cole," Thuram said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I swear I thought you were going to score. You're a madman."

Palmer just laughed, a deep, happy sound. "I had to! I saw the keeper go for it, and then I just… passed it on. Leon was right there."

Álvarez clapped me on the back. "He's always there, isn't he? It's like he knows the future."

I smiled, a little shyly. "I just saw the opening. You guys did all the work."

My modesty was met with playful jeers. "Come on, Leo! Stop with the humble act!" Álvarez said. "You're the reason we won. You changed the game."

The conversation continued late into the night, filled with jokes, laughter, and a shared sense of accomplishment.

We were no longer just a team of talented players; we were a family that had fought and won together. I looked at my teammates.

Eventually, the celebration wound down.

We were all exhausted, running on empty, but with our hearts full. We grabbed our bags, said our goodbyes, and one by one, headed out to our cars. The city lights were a beautiful, shimmering blur as I drove out of the stadium's parking lot.

My phone buzzed with messages from friends and family, and I could barely keep the smile off my face.

I was driving through a quiet side street, on my way home, still replaying the game in my head, still feeling the joy of that final goal. The streets were mostly empty, the world peaceful and silent after the storm of the match. My mind was drifting, thinking about the future, about the next challenge, the next match.

And then, it happened.

I was at a crossroads, the light for me was green, and I was about to go, but from my left, a car, going way too fast, ran the red light. I saw it coming, a sudden, bright flash of light in my peripheral vision, a blur of motion. My mind, so used to processing the game at hyper-speed, was suddenly useless.

The Vision didn't come. There were no symbols, no auras, just a moment of pure, shocking panic.

I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.

The car hit me with a sickening crunch, the sound of twisting metal and shattering glass. The world spun. My head hit the steering wheel with a sharp, blinding pain, and then everything went black.

"..."

.....

The first thing I registered was a soft, rhythmic beeping. It was a sterile, impersonal sound, a world away from the roaring cheers of the San Siro. My head felt heavy, a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind my eyes. The smell of antiseptic was everywhere, and when I tried to open my eyes, a harsh white light made me wince.

"I'm here, my love. I'm right here."

The voice was my mom's, a gentle whisper that was both a comfort and a confirmation. I was in a hospital. The last thing I remembered was the Coppa Italia match, the celebrations, and the blinding headlights. My mom's hand, warm and soft, was holding mine. I could hear her talking on the phone, her voice thick with worry but also relief.

"Yes, Coach," she said into the receiver. "He's stable. The doctors say he's going to be okay. He just… he hasn't woken up yet." She paused, listening.

"No, no, you don't need to fly out. The team is already on their way. I'll keep you updated."

She hung up the phone and gently stroked my hair. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured. "Thank God."

I managed to force my eyes open again, this time squinting against the light. My vision was blurry at first, but it slowly focused. I was in a bed, a thick, white blanket pulled up to my chest. An IV line was in my arm, and a series of wires were attached to my chest, leading to the beeping machine. I was bruised and sore, but nothing seemed to be broken.

My mom, seeing my eyes were open, gasped softly and her face lit up with a mix of joy and tears. "Leon! You're awake!" she said, her voice catching. She leaned down and wrapped me in a tight, careful hug, her body shaking with silent sobs.

"Mom," I whispered, my voice rough and dry. "I'm okay."

"Oh, I was so scared," she said, pulling back to look at me, her eyes red. "They told me… they said it was a miracle you survived. The car... it's completely totaled." She took a deep, shaky breath, wiping a tear from her cheek. "But you're here. That's all that matters."

A nurse came in, a kind-faced woman who checked my vitals and smiled warmly. "He's a fighter," she said to my mom, before leaving us alone again.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, the steady beeping of the machine a calming presence in the room. I looked around, my mind still trying to piece together the fragments of memory. It was surreal. Just a few hours ago, I was on top of the world. Now, I was in a hospital bed, my body a map of aches and bruises. The Vision, the magical cheat code that had helped me win the most important match of my life, was gone. There were no numbers, no symbols, just a quiet, empty silence in my head.

Suddenly, the door opened and in came a group of familiar faces. Cole Palmer, Julián Álvarez, and Lautaro Martínez were all there, their faces a mix of worry and relief. They were still in their team jackets, a reminder of the night's victory that now felt like a lifetime ago.

"Leo!" Palmer said, his voice full of emotion. "You're awake! We were so worried."

Álvarez came over and hugged my mom, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Then he turned to me, his eyes full of concern.

"Man, when we heard... we just drove straight here. We couldn't believe it."

Martínez, our captain, just stood there, his expression serious and thoughtful. He didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes was one of deep, heartfelt relief. He just gave me a small, sad smile and a nod.

"I'm okay, guys," I said, my voice still weak. "I'm just a bit sore."

"Sore? You're a hero, Leo," Palmer said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "The car looked like a tin can. You're a lucky man."

As they were talking, my eyes drifted to a television mounted on the wall in the corner of the room. It was on mute, but the images were clear. The news was on, and a reporter was standing in front of a mangled pile of metal, a car that I recognized as my own. My heart sank. They were talking about the accident.

Then the reporter's expression shifted, becoming more somber. A new image appeared on the screen, a picture of a young man, smiling, a football in his hands. The text below the image read: "Matteo Rossi, 21-year-old amateur footballer." My blood ran cold. The man who had been in the other car, the one who had run the red light.

The reporter spoke, her voice still muted, but the words in the subtitles were like a punch to the gut. "…a tragic end for Rossi. He was pronounced dead at the scene."

My mom saw me staring at the screen and quickly picked up the remote, turning it off. But it was too late.

The image of the young, smiling man, and the words below it, were burned into my mind. He was just a kid, like me.

An amateur footballer with dreams, just like I had been. He hadn't been in a fancy car.

He had been in a small sedan. He had a whole life ahead of him. And it was over.

The room fell silent. My teammates looked at each other, their faces filled with a sudden, shared sadness.

The reality of the situation, the true weight of the world, had just entered the room.

The accident wasn't just a close call for me. It was a tragedy. I was a survivor, a lucky one.

The man in the other car, a man I had never met, was not. The thrill of the Coppa Italia, the pride in my new Vision, the joy of the last twenty-four hours…

it all felt hollow now, meaningless.

The Vision, my supposed cheat code, had not only failed to save me, but it had also failed to warn me.

It was an empty, useless thing that had watched as an innocent life was taken.

Lying in that hospital bed, with the sterile beeping of the machine and the image of a dead man's face seared into my mind, I felt a new kind of emptiness, a new kind of loss.

I had survived, but at what cost? And in the silence of my mind, where the Vision used to be, a terrible, haunting question echoed.

Why him, and not me?