BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The alarm screamed like it had a personal vendetta against Neil's happiness.
Neil groaned, slapped the snooze button like he was swatting a mosquito, and promptly yeeted himself back into his dreams, where he was probably scoring a bicycle kick in the World Cup final.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Round two. The alarm wasn't done ruining his peace.
This time, Neil didn't fight it. He sat up half asleep, hair resembling a bird's nest after an earthquake, and rubbed his eyes. Something felt… off.
The room was different.
Not "someone-moved-my-chair" different. More like "alternate-timeline" different. His bed faced the wrong wall. Cardboard boxes littered the floor like he'd just respawned into a moving scene. Books, clothes, random childhood junk—it was all there.
He picked up his phone.
Same old cracked screen, same model from 2021. But the date on the lock screen hit him like a Ronaldo free kick.
1 June, 2022.
Neil blinked. Then again. Then whispered, "What the fu—"
He had regressed.
Back In Time.
Three whole years.
Just yesterday, or rather, future-yesterday. He'd watched PSG absolutely bulldoze Inter Milan 5–0 in the 2025 Champions League final. And now?
Now he was a baby-faced fifteen-year-old, sitting in a half-unpacked room, wearing dinosaur-print pajamas.
He stumbled to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and nearly yelped.
No facial hair. Skin smooth as butter. His awkward teenage babyface was back, in all its hormonal glory.
Still in shock, he brushed his teeth like a zombie, took the longest shower of his life, and put on clothes that smelled vaguely of "new house" and "childhood trauma."
"NEIL!" his mom shouted from the kitchen like she was commanding an army.
He shuffled out. His mom was busy making breakfast. She told him to call his dad and older sister to the table.
Right. Family reset. His sister, six years older and armed with sarcasm and an engineering degree-in-progress, was home for the summer. His dad had just gotten promoted, hence the shiny new house in a slightly fancier colony.
Breakfast was poha. Light. Fluffy. Comforting. A dish that whispered, "Your day might suck, but at least I won't."
Afterward, they all got to unpacking like it was a team-building exercise, except without HR breathing down their necks.
Post-lunch, Neil collapsed for a nap. Because obviously, a summer afternoon nap was a non-negotiable cultural tradition, right up there with mangoes and complaining about the heat.
As he dozed off, one truth poked at him:This house. This neighborhood.This is where football had entered his life for real.
Until this move, he was a hardcore cricket nerd like 90% of Indian kids. But here, just two minutes away, was a big ground where boys played football every evening.
7 PM. Neil told his parents he was going for a walk.
Not that he needed to explore, he knew this place like the back of his previous life. But hey, the illusion must be maintained.
He laced up his old sneakers, walked to the ground, and there they were, a bunch of teens juggling a football, laughing, doing their best Ronaldo impressions (and failing spectacularly).
Neil walked up like the new kid at school.
"Hey, I'm Neil. Just moved here. Mind if I join in?"
The group welcomed him like long-lost cousins at a wedding. Names were exchanged. Positions discussed.
He humbly admitted he was new to playing football, though he could probably teach a masterclass on watching it.
Naturally, they made him the goalkeeper. As per ancient football tradition: all noobs must start under this post.
Lucky for him, the defense played like a wall. The other team barely got shots in. And when they did, Neil saved them with the grace of a falling cupboard, but hey, a save is a save.
At halftime, he politely asked to switch out of goal. "Can I, uh, maybe try playing in midfield?"
A teammate shrugged. "Sure, man."
Now playing in CM (Central Midfield, not Class Monitor), Neil's first few touches were as heavy as a sleep-deprived elephant. But surprisingly… he had vision. He saw space. He could pick passes.
One moment stood out. He spotted a winger sneaking inside, completely unmarked. Neil threaded a through ball that would've made De Bruyne nod in approval not for the pass he made but for the vision he had.
The forward zipped forward, juked a defender, and slotted it past the keeper into their makeshift goal, with some cones and bags.
1–0. Neil assist.
By the end of the match, they'd won 2–0.
New friendships were forming. Someone added him to the colony football WhatsApp group, Basically, the teenage Hall of Fame.
Back home, Neil took a quick shower and was halfway scrolling through memes when his mom barged in.
"Have you started your holiday homework?"
That question carried the weight of 10,000 nuclear warheads.
When she discovered the answer was a firm no, she launched into a monologue about academics, responsibility, and the importance of time, the irony.
Neil grinned and opened his textbooks. Holiday homework? Please. He'd done this all before. He blitzed through it like he was speed running Minecraft.
Dinner followed. Then a movie with the fam. The good old days, rebooted.
That night, lying in bed, Neil stared at the ceiling.
He'd been a hardworking student in his past life, cracked competitive exams, and had a decent shot at a regular life.
But now? He had a second chance.
Yet… the idea of becoming a pro footballer felt as distant as India winning the World Cup. No academy, no training, no supportive "follow your dreams" TED Talk parents.
He loved football, but let's be real, he wasn't some hidden Messi clone.
Then suddenly…
A sharp sound echoed in his head. A glowing translucent blue screen materialized mid-air, like a floating piece of destiny.
Golden letters scrolled across it like something out of a sci-fi anime:
****
"DING!"
GOAT FOOTBALL SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
****
Neil's jaw dropped.
"…Okay. What the actual fu—"