Chapter One: Second Chance in Cleats
I woke up with the acrid sting of whiskey still in my nostrils and a pounding headache that could rival a stadium chant. Blinking against the golden sunlight pouring through the blinds, I tried to piece together how I had ended up here—or when I had ended up here.
The last thing I remembered was dozing off in my cramped apartment, surrounded by spreadsheets of unpaid bills and a bottle of cheap bourbon for company. My marketing career in New York wasn’t exactly going as planned, but I couldn’t have imagined my stress-induced nap would lead to this.
I sat up, my hands gripping a plush leather sofa. This wasn’t my apartment. The room was decorated with framed jerseys, trophies, and posters of football legends. Across the coffee table sat a man with thinning hair and a nervous expression, clutching a tablet and gesturing toward a document.
“Mr. Lucas,” he said cautiously, his voice thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place, “the players are threatening to walk out again. You need to address this.”
Lucas? Players? Walk out?
I glanced down at myself. My lanky build had been replaced by a body that felt… bulkier. My fingers were calloused in a way that suggested they’d spent more time gripping pens or contracts than my usual keyboard. And then I saw the reflection in a polished trophy nearby—a face that wasn’t mine. Dark, deep-set eyes, a strong jaw, and a mop of unruly black hair.
“What the hell?” I muttered, my voice deeper and raspier than my own.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Lucas? You’ve looked… off lately.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said quickly, trying to mask my confusion. “Just give me a moment.”
He hesitated, then placed the tablet on the table. “Fine, but you need to figure out how to turn this around. The fans are furious after the last three losses, and the sponsors are pulling out. If we don’t win this weekend, we’re done.”
As he walked out, I stared at the tablet’s screen. It was filled with financial spreadsheets, match reports, and emails from people I didn’t know. At the top was a headline that chilled me:
“Brentwick Rovers: From Glory to Disaster Under Lucas Ford’s Ownership.”
I let out a bitter laugh. It was clear now—I’d transmigrated into the body of Lucas Ford, a failed football club owner who was just one loss away from complete ruin.
Why me?
I had never been a football fan. I didn’t even know how the game worked, apart from vague memories of World Cup highlights. Yet here I was, at the helm of a club that clearly hated me, with a community that probably hated me even more.
“Okay, okay, stay calm,” I whispered to myself, pacing the room. “This can’t be permanent. Maybe this is some cosmic joke, and I’ll wake up back in my apartment any minute.”
But as the minutes passed, it became evident that this was real.
I rummaged through Lucas’s office, finding more proof of his—or my—failure. The club was bleeding money, the players were divided, and the fans had staged protests outside the stadium. Brentwick Rovers had once been a powerhouse in the lower leagues, but under Lucas, it had become a laughingstock.
The knock on the door startled me. A young woman with sharp green eyes and an even sharper tone entered.
“Lucas, the press conference is in fifteen minutes. Don’t screw this up,” she snapped, her voice dripping with contempt.
“Press conference?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act like you forgot. You’re supposed to address the media about the team’s latest loss and your plan for the future—assuming you even have one.”
I stared at her, my brain scrambling. “Right. Thanks… uh…”
“Jenna. Your PR manager. Honestly, Lucas, how much did you drink last night?”
I waved her off, pretending to focus on my phone as she left. It was official: I had been dropped into a pressure cooker with no idea how to stop it from exploding.
But then, as panic gave way to clarity, I realized something.
Back in my old life, I had spent years crunching numbers and crafting marketing strategies to save sinking projects. My personal life might’ve been a mess, but I knew how to spot opportunities where others saw failure. Maybe… just maybe, I could use those skills here.
If I was stuck in Lucas Ford’s body, I wasn’t going to let Brentwick Rovers go down without a fight.
It was time to play the game, even if I had no idea what the rules were.
