He tapped the shoot button.

Outside, rain hammered the Santiago shantytown roof. Inside, it was the 90th minute of the Copa Libertadores final.

The striker’s foot connected. The ball curved—a perfect, impossible volley—and kissed the inside of the post.

Outside, the rain began to let up.

The console shut down.

He sent a through ball down the wing. His winger, skin pixelated and jersey clipping through his thighs, sprinted. Marco pressed cross. The ball hung in the air like a memory.