The whistle wasn't a whistle. It was a low, resonant gong that made the entire liquid surface shiver.

He kicked upward.

The gong sounded again. The liquid field rippled, reset, and waited for the next dreamer brave enough to dive in.

That was the first thing Leo noticed when he stepped onto the pitch. The grass wasn't grass at all, but a shimmering, turquoise membrane stretched tight over an ocean of impossibly clear water. Stadium lights refracted through it, painting the stands in dancing, watery light. The air smelled of ozone and rain.