I was sixteen now. Almost a year older, a year tougher, and—more than anything—sharper where it mattered most: in the mind.
The academy reopened after the holiday break with a mandatory physical test. The drills were the same—endurance laps, sprint circuits, balance work—but I felt different. Not just physically. Something inside me had settled.
No more outbursts. No more red-mist moments. The boy who'd cracked against Huracán? He wasn't me anymore.
Sosa jogged beside me on the track.
"You've been quiet," he said between breaths.
"I'm thinking."
"About?"
"About how not to be the story. Just the reason we win."
He grinned. "You've gone full zen."
I smirked. "Maybe."
Coach Ríos returned to us that first week with a trimmed beard and the same cold stare. But even he looked slightly more human after the holidays.
He addressed us at midfield, the ball tucked under his arm.
"You've all had a year to show potential," he said. "This year, I expect performance. Commitment. Discipline. Some of you are still boys. Some of you are about to find out what it means to be men in football."
He scanned our faces, eyes lingering on mine.
"And some of you already learned the hard way."
I didn't blink. I just nodded.
We trained under the burning sun, no shade, no excuses. Midway through the second week, a few new faces joined our category—kids from other academies or promotions from younger groups. They looked around wide-eyed. One of them, a midfielder from Tucumán, asked Sosa who the captain was.
Sosa pointed at me. "He's not the captain. But he's who you watch if you want to survive."
I didn't hear it directly—but I felt it.
I began each morning an hour early. Stretching alone. Touching the ball alone. Visualizing games in silence while the city still slept.
During training, I listened more than I spoke. I chased loose balls harder. I studied every drill, every mistake. I watched how Vargas opened his hips before a shot. How Duarte shifted balance before intercepting. How Sosa read pressure like he had a second pair of eyes.
But most of all—I kept my temper buried. Even when a foul came late. Even when someone talked too much. Even when I had the perfect excuse to explode.
One day, a new defender—big, strong, with a cocky grin—shoved me hard in a scrimmage.
I stumbled, kept the ball, and spun away from him. I didn't say a word. Just looked at him once as I walked back to position.
Coach Ríos whistled.
"Good," he said. "You're learning."
That night, at dinner, my mom served lentils with rice. Simple, comforting. She noticed I didn't eat as fast as usual.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just… thinking."
She smiled. "Thinking about football again?"
I nodded.
"You're changing," she said. "You're not as restless."
"I can't afford to be."
She reached across the table and touched my wrist. "We're proud of you, Lucas. Even when you fall. Especially when you stand up again."
After dinner, I went to the rooftop with my ball. I juggled under the stars—left foot, right foot, thigh, head. No pressure. No audience. Just the rhythm.
At one point, I caught myself smiling.
Not because I was winning anything. But because I could feel who I was becoming.
And I liked it.
[End of Chapter 23]