The final whistle blew sharp against the twilight. Newcastle had just wrapped up their last pre-season match—another controlled, professional performance. A 2–0 win, clean and efficient.
But no fireworks.
Not yet.
I stood near the halfway line, catching my breath, hands on my hips. My jersey clung to my skin, soaked from the effort. The scoreboard didn't matter. Not to me. Pre-season was smoke. The real fire starts after 2 weeks.
Behind me, the crowd offered a polite round of applause. Fans appreciated formality. Wins. Goals. Neat passes.
But inside the locker room, the tension was thick. Silent glances. Focused eyes. Every player understood the truth:
Now it begins.
The next match would be the english league opener. No more rehearsals. Every pass would be weighed. Every mistake magnified.
I peeled the tape from my wrist, the sting a reminder I was still here. Still fighting. THE NEXT DAY
The pitch was split into two sides—black bibs vs. white bibs. No fans, no cameras. Just the squad, the coaches, and the weight of silent judgment. This was more than a scrimmage. It was a test.
I pulled the white bib over my head and jogged to the left wing, adjusting my socks. Across from me, wearing black, was Rúben Dias.
Of course.
He hadn't said much since we crossed paths in the parking lot that night. But his silence spoke volumes.
No respect for failures.
Today, I wasn't here to be respected. I was here to be feared.
The whistle blew.
The first minutes were tight. Fast passing, hard tackles, no room for hesitation. The Sterling twins sliced through midfield like clockwork. Geraldo—Hulk—was bulldozing space for the attackers. Sadio was relentless in the back.
I stayed wide. Waited. Watched.
Then came the moment.
Melissa fired a diagonal pass to me—low, spinning, tricky.
My first touch was velvet.
Rúben stepped forward. Eyes sharp. He read the pass and angled in, body strong, low center of gravity. Most players panic here. Most backtrack.
I didn't.
One touch inside. His foot reached. Too slow.
I dragged it back with my sole, then cut sharply outside. The drag-push combo was clean—my hips shifted one way, the ball slid the other.
Gone.
Rúben Dias off balance for half a second. But enough.
Gasps came from the sideline. I heard someone—probably Hulk—shout, "Opa!"
I didn't wait. Bursting past him, I swung in a low cross. James Sterling met it with a glancing header—goal.
The play was over in seconds. But I felt it. The weight lift. Even if just a little.
Kalvin Maynard leaned toward the head coach, murmuring something. The coach didn't smile. But he nodded.
That was enough.
Rúben walked past me, sweat dripping from his jaw. He didn't look angry. Just focused.
He paused.
"Not bad," he said, his voice low. "But don't think it'll be that easy when it counts."
I met his eyes. "Wouldn't want it to be."
He gave the smallest nod and walked off.
AFTER THE GAME ,IN LUKAS APARTMENT
The room was dim, the glow of the laptop screen the only light. I watched the entire training session back, every pass, every tackle, every missed opportunity. My eyes locked on the moments that mattered—and the ones that didn't.
Then, there it was. That moment I'd been chasing—the second I dribbled past Rúben Dias. Smooth, confident, like I owned the pitch. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
I paused the video, heart pounding.
This is what I need to remember, I told myself. This isn't luck. This is who I am.
I'm not some fading star, a name they put on the bench to fill a spot. I'm a player who fights. Who fights to prove he belongs.
I rewound, watching the move again.I have to keep pushing. Prove that I'm not a flop.
I grabbed my notepad and scribbled a line:I'm not done. I'm just getting started.
Tomorrow, I make sure they see it all over again.