Daniel woke to his mom's hand on his shoulder.
Morning light filtered through the hospital blinds, turning everything pale yellow. His ankle throbbed - a deep, bone-level ache that pulsed with his heartbeat. The pain meds from last night had worn off completely.
"Hey," his mom said softly. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying, trying to hide it. "Surgery's at eleven."
Daniel blinked at the clock on the wall. 7:43 AM. Three hours.
"Okay."
His mom squeezed his hand. Didn't let go for a long moment.
A nurse came in with a clipboard and too-cheerful energy for this early. She went through the pre-surgery checklist. Had he eaten? No. Good. Any allergies? No. Sign here. And here. And here.
His mom signed too. Consent forms. Insurance papers Daniel didn't understand.
When the nurse left, silence filled the room. The kind that felt heavy.
"Lucía wanted to skip school," his mom said eventually. "I told her no."
"Good. She doesn't need to be here."
"She's worried about you."
Daniel's phone buzzed on the side table. He reached for it, movements careful to not jostle his ankle.
Marcos: yo you awake? surgery today right?
Marcos: gonna be fine tío. you're tough
Team group chat had seventeen new messages. Daniel scrolled through. Someone posted a meme about the upcoming match against Villarreal. Someone else complained about early morning training.
Rafael: Back in gym today. Hamstring feeling better already
Two days. Rafael's injury happened two days ago and he was already back in the gym.
Daniel set the phone down.
His mom was watching him. "You don't have to read those."
"I know."
But he picked it up again anyway. Opened Instagram. Scrolled without really seeing. His feed was full of football. Highlights, transfer rumors, training videos. The world kept spinning.
Barcelona's academy page had posted about the match. Final score 3-1. Their winger - the one who'd landed on Daniel's ankle - was tagged in three photos. Big smile. Arms raised in celebration.
Daniel locked his phone.
Dr. Herrera arrived at 9:30. Same calm expression, same grey hair. He had a tablet with diagrams that he pulled up.
"I wanted to go over the procedure before we begin," he said, angling the screen so Daniel could see. An anatomical drawing of an ankle, all the bones labeled. "We'll be inserting a plate here, along the fibula, with screws to hold the fracture in place. The ligament damage is extensive, so we'll repair what we can."
Daniel stared at the diagram. His ankle was going to look like that. Metal and screws holding him together.
"How long does it take?"
"Two to three hours. You'll be under general anaesthesia. Won't feel a thing."
"And after?"
"Recovery room for a few hours, then back here. Pain management, rest, and we'll start talking about the rehabilitation plan tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Like there was a future beyond today.
Dr. Herrera looked at Daniel directly. "Any questions?"
A thousand questions. Will I play again? Will I be the same? Will this end everything? But none of them had answers yet.
"No," Daniel said.
The doctor nodded. "We'll take good care of you."
At 10:45, nurses came to prep him. IV line adjusted. Blood pressure cuff. One of them gave him something that made everything feel floaty.
"This'll help you relax," she said.
His mom stood, leaned over the bed rail. Kissed his forehead. "I'll be right here when you wake up."
"I know."
"I love you, mijo."
"Love you too."
They wheeled his bed out of the room. Fluorescent lights passed overhead. Ceiling tiles. A turn down a corridor. Everything felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.
The operating room was cold. Bright. People in scrubs and masks moving around. One of them positioned his leg, gentle but clinical.
"Count backwards from ten," someone said.
Daniel made it to seven before everything went black.
–––
The morphine made everything soft around the edges.
Daniel floated somewhere between awake and not, watching the ceiling tiles blur and sharpen. The surgery was over. His ankle was wrapped in bandages and elevated on pillows. He couldn't see it. Probably better that way.
His mom was asleep in the chair next to his bed. Her head tilted at an angle that would hurt her neck later. She'd been there since he came out of recovery.
Time felt weird. He didn't know if it was still the same day or if he'd slept through to the next one.
A nurse came in. Checked his IV, made notes on a tablet, smiled the professional smile they all had. She didn't ask how he was feeling. Good. He didn't want to answer.
When she left, his mom stirred. Blinked a few times. Saw he was awake.
"Hey." Her voice was rough from sleep.
"Hey."
"How's the pain?"
"Fine."
She gave him a look. The mom look that meant don't lie to me.
"It's fine," he said again. "The meds help."
That part was true. The physical pain was manageable. Everything else, not so much.
His mom stood, stretched. Her scrubs were wrinkled. She'd gone home once to shower and change, but basically lived here the past two days.
"I'm going to get coffee. You want anything?"
"I'm good."
She kissed his forehead. Mom kiss. The kind that made him feel twelve.
"Back in ten."
The door closed. Daniel was alone.
He reached for his phone on the side table. Forty-three unread messages. He scrolled through without opening most of them.
Marcos had sent seven: tío you good? and call me when you can and seriously call me and eventually ok not gonna blow up your phone but we're here when you need us.
The team group chat had moved on. Someone posted a meme. Someone else complained about the new training schedule. Rafael sent a photo of his taped hamstring with the caption: back in two weeks.
Two weeks.
Daniel would be in a boot for eight minimum.
He closed the messages. Opened his photo gallery instead. Scrolled back to last month. Pictures of training, of matches, of him and Marcos after a win looking stupid and happy.
He looked different in those photos. Not physically. Just, different.
That version of Daniel still thought things would work out.
This version knew better.
He found the video. Someone had posted it in the group chat the night of the injury, then quickly deleted it. But Daniel had saved it.
Stupid. Why had he saved it?
He pressed play anyway.
The angle was from the stands. Shaky phone camera. You could hear parents talking in the background.
There he was. Running back. The Barcelona winger streaking toward goal. The tackle coming in, perfect timing. The ball rolling away safely.
Then the winger falling. Landing on Daniel's planted ankle.
The sound didn't come through on the video, but Daniel remembered it. That pop. Wet and wrong.
He watched himself go down. Watched his hands grab his ankle. Watched Marcos sprint over, shoving people back.
The video cut off.
Daniel watched it again.
And again.
On the fourth replay, he noticed something. Right before the tackle, there was a split second where he could've pulled out. Could've let the winger go. Probably would've scored, but Daniel wouldn't be here.
He'd chosen this.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
His mom came back with coffee. She glanced at his phone, saw what he was watching, and her face did something complicated.
"Dani."
"I know."
"Turn it off."
He did. Set the phone face down on the blanket.
She sipped her coffee. Didn't say anything for a while. The silence stretched.
"Dr. Herrera wants to talk to you this morning," she said finally. "About the surgery. About next steps."
Next steps. Like there was a path forward. Like this wasn't the end.
"Okay."
"He'll be honest with you. I asked him to be."
Daniel looked at her. "What does that mean?"
"It means, I don't want him sugarcoating things. You're sixteen, not six. You deserve the truth."
Great. So it was bad.
Dr. Herrera arrived an hour later. Same grey hair, same calm voice. He had a tablet with X-ray images that he pulled up, angling it so Daniel could see.
"The surgery went well. We repaired the fracture with a plate and screws. The ligaments, we reattached what we could. Some of the damage was extensive."
Daniel stared at the X-ray. His ankle looked like a construction project. Metal everywhere.
"When can I train again?"
Dr. Herrera set the tablet down. Looked at Daniel properly.
"Let's talk about realistic timelines. You'll be non-weight bearing for six weeks. That means crutches, no putting pressure on the ankle. Then we transition to a walking boot for another six weeks. Physical therapy throughout."
"And then I can train."
"Then we evaluate. See how the healing progressed. See if there's lingering instability."
"But I can train."
The doctor paused. Daniel's mom shifted in her chair.
"Daniel," Dr. Herrera said carefully, "the human body is remarkable. It can heal from incredible trauma. But an injury like this, at your age, with the demands you're going to put on that ankle, there are no guarantees."
"I'm not asking for guarantees. I'm asking when I can train."
"Six months minimum before high-intensity activity. Probably closer to eight or nine before you're back to competitive level. And even then, you might not regain full explosiveness. The ankle might always be a weakness."
Six months minimum.
Eight or nine probably.
Might never be the same.
Daniel heard the words. Understood them. Felt them land like punches.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. Thanks for being honest."
Dr. Herrera studied him. Probably trying to figure out if Daniel actually understood or was in denial.
"We'll do everything we can," the doctor said. "But you need to be patient. Rushing recovery is how you end up with chronic problems."
"I understand."
The doctor left. His mom stayed. She was looking at him with that expression. The worried one she tried to hide.
"I'm fine," Daniel said.
"You don't have to be."
"I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. Obviously. His career might be over at sixteen. His family was probably drowning in medical bills they couldn't afford. His teammates were moving on without him. Everything he'd worked for since he was eight years old had just evaporated because he made one tackle.
But saying all that out loud wouldn't help.
So he stared at the ceiling and pretended the morphine made everything okay.
His mom left eventually. Had to work the night shift. Lucía sent a text: Love you, hermano. You'll come back stronger.
Empty words. Sweet, but empty.
Visiting hours ended. The hospital got quiet. Just the hum of machines and distant voices from the nurses' station.
Daniel lay there. Couldn't sleep. The medication was wearing off and his ankle was starting to throb, but he didn't press the call button. Pain felt appropriate.
He picked up his phone again. Opened Instagram. Scrolled through his feed.
Rafael had posted. Photo of him in the gym, leg elevated, caption: Setbacks are setups for comebacks.
Daniel almost laughed. Almost.
Some girl from school had posted about the match. Scary injury tonight. Prayers for Daniel.
Prayers. Great. Very helpful.
He kept scrolling. Barcelona's academy page had highlights from the match. Their winger, the one who'd landed on Daniel's ankle, had scored twice. There was a short clip of the tackle. Comments underneath: Hope he's okay and Clean tackle, unlucky and That's football.
That's football.
Daniel locked his phone. Dropped it on the bed.
The room was dark except for the monitors and the light from under the door. Shadows everywhere.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep still didn't come.
Instead, his brain replayed the doctor's words. Might never be the same. Might always be a weakness.
He thought about Javi, a guy from last year's squad. Tore his ACL. Came back, but slower. Lost his edge. Got cut six months later. Now he was playing amateur league on weekends.
That was Daniel's future. Best case scenario: amateur leagues and what-ifs. Worst case: never playing again.
His throat tightened.
No. He wasn't going to cry about this. Crying didn't fix anything.
He opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling.
2:17 AM according to the clock on the wall.
The hospital was completely quiet now.
And that's when it happened.
A flicker in his peripheral vision. Blue light, faint at first. Daniel turned his head.
There was something floating next to his bed.
A screen. Translucent. Glowing soft blue. Text scrolling across it.
[SCANNING HOST...]
[ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[COMPATIBILITY: 99.7%]
Daniel blinked. The screen stayed.
He blinked again. Still there.
"What the hell."
His voice sounded loud in the empty room. No response. Just the screen, hovering at eye level.
More text appeared:
[FOOTBALL GENESIS SYSTEM DETECTED CRITICAL HOST CONDITION]
[CURRENT STATUS: CAREER-THREATENING INJURY]
[ESTIMATED RECOVERY WITH STANDARD TREATMENT: 8-12 MONTHS]
[PROBABILITY OF FULL RECOVERY: 34%]
Thirty-four percent.
The number sat there. Clinical. Brutal.
Daniel stared at it. His heart was beating faster. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. He was hallucinating. The morphine or pain meds or stress or all of it combined.
He reached out. His hand passed through the screen like it was made of light.
"Okay," he said to nobody. "I've lost it."
The screen flickered. New text:
[SYSTEM ACTIVATION OFFER]
[THE FOOTBALL GENESIS SYSTEM CAN OPTIMIZE YOUR RECOVERY AND DEVELOPMENT]
[THIS IS NOT MAGIC. THIS IS NOT A GAME.]
[THIS IS A TOOL. YOU STILL DO THE WORK.]
Daniel read the words twice. Three times.
A tool.
"A tool for what?" he said out loud. Felt ridiculous talking to a hallucination.
The screen responded:
[FOR BECOMING THE PLAYER YOU ARE CAPABLE OF BEING]
[ACCELERATED RECOVERY PROTOCOLS]
[OPTIMIZED TRAINING EFFICIENCY]
[TACTICAL ANALYSIS AND ENHANCEMENT]
[SKILL ACQUISITION SYSTEMS]
[PHYSICAL OPTIMIZATION]
Daniel's brain was trying to process this. Failing.
"This isn't real."
[INCORRECT. THIS IS REAL.]
[YOU ARE NOT HALLUCINATING.]
[THIS IS THE FOOTBALL GENESIS SYSTEM.]
[ACTIVATE: YES/NO]
Two options appeared at the bottom of the screen. Glowing buttons. Yes or No.
Daniel looked around the room. Still empty. Still dark. Just him and this impossible thing.
His ankle throbbed. Reminded him exactly where he was and why.
Thirty-four percent chance of full recovery.
He thought about Dr. Herrera's face. The careful way he'd said there are no guarantees.
He thought about Rafael's Instagram post. Setbacks are setups for comebacks.
He thought about his mom's exhausted expression. About Lucía's scholarship dreams. About his dad, dead four years, who never got to see if Daniel would make it.
This wasn't real. Obviously. He'd wake up tomorrow and it would be gone and he'd feel stupid for even considering it.
But what if it was?
What if there was a chance, any chance, to come back from this?
Daniel reached out. His finger hovered over the Yes button.
"If I'm hallucinating," he said quietly, "this is really sad."
He pressed Yes.
The screen flashed bright blue. Text cascaded:
[ACTIVATION CONFIRMED]
[BINDING TO HOST: DANIEL ROMERO GARCÍA]
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 3%... 15%... 47%...]
[INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[WELCOME, DANIEL.]
[LET'S BEGIN.]
A new screen appeared. This one looked different. More detailed. Daniel's name at the top. Below it, categories: Physical, Technical, Mental, Tactical.
Numbers next to each category. Low numbers. Red indicators everywhere.
[CURRENT PHYSICAL STATUS: SEVERELY COMPROMISED]
[INJURY DETECTED: FRACTURED FIBULA, LIGAMENT DAMAGE, POST-SURGICAL TRAUMA]
[ESTIMATED RECOVERY TIME: 287 DAYS]
[WITH SYSTEM OPTIMIZATION: 164 DAYS]
[BEGINNING RECOVERY PROTOCOL IN 24 HOURS]
[REST NOW. YOU'LL NEED IT.]
The screen faded. Disappeared completely.
Daniel lay there. Staring at where it had been.
His heart was still racing. His hands were shaking slightly.
What the hell just happened?
He waited. Nothing. No screen. No text. Just the dark room and his throbbing ankle and the sound of his own breathing.
Maybe he had hallucinated. Stress and drugs and desperation made people see things.
But the numbers. They'd been so specific. 164 days instead of 287.
He didn't believe in magic. Didn't believe in miracles.
But he believed in tools. And if there was any chance, any possibility that this thing was real...
Daniel closed his eyes.
For the first time since the injury, something in his chest unclenched. Not hope exactly. Not yet.
Just the absence of complete despair.
He fell asleep.