Leandro stepped outside and felt the cool morning air on his skin. The sun was rising, coloring the sky orange and pink. He wore his old training gear: a red Vila Nova shirt and white shorts.
Mariana gave him a strange look when he said he was jogging to training instead of taking the bus. She asked if he'd hit his head or something. He just smiled and left.
The streets were already coming to life. Vendors set up their stalls along the road. Old men sat outside cafes with coffee and newspapers. Kids ran past on their way to school, backpacks bouncing.
Leandro started jogging.
His legs felt light and fresh, without the wear and tear from eleven years of professional football. There was no pain in his left ankle or tightness in his hamstrings. Just young muscles that hadn't been pushed too hard yet.
He picked up the pace.
The training ground was about five kilometers from his house. In the past, he always took the bus. Why waste energy on the commute when you needed it for training? That's what he used to think.
What a load of crap that was.
He'd seen enough professional documentaries to know better now. Players like Cristiano Ronaldo didn't just train with the team—they lived and breathed conditioning. Every moment was a chance to improve.
If Leandro wanted to make up for his lack of talent, he had to get the most out of what he had. He had time, youth, and the experience of knowing where shortcuts would take him.
Straight to Indonesia's second division at twenty-eight with nothing to show for it.
Never again. He'd rather face anything than go through that again.
He pushed harder, feeling his heart rate climb. Sweat started to bead on his forehead, and his breathing got heavier. Good. This was good.
As he ran, the neighborhood changed. Small houses turned into empty lots and industrial buildings. Fields appeared on both sides of the road. In the distance, he saw his destination.
Vila Nova's training facility.
Calling it a facility was generous. It was really just a few worn-out fields with peeling paint on the goalposts and a small building for the locker rooms and offices. The grass was patchy, and the equipment was old.
But it was professional football nonetheless, and a chance Leandro wasn't going to waste.
He slowed to a walk as he reached the gate, cooling down. His legs burned a little, and his breathing was steady. He checked the time on his phone.
6:42 AM.
Training didn't start until 7:30 AM.
"Perfect."
He walked through the gate and headed to the locker room. A few early birds were already there, mostly maintenance staff getting things ready. They nodded as he passed, and he nodded back.
The locker room looked just like he remembered. His locker was in the back corner, away from the main group—the spot for bench players.
He quickly changed into his training kit, grabbed a ball from the equipment room, and went back outside to the practice field.
The field was empty. Just him, the grass, and the morning sun.
Leandro dropped the ball at his feet and paused for a moment. He looked down at it—a simple white ball with black stripes, scuffed and worn from use.
He took a deep breath and started with the basics: dribbling in place, left foot, right foot, touch after touch. These simple, sometimes boring drills were the foundation of football.
His touch was decent—not great, but decent. He could feel the difference right away. At seventeen, his body was less refined than it had been at twenty-eight, but it was more responsive and had more room to grow.
He moved to juggling, keeping the ball up with both feet, his thighs, his chest, and his head. He didn't let it drop.
After thirty touches, the ball dropped. He picked it up and started again. This time, he got to forty before losing control.
Time passed. And as the sun climbed higher, more players started arriving. He could hear voices from the locker room, laughter, and music playing from someone's phone.
Leandro ignored it all and kept working.
He set up a small course with corner flags as markers for dribbling drills. He weaved in and out, focusing on close control, speed, and quick changes of direction.
"Yo, Silver!" A voice called out from behind him.
Leandro stopped and turned. A tall, lanky guy with short dreadlocks jogged over.
His name was Rafael, a decent striker for the reserve team. He could finish well but was lazy in training.
"You're here early," Rafael said, looking surprised. "Like, really early. What happened? Did the coach threaten to cut you or something?"
Leandro shrugged. "Just wanted to get some extra work in."
Rafael laughed like he'd just heard the funniest joke. "Extra work? Man, it's just a friendly tomorrow. You're taking this too seriously."
"It's a scouting game," Leandro said flatly. "There'll be scouts there."
"Yeah, for the first team guys. Not for us." Rafael grabbed the ball from Leandro's feet and started doing tricks. "We're just there to make the real players look good, you know? That's the job."
Leandro felt a cold feeling in his stomach. He remembered this conversation exactly. In his past life, he'd laughed with Rafael and treated it like a joke. That attitude had ended his career before it began.
"Nah," Leandro said quietly. He took the ball back. "That's not the job. The job is to play so well they can't ignore you."
Rafael blinked. "Damn, who pissed in your cereal this morning?"
"Nobody. I'm just done being invisible."
Rafael stared at him for a second, then shrugged. "Whatever, man. Your funeral." He jogged off toward the locker room.
Leandro went back to his drills.
More players filtered onto the field. The coaching staff arrived: Assistant Coach Paulo with his clipboard and whistle, Fitness Coach Marcelo with his stopwatch, and finally Head Coach Domingos, a stocky man in his fifties with grey hair and a permanent scowl.
Fweeeee!
Coach Domingos blew his whistle. Sharp and loud.
"Line up! Let's go!"