The next morning, the sky was a flat gray, as if the weather itself were holding its breath. I arrived early at the training ground in my traffic-worn tracksuit, boots already laced. Today, I'd be part of the core Reserve lineup—not just a guest for a friendly, but a teammate in every drill and small-sided match.
Sosa was waiting near the entrance, bouncing a clean white ball against his thigh. When he saw me, he grinned and called out, "Morning, Skinny. Ready for your close-up?"
I laughed, the old nickname feeling like home. "Bring it on."
Coach Ríos stood by the sideline, clipboard in hand. He didn't bother with a pep talk—just a nod in our direction. We fell into formation for rondos, a tight circle of eight against two.
The pressure was relentless. Reserve players dove in at the slightest loose touch. I reminded myself to breathe, to keep my first touch light. When the ball came, I flicked it out; when defenders closed in, I angled my body away. Sosa offered hand signals—left, right, now—helping me anticipate and retreat.
After ten minutes, the coach blew his whistle and waved us toward the small goals set up for a 6-a-6 scrimmage. I jogged into position as Stricker, a hulking central defender, clapped his gloves and gave me a once-over. His gaze was polite but unyielding.
We kicked off under the dull light. The ball zipped between us in tight corridors. My first few touches felt good—sharp, assured. I found Sosa twice, executed wall passes that split their midfield, and even whipped a low cross toward our striker that forced a smart save.
Then, in the 20th minute, Stricker arrived.
I had the ball in the center circle, turning to open play. He barreled in from behind, shoulder low, connecting hard with my hip. The breath whooshed out of me, chest stinging. I hit the ground, vision narrowing, and the ball skidded away.
I lay there for a moment, heartbeat loud as thunder. The referee blew his whistle but didn't step in. Stricker jogged on, expression blank.
I sat up, rubbed my side, then shook my head and rose. Sosa was at my side in an instant, handing me water. "You okay, Skinny?"
I forced a nod. "Yeah."
Sosa's eyes flicked to the coach; Ríos scribbled something on his clipboard without looking my way. I realized this was no accident—it was a message: Reserve football would demand more than finesse.
By halftime, my confidence had wavered. I slipped off my boots and took a seat on the bench, chest heaving.
Ríos approached, no words—just the silent gesture of patting my shin guard. His eyes met mine. No reprimand. No consolation. Just a reminder that he expected me back out there.
Second half brought a different formation: we shifted to a midfield diamond, and Ríos put me at the tip—an advanced playmaker role. I swallowed hard, ribs still burning, but nodded. This was the chance to prove I belonged.
The whistle blew, and I sprinted forward, heart racing. My first involvement was a crisp one-two with Sosa, breaking their midfield line. I drove the ball into space and chipped a delicate pass behind the defense. It felt like a moment of pure clarity—until I realized our striker had been flagged offside.
Frustration hammered in my chest. I clenched my fists but kept moving. Soon after, we won a corner. Sosa curled it in; I rose and flicked my head—straight at their keeper. No goal, but my presence was noted.
Then, as I tracked back, I saw Stricker again. This time, a reckless stud appeared as I tried to intercept his clearance. He crashed into my ankle, and I crumpled, vision spotted. The whistle stayed silent.
My anger flared. I flashed to memories of games in the villa—futsal matches where dirt and blood were the price of pride. I glanced at Sosa, who mouthed "Control it." I exhaled, tightened my core, and got up.
The scrimmage ended in a narrow 2–2 draw. No celebrations—just the sound of players breathing hard, washing the dust of competition from their cleats.
Ríos gathered us one last time.
"Good." He paused, letting the single word hang. "You held your own despite the hits. Keep that resilience." Then he nodded toward me. "Altamirano, one more thing: prepare for more than tactics. Prepare for adversity."
He walked away, leaving me with the weight of his challenge.
Later, in the showers, I found Sosa rinsing off. Steam curled around our shoulders.
"Tough out there," he said, voice low. "But you stood back up."
I looked at my bruised ribs, the water pummeling my side. "I won't let them break me."
He nodded, then grinned. "That's why you're a 10, Skinny."
I let the nickname settle in my chest—a reminder of home and hard-won progress.
Back home, dinner was simple: rice, beans, and a thin cut of chicken. My mom asked about the session. I told her it was harder than anything I'd faced—physical and mental.
"You're growing," she said, voice gentle. "Pain means change."
My dad looked up from the paper, eyes serious. "Remember, son, talent opens doors, but grit keeps them open."
I swallowed. "Got it."
That night, I lay in bed listening to the distant hum of traffic. My side throbbed, but my mind was alive with possibility. Reserve football wasn't just another step—it was its own battlefield. And every battle taught me something new.
I closed my eyes, holding Sosa's words in my mind. "You're a 10, Skinny."
Tomorrow, I'd wake and do it all again.