The week after the clásico felt like a fever dream. Every drill, every rondo, every sprint under Ríos's watchful eye carried an undercurrent of tension. The academy buzzed with whispers: "Huracán played us hard—but that was nothing compared to what's coming."
By Friday afternoon, I knew why. Someone scrawled on the clubhouse whiteboard: "NEXT: FRIENDLY WITH BOCA RESERVA—HEAR THEY PLAY DIRTY."
I closed my locker, heart thumping. A friendly against Boca's reserves sounded prestigious—until I heard Sosa's warning.
"They've got a reputation," he said, tossing me a spare jersey. "Cheap fouls, elbows up, words that cut deeper than cleats."
I slipped into the number 10 bib, trying to steady my breath.
When we stepped onto the artificial turf that evening, the floodlights turned our breath into tiny clouds. Boca's boys looked polished—new boots, fresh jerseys, smug confidence. Their captain, a broad-shouldered kid named Medina, caught my eye and smirked.
Ríos gathered us. "This is more than tactics. It's character. They'll test your patience—on and off the ball. Remember why you play." He swept a hand toward me and Sosa. "And you two—lead by example."
I nodded, trying to channel his calm.
The whistle blew. Boca pressed immediately—aggressive but controlled. Two minutes in, Medina lunged for a tackle from behind, studs grazing my calf. I jumped, pain slicing upward, but the ref waved play on.
Next sequence, another challenge—this time from their winger—took out Sosa's ankle. He slumped, clutching his shin, and limped off. I stifled a shout and squared my shoulders.
They were sending a message: "We own this game."
I tried to keep the play clean—quick passes, one-twos, off-the-ball runs. But every touch drew a swarm of defenders. A midfielder shoved me so hard my head snapped back; I swallowed pain and kept going.
In the 20th minute, we broke forward. Duarte, back from injury, cut inside and slipped me the ball. I turned, saw a sliver of space, and let loose a curling shot that clipped the far post. The roar of San Lorenzo's staff was muffled by the memory of Medina's last foul.
He was standing over me, breath ragged, eyes cold.
Halftime arrived as a blessing. We huddled in the locker room, ribs rattling from every hit. Ríos didn't mince words.
"They're playing for blood. You can't answer with violence—but you can't let them steal your mind. Stay composed. Play our way."
My chest tightened. Violence wasn't an option. Control was.
Second half opened with renewed ferocity. I felt each tackle's intent: designed to scare, to intimidate. A careless elbow caught my jaw; the world rocked sideways. I saw stars, then grit my teeth.
In the 65th minute, the turning point came. I received the ball in the center circle, spun to evade a marker—and felt a boot smash into my chest. The force knocked the wind out of me. The ref hesitated, then raised a yellow card for our opponent. It felt wrong—mercy for him, pain for me.
As I gasped on the turf, Medina knelt beside me, voice low. "Look at you, villa trash," he sneered. "Acting tough in front of the barra brava. Bet your folks never taught you respect."
His words cut deep. My vision tunneled. Memories of every insult in the barrio, every glance of pity. Heat flared in my temples.
I stood, fists clenched, and stared at him—tried to breathe. Tried to remember Ríos's face.
But hate and fear eclipsed everything else.
Before I knew it, I was inches from his chest. I felt my skull press into his sternum—hard, deliberate—just like I'd seen Zidane do on the world stage. His body jerked back, hands flying to his throat.
The ref's whistle blasted like thunder. Two arms grabbed me—teammates pried me away. The locker room door flew open.
"You're off!" the ref barked. "Get off the field!"
I spun, chest heaving, and ran toward the tunnel, shouts of fury and disappointment chasing me.
In the underpass, I slammed my shoulder against the cold wall, breathing so hard I thought I'd pass out. The roar of the stadium faded, replaced by pounding blood in my ears.
Sosa appeared at the tunnel mouth, eyes wide. "Skinny! You can't—"
I cut him off, voice broken. "He said my family."
He took a cautious step forward. "I know. But you gave them what they wanted."
I sank to the ground, head in my hands. The echo of Ríos's words returned: Violence isn't an option.
Back in the locker room, the air was thick with tension. Ríos stood at the front, face pale. No one moved.
He looked at me, pain and disappointment in his eyes. "Get in here, Altamirano."
I obeyed, legs shaking.
He closed the door behind me and grabbed my shoulders. "You know better."
I nodded, voice flat. "I lost control."
He shook his head. "You made a mistake that costs you more than this match. Two games—minimum suspension. And we'll sit down to discuss your future here."
I swallowed hard, guilt burning in my chest.
That night, I lay awake on my mattress, ceiling fan slicing slow shadows. My mind replayed every moment—the chest impact, Medina's insult, the flash of my head—but most of all, the look in Ríos's eyes. Pride turned to disappointment in an instant.
I closed my eyes, hand pressed to my ribcage, not from pain but from regret. I had let anger define me when I needed focus.
And now I'd have to earn back more than I'd ever before.
[End of Chapter 20]