December 2012 arrived without warning. The mornings were warmer, the sun higher, and the air sticky with the scent of holiday barbecues and cheap fireworks. The academy slowed down—sessions shorter, coaches slightly more relaxed—but I didn't.
After the suspension, I had made a promise to myself: never again would emotion outpace purpose. I trained with obsession, as if every pass was a job interview, every jog a step toward something only I could see.
Sosa noticed. "You're possessed, Skinny," he'd joked one day as we finished sprints."I'm focused," I answered.He laughed. "Same thing in your case."
The week before Christmas, Ríos dismissed us early. "Rest," he said. "You've earned it."
But I couldn't rest—not fully. Not yet.
That night, as I walked home past the shops in Avenida La Plata, I saw a pair of brand-new football boots through a dusty window. White, with blue trim. They looked fast. Sharp. Nothing like the ones I wore—second-hand, too tight, patched with tape near the toe.
I stood there for maybe five minutes, forehead against the glass, until the shopkeeper inside gave me a nod of recognition. I backed away and kept walking.
Christmas Eve in the barrio was loud and glowing. Colored lights draped over balconies, kids ran around with sparklers, and every house smelled like something worth remembering.
I helped my mom slice tomatoes in the kitchen. My dad cleaned a plastic table on the sidewalk where the neighbors were gathering. It was a block tradition—long tables, folding chairs, mismatched plates. Everyone brought something: empanadas, grilled chorizo, soda in reused bottles. The whole block became one family.
Miguel passed by with his wife and nodded at me. "You still training?"
"Every day," I replied.
"Good," he said, smiling. "Even Messi rests, though."
"Then I'll rest when I'm better than him."
He burst out laughing. "That's the spirit."
At midnight, the fireworks started. The whole barrio lit up with thunder and sparks. I stood near the curb, arms crossed, and watched kids shriek and dance through smoke and laughter. It was messy. Loud. Perfect.
When I turned around, my mom was holding a shoebox wrapped in newspaper.
"For you," she said, handing it over.
I hesitated. "But we said no gifts—"
"Open it."
I peeled away the paper. Inside, nestled in crumpled tissue, were the same white boots I had seen in the window.
My mouth went dry. "How did you…?"
"Raúl saw you staring through the glass. He went back the next day."
I looked at my dad. He was already sipping soda, eyes on the sky.
I lifted the boots from the box. New. Clean. Mine. They smelled like possibilities.
"Thank you," I whispered.
My mom hugged me. "You've earned more than this, Lucas. But we wanted you to start the new year with something that's truly yours."
I looked at the studs, the brand name etched in silver, the laces still stiff from factory knots. And I felt something powerful—not pride, not ego.
Just gratitude.
Later that night, when the crowd thinned and the music faded, I sat on my bed with the boots on my lap. I slipped one on—it fit perfectly.
I stood in the middle of the room and took a slow step forward. Then another. Then a pivot, like I was moving in a match. Then I smiled.
Not for the boots.
But for what they meant.
[End of Chapter 21]