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Chapter 2: The Cut
The letter wasn't even sealed.
Just a thin sheet, folded once, his name typed in bold at the top. No crest. No logo. No conversation. Just a line of text that ended everything.
João stared at it. His name blurred on the page, his fingers tightening as if he could crush the rejection out of the paper.
"Não é físico o suficiente para o modelo atual."
Not physical enough for the current model.
What model? What system? What version of football erased a player because he hadn't bulked up fast enough?
He dropped the page onto the kitchen table. The house was silent, except for the ticking of the cheap plastic clock over the fridge.
His father stood beside him, arms crossed. Carlos Sequeira Félix. Always upright, always in control.
"You knew this was coming," Carlos said. "They stopped starting you weeks ago."
João didn't answer. His jaw locked. His cleats were still in his backpack. Mud still dried in the studs.
"They want athletes," Carlos continued. "You're not ready to compete with the taller boys. It's not personal."
"It is personal," João muttered.
His mother, Carla, leaned in from the living room. "Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe you need a break."
João laughed, bitterly. "A break? They kicked me out."
He pushed his chair back hard, stood up, and walked toward the hallway. The backpack hit the floor with a thud. Carlos followed.
"You think you're the first boy to get cut?" his father said. "You think the world owes you a spot because you've got a nice touch and quick feet?"
João spun around. "You don't know what I gave for this. You weren't there every day. You didn't see what I—"
"I saw enough," Carlos said, voice firm. "And what I saw was a boy who doesn't eat enough, doesn't hit the gym enough, and thinks intelligence alone will carry him through a league built on force."
João flinched. It hit deeper than he thought it would. His father rarely raised his voice. He didn't have to. Disappointment carried heavier than yelling.
From behind them, his little brother Hugo peeked around the doorframe. Twelve years old. Still bright-eyed. Still believed that football was just fun, goals, and applause.
João met his gaze—and looked away.
He shoved past his father, stormed into the small bedroom he shared with Hugo, and slammed the door shut. Cleats. Shin pads. Training kits. They all mocked him now. Bits of a life that no longer fit.
He collapsed onto the bed, chest tight. He could still hear the sound of the ball hitting the crossbar in training last week. Still feel the weight of the coach's stare, the clipped nod when João pulled off something beautiful—and silent.
He thought beauty was enough. Being smarter, quicker, and sharper would save him.
But they never cared about seeing the space before it opened. They wanted power. They wanted players who filled the room, not those who slipped through the cracks.
A soft knock. Hugo.
João didn't answer. He didn't move.
Another knock. Then silence.
Finally, from the other side of the door, Hugo said, "You're still the best player I've seen."
João closed his eyes.
Best? Maybe.
But no one was watching anymore.
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