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Chapter 8 – The Second Test and Shadows from the Past
Three months into life at Benfica Academy, Jota had settled into a rhythm that felt as precise as a ticking clock.
Wake up before dawn.
Lace boots in silence.
Train like every touch could rewrite his life.
Study until his eyes blurred.
Sleep, then repeat.
But just as things felt steady, a letter arrived, and the rhythm began to shake.
---
It was handed to him by a junior staff member after dinner.
"From home," the man said with a nod.
Jota took it gently, already recognizing the familiar, jagged handwriting. Miguel.
He walked out to the edge of the training grounds, where the lamplight flickered on the fence, and sat down on the bench near the second pitch. The envelope was slightly torn. The paper inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh bread.
> Ana fell while climbing the wall near the vineyard. She broke her arm, but she's okay now. Still draws with her left hand and says you owe her candy.
Mãe is exhausted. She still kneads dough every morning, but the oven broke last week. I tried to fix it. I failed.
Sometimes I think the house echoes when it shouldn't. It misses you. We all do.
Are you still chasing the same dream, Jota? Or did Lisbon change your course?
Jota folded the letter and pressed it against his chest. Then he slipped it into the inner pocket of his academy bag.
He carried it with him for days.
---
His focus faltered during study hall.
His first touch went long during tactical drills.
Even his stamina, usually relentless, felt two strides too slow.
Coach Nuno noticed.
He didn't say anything until he saw Jota alone at the far end of the training pitch one foggy morning, juggling a ball under a flickering floodlight.
"Something on your mind?" Nuno asked, folding his arms.
Jota hesitated. "Home."
"You left for a reason."
"I know."
"And you carry a reason every time you step on that field."
"I haven't forgotten."
Coach Nuno paused. "Then don't let remembering slow your feet. Let it sharpen them."
---
That night, Jota sat on the edge of his bunk and wrote a list. Just five lines on a page torn from his math notebook.
Why I'm Here:
1. For Ana.
2. For Mãe.
3. For Miguel.
4. For my old self.
5. For the future I saw once—and lost.
He folded it and placed it next to Miguel's letter inside his locker.
His anchor.
His reason.
---
The following week, an announcement stirred the entire academy.
Benfica had been invited to the International Youth Challenge in Madrid, Spain—an elite four-day tournament featuring youth squads from Ajax, Valencia, Bayern Munich, Lyon, and others.
Only eighteen players would be selected.
There were twenty-seven hopefuls.
The race began.
---
Bruno, now a silent ally, trained like a machine.
Leonel ran extra laps during rest periods.
Two midfielders began copying Jota's subtle movements—his shoulder dips, his checking runs.
Jota didn't panic. He trained as always. Precisely. Quietly. But with a new layer beneath every step.
He had to make the cut.
Not just for Lisbon.
But for Penedono.
For the silence that Miguel feared.
---
The selection scrimmage was on a Tuesday afternoon. Wind rattled the corner flags and dark clouds gathered above. The internal match lasted just 40 minutes—but for Jota, it felt like a trial by fire.
He didn't score.
He didn't need to.
He directed tempo, cut off passes, and delivered two assists that split the defense like a scalpel.
Coach Nuno clapped once at the end. Nothing more.
The squad list was posted the next morning.
J. DIAS – #11 was on it.
So were Leonel and Bruno.
The flight to Madrid left Friday.
---
It was Jota's first time on an airplane.
He didn't say anything as they took off. Just stared out the window, watching Lisbon shrink, the rivers twist, the clouds gather.
The hotel in Madrid was large and loud. Coaches barked in Portuguese and Spanish. Other teams stretched in the lobby. Laughter, shouting, tension. Players from ten countries all breathing the same tournament air.
Jota called home that night.
Ana answered.
"Did the plane feel like a dragon?" she asked excitedly.
"A loud dragon, yes."
"Miguel says if you score in Spain, you have to bring us something sweet."
"Deal."
Then Helena came on the line.
"You don't have to come back with medals, filho," she said. "Just come back as yourself."
"I will," Jota said.
Then added, "Better than before."
---
Benfica's opening match was against Valencia's U13 squad.
The stadium wasn't huge, but it felt massive under the Spanish sun. Dozens of scouts leaned over the railings. Former internationals sat in the press box. Every touch was watched, every reaction noted.
The game started fast.
Valencia pressed high, swarmed the midfield. Benfica looked pinned back at first.
Jota dropped deep to receive, calming the tempo.
He spread passes left and right.
Called for overlapping support.
Cut inside to open space.
In the 19th minute, he flicked a pass behind the defender—perfect timing, perfect angle—Leonel rushed in and curled it into the net.
1–0.
Valencia fought back, but Benfica held.
Final score: 2–1.
---
Game two: Ajax.
Fluid. Methodical. Like watching dancers.
Jota adjusted again—less movement, more position. He cut passing lanes, delayed attacks, won fouls.
In minute 41, he switched the field with a diagonal ball that opened Ajax's defense like a zipper.
Leonel crossed. Bruno headed it in.
Final score: 1–1.
Not a win. But enough.
Benfica advanced to the semifinal.
---
Bayern Munich waited there.
They were everything people feared—tall, ruthless, disciplined. Their forwards pressed like a hammer, their defenders closed like doors.
Benfica bent.
But Jota wouldn't let them break.
He shouted instructions mid-play.
Held the ball under pressure.
Made fouls when necessary.
And ran until his lungs burned.
In the 58th minute, he stripped a Bayern midfielder clean and started a counter.
Leonel to Bruno. Goal.
Final score: 2–1.
Benfica was in the final.
---
The night before the final, Jota couldn't sleep.
He stepped out of the hotel room onto the balcony, barefoot in the cold air.
He held Miguel's letter again.
> "Are you still chasing the same dream?"
He whispered aloud, "Yes."
Then added, "And I'm getting closer."
---
The final match was against Olympique Lyonnais.
The stadium was packed for a youth tournament. Lights flooded the pitch in silver. Cameras pointed everywhere.
Pressure.
Expectation.
But for Jota, there was only focus.
Lyon came out fast. Their wingers darted behind the lines, their midfielders played clever triangles. Benfica scrambled.
Bruno blocked a shot in the 14th. Leonel cleared a header off the line in the 19th.
Still 0–0.
At halftime, Coach Nuno only said one thing:
> "You don't have to win. You just have to be brave."
---
In minute 52, Jota made the run.
He ghosted into space near the left. Leonel spotted it and sent a high, bouncing pass. Jota let it drop, cut inside one, feinted the second, then squared a pass across the face of goal.
Bruno tapped it in.
1–0.
Benfica held the lead.
The whistle blew.
Benfica – Champions.
---
During the ceremony, Jota stood at the back, quiet as always. The announcer read out individual awards.
Top scorer.
Best goalkeeper.
Then—
> "Player of the Tournament: João Dias, Benfica."
He stepped forward, heart steady, eyes calm.
Not smiling. Not overwhelmed.
Just… ready.
---
Back in Penedono, Ana taped the newspaper clipping to the kitchen wall.
Miguel showed it to every neighbor. Twice.
Helena folded it and placed it inside her recipe book.
At Benfica, Jota took Miguel's letter from his bag and placed it beside the trophy plaque on his shelf.
He read the final line once more.
> "Are you still chasing the same dream?"
He whispered back,
> "Yes, Miguel. Always."
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(Message to readers)
I just respect and appreciate not to badmouth all like people, clubs and others, I just inspire no one to damage the name and family and if there are people who feel hurt about this novel. I as the author of this novel apologize, to people who feel hurt and hurt feelings. I want the readers to know that this novel is neither derogatory nor offensive.