The hotel room was quiet. Outside, the soft whir of city traffic buzzed faintly through the window. Inside, the pale glow of a laptop screen lit up Rahim's face as his family's video call finally connected.
"Rahim!" his sister's voice came first, loud and full of excitement.
The camera shook, and then settled. On the other end were three familiar faces — his father, Ibrahim, still in his dusty grey overalls, sitting on the living room floor of their small Blackburn home in England. His mother, Aaliyah, sat beside him in her hijab and cardigan, her eyes warm with pride. And of course, his younger sister Nadia, thirteen, with her head halfway into the camera already.
"I told you to wait, let me speak to him first!" his mother scolded gently, smiling.
"I missed him more," Nadia pouted, tugging the phone toward herself.
Rahim chuckled. That same warm feeling bubbled in his chest — the one that always came when he saw them.
"How was it, beta?" his father asked, voice rough but kind. "We saw your highlights. That first touch… ha! You didn't get it from me."
"No, you gave me the hands for hard work," Rahim replied with a grin. "Not the feet."
His father laughed, then coughed. Rahim noticed the subtle way his mother placed a hand on his father's back. His coughs had worsened lately, but Ibrahim never liked to admit when he was tired. Still working long hours at the furniture workshop in Blackburn's Audley Range area, where he had taken overtime ever since Rahim was twelve.
"Are they treating you well?" his mother asked, voice lower now. "Eating properly? Room warm?"
"I'm staying at a hotel," Rahim replied. "Club's handling it."
He let out a soft smile. "Temporary. They said I'll be here until I get a permanent place sorted."
"Wait—like, you're alone in a hotel?" Nadia's eyes widened. "Show me, show me—flip the camera!"
Rahim rolled his eyes but flipped the laptop camera. It revealed a sleek, modern hotel room — nothing too extravagant, but clean, polished, and professional. Juventus had arranged it for him the night he arrived after training.
"Wooooow," Nadia said dramatically. "You have your own desk? And two pillows? What is this luxury?"
He laughed and turned the camera back. "Temporary. They said I'll be here until I get a permanent place sorted."
He didn't say the rest aloud. Instead, he just leaned back slightly and let out a soft, almost invisible breath of relief.
At least the club's covering everything for now…
Because truthfully, he hadn't brought much money. Whatever little he had saved was meant to last — until the future he was working for arrived. Knowing Juventus was looking after his lodging and food made something ease inside his chest. He couldn't afford to worry about that and football both.
He looked back at the screen. His father was pretending not to look tired. His mother was still half-listening, eyes on the background noise from the TV. And Nadia… was taking screenshots of his hotel room.
"You're going viral in our group chats," she said smugly.
"Don't post it anywhere," he warned.
"No promises."
As the call wound down ,He turned off the light, lay back on the unfamiliar bed, and stared at the ceiling.
This is temporary. But I'm going to earn my place — for them.
Juventus Training Centre, Continassia
The hotel alarm buzzed at 5:20 a.m.
Rahim didn't need it. He was already tying his laces.
By 5:45, he stepped out into the freezing Turin morning, his Juventus tracksuit zipped to the neck. He carried his gym bag over one shoulder and quietly made his way toward the club's training facility — Continassa. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few flickering streetlights.
But someone else had already arrived.
A black SUV stood parked near the entrance. The driver was long gone. And standing near the pitch, warming up with slow high-knees, was him.
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Wearing black gloves, beanie, and that ever-serious expression.
Rahim walked up silently, placing his bag down.
Ronaldo didn't turn. "You're four minutes late," he said without looking.
Rahim smiled faintly. "You said six."
"I meant arrive at six. Not get out of the taxi at six."
That was their rhythm. Their understanding. Since the first time they'd met on the training ground, Ronaldo had noted the boy's arrival — early, focused, eyes clear. And Rahim had mirrored his routine: no music, no talking, just football.
They trained side by side — silent, precise, obsessive.
Today was no different.
As the sun began to rise, the lights of the Juventus training facility flickered on. A few assistant coaches arrived, sleepy-eyed but used to this ritual.
They didn't question it anymore. Ronaldo and the kid — the regressor, though no one knew it — were always first.
Two assistants, Marco and Taddei, joined them on the pitch and began helping by feeding balls. Simple passing drills became intricate rhythms of one-touch movement, weak-foot accuracy, and mid-range half volleys.
Rahim didn't speak much, but he matched Ronaldo stride for stride. Right foot, left foot, chest control, overhead flick — again, and again, and again.
From the upper gallery of the training ground, Andrea Pirlo stood watching.
He had been there for ten minutes, coffee in hand.
"Watch him," Pirlo said to his assistant beside him. "No wasted movement. He adapts mid-drill."
"You mean Ronaldo?"
"No," Pirlo said, sipping his espresso. "The boy."
Later That Morning – Tactical Room
No official team training today. Juventus had a rest day, but Pirlo had asked both Cristiano and Rahim to stay behind.
Inside the tactics room, a digital board flickered on. Pirlo turned to them, sleeves rolled up.
"You want to be the best?" he asked.
Cristiano only nodded.
Rahim said nothing, eyes locked on the screen.
Pirlo pointed to a frozen frame of a 4-4-2 formation from the last Coppa Italia match.
"This," he began, "is the shape we had when you, Rahim, entered the game. Kulu was meant to cut inside. You stayed wide. That wasn't wrong — but it wasn't expected."
Rahim straightened.
Pirlo smiled slightly. "It was good. But let me teach you the why."
For the next several hours, Pirlo took both of them through his unique system. No flashy drills. No endless sprints. Just pure football intelligence:
Half-space rotations — Rahim was taught how to time his diagonal runs so defenders are always unsure whether to mark or hold.
Zone 14 awareness — how to drift into the most dangerous part of the pitch and either shoot or pass without needing a second touch.
One-moment link plays — Pirlo emphasized: "You'll only get one touch in elite football. Make it count."
Body orientation drills — Rahim was made to play with his back to goal, receiving blind passes, turning under pressure, just like Dybala does.
Pirlo would occasionally pause and correct Ronaldo too — not for mistakes, but to reinforce rhythm.
"Even at your age, we can optimize touch zones," Pirlo said. "Your left foot outcurl crosses can be more vertical. You don't need to overthink it."
Cristiano raised an eyebrow. "You want me to play more vertical?"
"With Rahim in the box?" Pirlo smiled. "Yes."
It was dark outside. The official lights of the Juventus training facility had dimmed. The main squad had left hours ago at least those who have arrived even though it was supposed to be a day off
But Ronaldo and Rahim remained. Pirlo too. One assistant still fed them balls on the near wing.
"Again!" Ronaldo called.
He sent in a curled cross. Rahim dashed between the mannequin defenders and smashed a half volley into the top corner.
Pirlo clapped once. "Good. Don't stop."
At nearly midnight, Rahim walked back to the hotel. His calves burned, but his mind buzzed with clarity.
Today wasn't just training.
It was blueprint-making.
And he was building his place at Juventus — one silent morning, one lesson, one goal at a time.