The bus rumbled through Lisbon's narrow streets, headlights painting long streaks across wet asphalt. Inside, the players sat in silence, each lost in their own rituals—headphones, prayers, quiet stretches.
Adrian sat near the back, hands clasped so tight his knuckles whitened. His call-up had come only hours earlier. Mendes's voice still echoed in his mind:
"You'll be on the bench tonight. Be ready."
The words rang like a bell, both thrilling and terrifying.
The stadium came into view, rising from the night like a colossus of steel and light. Red and green banners rippled in the wind, flares hissed in the hands of supporters, and chants rolled through the streets like thunder.
Sporting! Sporting!
Adrian pressed his forehead to the bus window, breath fogging the glass. For a moment, he wasn't sure if his heart was racing faster than the drums outside.
In the locker room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Veterans tied boots with practiced calm, laced gloves, muttered to one another. The air smelled of liniment oil, leather, and nerves.
Adrian sat on the edge of the bench, jersey folded neatly across his lap. The crest of Sporting glowed under the fluorescent light, a symbol heavier than any burden he'd carried before.
Buzz Cut—the same veteran he had humiliated days earlier—snorted as he walked past. "Don't choke, mascot."
Adrian didn't look up. He pulled the green-and-white stripes over his head, and in that moment, he felt the weight of generations.
The roar hit him like a physical force when they walked out of the tunnel. Floodlights bathed the pitch in brilliance, the grass slick and perfect beneath their boots.
The announcer's voice boomed, rattling through the stands:
"Welcome to Estádio José Alvalade!"
Chants rumbled like an ocean. Flags waved. Somewhere in the cacophony, Adrian's name was lost—but to him, the sound was deafening.
The match began.
From the bench, Adrian sat forward, eyes unblinking, watching every movement. The pace was faster, sharper, more brutal than anything he had ever seen. Tackles cracked, passes sliced the pitch in surgical arcs, the crowd gasped and roared with every chance.
He memorized it all—the angles, the tempo, the rhythm of giants.
Then, at the 72nd minute, it happened.
"Silva!" Mendes barked, voice cutting through the storm. "Warm up. You're going in."
Adrian froze for half a heartbeat. Then he shot up, stripping off his jacket, heart hammering against his ribs.
The crowd noticed. A ripple of curiosity passed through the stands, like a wave of murmurs.
"Who's that kid?"
"Isn't he from the academy?"
"Never seen him before."
Commentators leaned into their mics.
"Interesting decision from Coach Mendes… a debut for the youngster, Adrian Silva. Not much is known about him, but clearly the coaching staff sees something."
Adrian jogged the sideline, muscles buzzing, boots sinking into the grass. The cold air bit his lungs, but inside, fire raged.
The fourth official held up the board. His number glowed red.
"Silva in, Carvalho out."
A handshake. A pat on the back. And then, the pitch.
Adrian stepped across the white line.
The world exploded in sound.
Floodlights blazed above. The ball rolled toward him. His first touch was a heartbeat away.
This was it.
The moment that would decide whether he was forgotten by dawn or remembered forever.
---
The grass felt different. Firmer. Slicker. It clung to Adrian's studs as though testing his right to stand there.
His chest rose and fell, the chants of thirty thousand voices pressing down on him like a mountain. Every sound—the thud of boots, the slap of the ball, the referee's whistle rang sharper, heavier, as though the air itself carried weight.
The ball zipped past him in the opening seconds, a blur of white. Too fast. He turned, sprinting to press, but his marker—a seasoned midfielder with calves like tree trunks—shielded it effortlessly and sprayed it wide.
The crowd cheered. Not for him. Not yet.
Adrian clenched his jaw. His first touch still hadn't come.
"Silva looks a little tentative," one commentator remarked, his tone a knife wrapped in silk.
"Understandable—it's his debut. The pace of top-flight football is a shock to anyone."
The words slid into Adrian's ears like poison, but he forced his focus back to the pitch. Don't think. Just breathe. Play.
He tracked back, body low, eyes darting from runner to ball. His lungs burned, but his legs moved as though carried by something greater than fear.
Then it came.
A simple pass, rolling toward him near the halfway line.
His pulse spiked. First touch.
He killed the ball under his boot, the leather kissing grass with a faint thump. It wasn't spectacular, but it was clean. His heart steadied.
The veteran midfielder lunged to close him down. Adrian's body stiffened—but instinct whispered. He rolled the ball with his sole, nudged it sideways, and slipped a pass into the space behind, a neat one-two to the winger bursting forward.
The crowd gave a small ripple of approval. Not a roar—just a murmur. But it was enough.
Adrian exhaled.
Minutes ticked by.
He learned quickly. The tempo no longer felt impossible, just relentless. His lungs adapted to the rhythm, his mind adjusted to the angles. Every touch was sharp, short, safe.
But safe wouldn't be enough.
He saw Mendes on the touchline, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
The message was clear: Prove you're not just here to survive.
The ball came again, skipping across the slick grass. Adrian spun with it, but this time, instead of laying it off, he turned.
The veteran lunged. Adrian shifted, dragging the ball behind his heel, sliding past the tackle in one graceful sweep. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
His heart raced, but he kept running, eyes scanning. The winger darted forward, raising an arm. Adrian drew back his foot—
And then the referee's whistle shrieked.
Foul. The defender had clipped him late.
Adrian stumbled, grass stuck to his socks, but when he stood, the crowd clapped louder than before. Some even cheered.
The commentators leaned in, voices sharpening.
"Now that's interesting. Silva showing a glimpse of composure and flair there. He's not hiding—he wants the ball."
"Exactly. That's what you look for in a debut. Courage. You can play safe all you want, but moments like that… that's what keeps a coach watching."
Adrian jogged back into position, his chest heaving. For the first time since stepping onto the pitch, he smiled—not wide, but a faint curve, like a secret only he knew.
The nerves hadn't vanished. But the fear was gone.
The ball was his friend again.
And the stadium was beginning to notice.
The final whistle cut through the air like a blade.
Adrian bent over, palms on his knees, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow, his jersey clinging heavy against his skin.
The scoreboard read: 1–1.
He hadn't scored. He hadn't assisted. But he hadn't vanished either. His touches were crisp, his runs relentless. He had held his own.
As he trudged off, the crowd gave polite applause—nothing like the roars for the senior stars, but more than silence. Enough to plant a seed.
Inside the tunnel, the atmosphere shifted.
Gone was the roar of fans, replaced by the low hum of boots against concrete, the hiss of showers running in the distance.
"Not bad, kid." One of the younger players clapped him on the back with a grin.
But the veterans? Different story.
The seasoned midfielder—the one Adrian had dribbled past—brushed past him without a glance, jaw tight. Another older forward muttered under his breath, words Adrian couldn't catch but tone sharp enough to sting.
In the locker room, the air was thick with steam and silence. The seniors spoke among themselves in low voices, ignoring him. A couple even chuckled when his name was mentioned, though not kindly.
Adrian sat at the far end of the bench, untying his boots slowly. His fingers trembled, not from nerves now, but from the weight of realization: the real battle wasn't just on the pitch.
It was here.
Among men who'd rather see him fail than shine.
Coach Mendes entered, his whistle still hanging from his neck. His gaze swept across the room before landing on Adrian.
"Silva."
Adrian's head snapped up.
"You kept your nerve. You didn't hide. That's enough for a debut." His voice was flat, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of approval.
The room shifted. A few players exchanged glances, some frowning, others silent. Praise, especially from Mendes, was a rare currency.
"Rest up. Tomorrow, we review."
With that, the coach left.
Adrian exhaled, finally peeling off his damp jersey. His chest felt lighter, but his mind buzzed. He could sense the lines being drawn.
Not everyone wanted him here.
But he didn't come this far to shrink back.
As he closed his locker, his reflection in the small metal mirror caught his eye. His face was pale, streaked with sweat, but his eyes… sharper than ever.
If they wanted him to fail, they'd have to stop him themselves.
And Adrian Silva wasn't planning on stopping.