The morning after, the city buzzed.
Adrian woke early, the ache in his legs reminding him of every sprint from last night.
He padded across the small apartment, flicked on the television, and froze.
His name was plastered across the sports channel ticker:"Adrian Silva's Debut: Future Star or Overhyped Prospect?"
Clips rolled—his first touch, the foul he drew, the neat passes in midfield. The commentators' voices carried both praise and skepticism.
"He looked composed in moments," one analyst said, arms crossed in the studio.
"But let's be honest—he didn't exactly set the game alight."
Another leaned forward, a sly grin forming. "True, but composure on debut? That's something. Many young players freeze under the lights. He didn't. That's a sign."
The segment cut to phone-in reactions.
A fan's voice boomed: "Silva's nothing special. Just another academy kid. We need winners, not experiments."
Another countered: "Give him time! Did you see that turn in midfield? Kid's got confidence. Reminded me of a young Xavi."
Adrian sank into the couch, torn between pride and a knot in his chest. His name, his face—already being chewed apart by strangers who had never shared a pitch.
Later, at the training ground, the newspapers were waiting.
He spotted a headline splashed across one front page:"The Next Ronaldo? Or the Next Forgotten Talent?"
The veteran midfielder he'd dribbled past snatched the paper off the bench, smirking. "Next Ronaldo, huh? Careful, kid—you don't want to believe your own press."
Laughter bubbled from a couple of others. Adrian kept his eyes down, lacing his boots tighter. His jaw ached from holding back words.
During warm-ups, Coach Mendes pulled him aside.
"Listen," the coach said, his tone low but sharp. "The media will build you up, then tear you down twice as fast. Don't play to their voices. Play to mine. Understand?"
Adrian nodded, though inside the storm still raged. He wanted to prove the doubters wrong, but Mendes's words lingered: Don't play to their voices.
As training began, he could already feel the stares on him—teammates waiting to see if the boy on the headlines was worth the ink.
And Adrian knew the only answer would come with the ball at his feet.
The day's training left Adrian's legs heavy, but his mind heavier still.
The weight of whispers in the locker room, the echoes of commentary, the sharp smirks of veterans—it all pressed down on him.
When he returned home that evening, the world felt quieter, almost fragile.
The small Lisbon apartment smelled of stew and garlic bread. His mother, Elena, stood by the stove, humming softly as she stirred. The moment she saw him, her face lit up.
"There he is," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "My boy, on television."
Adrian smiled faintly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "They didn't say much."
"Oh, they said enough," she replied, gesturing toward the flickering TV in the corner. A replay of his debut rolled again, his turn in midfield slowed down and analyzed.
"Look—look at that! You tricked him so easily!" Her eyes gleamed with pride, the lines of her face softening.
But then, as she set plates on the table, her voice dropped lower."They're also saying cruel things, aren't they?"
Adrian didn't answer at once. He sat down, running a hand through his damp hair. "Some are. Some aren't. That's how it works, I guess."
Elena placed a bowl in front of him, her gaze sharp. "You've worked too hard to let words pull you down. Do you think your father listened when they told him he was too short for factory work? He built his life anyway. You'll build yours, too."
Adrian's throat tightened. He nodded.
Later that night, his phone buzzed with a video call. It was his childhood friend, Marco—the boy who used to kick a torn-up ball with him in the back alleys of Bairro Alto.
"Adri!" Marco's grin filled the screen. "You madman, you were on TV! They're calling you the next Ronaldo!"
Adrian rolled his eyes. "They're also calling me the next forgotten talent."
Marco laughed. "So? Who cares? They're talking about you. That means you're in the game now. You've already won half the battle."
Adrian leaned back on his bed, a small smile tugging at his lips. His mother's quiet strength, Marco's easy banter—both wrapped around him like armor.
Still, when he closed his eyes, he saw the glares of his teammates. The veterans weren't laughing with him. They were sharpening their knives.
The outside world could love or hate him. But inside that locker room, survival was the only truth.
---
The training ground the next day was sharper, heavier like the air before thunder.
Every drill felt like a test. Every pass he made was measured by eyes that didn't want him to succeed. The veterans didn't hide their disdain.
Halfway through a scrimmage, a crunching tackle sent Adrian tumbling into the grass. His shoulder burned as he scrambled back up, only to hear the laughter of the one who fouled him.
"Welcome to the pros, kid," the veteran muttered, jogging away.
Adrian clenched his teeth, anger searing through him. But he swallowed it down, forcing himself to chase, to run, to show he wouldn't break.
After the session, sweat dripping and chest heaving, Adrian sat on the bench alone. The others left in groups, their laughter echoing, their backs turned.
A shadow fell across him.
"Rough day, hm?"
Adrian looked up. It was Miguel Duarte, the club's backup goalkeeper—a man in his mid-thirties, once a national team hopeful, now a quiet figure on the fringes.
He wasn't flashy, wasn't adored, but carried himself with calm weight, like an oak in a storm.
"You'll get used to it," Miguel said, dropping onto the bench beside him. He opened a water bottle, took a slow sip, then continued. "They'll try to break you. Not because you're bad. Because you remind them time is running out."
Adrian frowned. "So I just let them?"
Miguel chuckled softly. "No. You outlast them. You learn. You grow. And one day, when the ball comes to your feet in a moment that matters you show them why you're here."
Adrian studied him. There was no pity in Miguel's eyes, only the hardened empathy of a man who had lived the same storm.
"Why tell me this?" Adrian asked.
Miguel leaned back, stretching his tired legs. "Because I see the look in your eyes. I had it once too. If someone had told me this back then, maybe I'd be more than a
benchwarmer now." He smirked, tapping Adrian's shoulder. "Don't waste your fire."
Adrian's chest tightened not with fear this time, but with resolve.
The veterans could laugh, the media could doubt, but he wasn't alone anymore. In the quiet, a hand had reached into the storm.
And Adrian swore to himself: he would make it count.