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Chapter 8 - Chapter 8 : The Man with the Clipboard

The locker room smelled of sweat and liniment, the kind of heavy air that clung to clothes long after the match. Players peeled off their kits, some laughing, others silent in frustration.

Adrian sat quietly on the bench, replaying the moment in his head his first assist—his chest still warm with adrenaline. He almost missed the glance from across the room.

The coach, Julián Robles, was watching him.

Later that night, Robles sat alone in his cramped office. The glow of the overhead lamp painted harsh shadows across the walls cluttered with whiteboards, tactical magnets, and stacks of scouting reports.

He pressed play on the match footage.

There it was again: the run.

Adrian darting down the flank, beating his man, crossing with a precision that belied his inexperience.

Robles rubbed his beard."Confidence… composure under pressure… and raw pace," he muttered. "But also… reckless positioning. He doesn't track back. He nearly left the wing exposed twice."

He leaned back, folding his arms. To him, the boy was a paradox.

The phone buzzed.An assistant coach's message popped up:"Social media's on fire. Fans are already asking why we've hidden Silva all season."

Robles scowled. Fans always demanded miracles after one good moment. Football wasn't built on miracles—it was built on consistency.

But another thought nagged him: what if this was the spark the squad needed?

On his desk lay a faded photograph of his younger self as a player another hopeful winger who had once been called "the next big thing."

He remembered the weight of sudden praise, the spotlight that burned hotter than it lit. And he remembered how it all slipped away.

He whispered to the empty room, almost as if speaking to Adrian through time.

"Talent is one thing, chico. Surviving the fire is another."

He scribbled notes into his worn leather notebook:

Silva – Potential, but raw.

Good instincts under pressure. Needs polishing.

Test him again in training. No guarantees yet.

The coach closed the notebook with a decisive snap.

Adrian would get another chance.

But not because of hype, or headlines. Because Robles saw something—something dangerous, something worth sharpening.

And he knew: one way or another, this boy would either rise… or burn out.

---

The morning air at the training ground was sharp, mist still hanging over the pitches. Cones and mannequins dotted the grass like a battlefield laid in waiting. The sound of boots thudding against the turf echoed faintly as players warmed up.

Adrian jogged at the edge of the group, heart pounding faster than his steps. He could feel eyes on him—some curious, some cold, others burning with quiet resentment.

Coach Robles' whistle cut through the air.

"Silva. You start with me."

A ripple of surprise moved through the squad. Normally, rookies blended into group drills. Not today.

The first drill was simple in design, brutal in execution.

A narrow corridor of cones down the sideline. One defender, one attacker. The rule: beat your man, cross the ball onto the moving mannequin target in the box.

"Show me your pace," Robles said. His voice was even, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.

Adrian took the ball, facing a seasoned full-back known for his aggression. The whistle blew.

A blur of motion—Adrian feinted right, cut left, then burst forward with raw speed. The defender lunged, but his hand only brushed air. Adrian reached the line, swung his foot—ball curling—smack, perfect against the target mannequin's chest.

"Again."

No praise. No smile. Just another whistle.

It went on, round after round.

Left foot. Right foot. Switch direction.

Defenders rotating. Some fouled him hard, "accidentally" clipping ankles or shoving shoulders. Adrian gritted his teeth and kept running.

His lungs burned. Sweat stung his eyes. But every cross found its mark.

By the tenth rep, his legs trembled. His breath came ragged. Still, he planted his foot, beat the next defender, and drilled the ball across.

Robles finally raised a hand."Enough."

The squad looked on in silence. Some with grudging respect. Others with irritation.

Later, the coach pulled him aside, away from the group."You have fire, Silva. That's good. But fire burns uncontrolled."

Adrian swallowed hard, wiping his brow. "I can handle it, Coach."

Robles' gaze bored into him."We'll see. Tomorrow, I put you in tactical drills. You'll learn positioning. Awareness. If you want to stay in this team, talent is not enough. You must think faster than the man beside you."

He clapped Adrian's shoulder once, firm as stone, then walked away.

Adrian stood there, chest still heaving, the words sinking into him.

He wasn't just being tested. He was being forged.

The next morning, the training ground felt different. The mist was gone, replaced by the clear, sharp light of the sun. White cones marked out a half-pitch. Magnets clinked on Robles' tactics board as the coach gathered the squad.

"Today," Robles began, voice flat but commanding, "we learn discipline. It doesn't matter how fast you are, Silva, if you leave this flank exposed."

The name stung in Adrian's ears. The whole squad looked at him when the coach said it.

Robles pointed at the board, shifting magnets into place. "When we press, the winger tucks in. When we defend, he tracks back. When we counter, he explodes wide. Football is not chaos. It is chess played at full sprint."

The drill began. Eleven v. eleven, half-pitch scrimmage. The objective: maintain shape.

Adrian itched to break free. Every time the ball came near, he wanted to run, to cut inside, to tear past defenders. But Robles' whistle shrieked, stopping play.

"Silva! Where were you?"

Adrian froze. "I—I was—"

"You were ten meters too high. If they switch, that full-back runs free. Again."

The ball rolled out, and the play restarted.

Minutes dragged. Adrian tried to obey. He checked his shoulder. He tracked back. But every time he played safe, he felt caged. When the chance finally came—ball at his feet, space before him—his instincts took over. He darted forward, slicing through two markers, adrenaline blazing.

For a heartbeat, he thought he'd done it right. Then—shrill!

The whistle again.

Robles walked onto the pitch, his shadow falling long. "What did I just say?"

Adrian's chest heaved. "But I beat them—"

"And left your full-back two-on-one. Football is not about you. It's about the team."

The words cut sharper than any tackle. The other players watched in silence, some smirking, some nodding. Adrian clenched his fists, swallowing the sting of humiliation.

The session dragged into exhaustion. He forced himself to listen, to stay in shape, to move as Robles barked. His flair was strangled, his instincts chained. By the end, his legs felt heavier than the day before not from running, but from restraint.

As the squad dispersed, Robles stopped him.

"Silva."

Adrian turned, sweat dripping, jaw tight.

Robles studied him for a long moment, then said quietly, "You remind me of myself. And that's dangerous."

Then he walked off, leaving Adrian standing alone on the empty pitch, the weight of the words pressing harder than any sprint.

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