The training ground at night was a different world. Floodlights hummed overhead, casting long, sharp shadows across the pitch. The rest of the squad had gone home hours ago, the locker rooms silent, the air thick with the faint scent of cut grass and damp soil.
Adrian stood alone, ball at his feet. His body screamed with fatigue from the day, but his mind was louder.
Robles' words echoed.
Football is not about you. It's about the team.
He clenched his jaw, dragging the ball back with his studs, pacing like a caged animal. Every nerve in him wanted freedom—to run, to dribble, to let instinct explode. But he knew he had to change, to mold his chaos into something sharper.
He set up cones in the half-pitch, lining them into shapes of defenders, midfield lines, invisible pressing traps. Then he began.
Sprint wide, track back.
Pivot infield, drop into shape.
Press, retreat, cover.
Each movement was mechanical at first, awkward, stilted. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. But he repeated them, again and again, until sweat poured and his muscles screamed.
Drip. Drip. Drops of sweat fell onto the ball, shining under the floodlights.
When he finally broke—when his instincts cracked through—he exploded into a dribble, weaving through the cones at blistering speed. The ball stuck to his boots like it belonged there, his body loose and fluid. The freedom of it almost made him grin—until he stopped himself, breath ragged, forcing discipline back into his steps.
At the edge of the field, a shadow stirred.
Adrian froze.
An older figure leaned against the fence, arms crossed—broad frame, scarred jawline. One of the veterans, a midfielder nicknamed Ramos, known for his iron discipline and no-nonsense style.
"You're stubborn, kid," Ramos said, his voice low, gravelly. "Most rookies would've collapsed in bed after Robles tore them apart. You? You're out here chasing ghosts."
Adrian swallowed, chest still heaving. "I… I have to get better. I don't want to be just a flash. I want to belong here."
Ramos studied him for a long moment. His expression unreadable. Then he stepped forward, picking up a stray cone, planting it firmly on the ground.
"Then stop running like a headless chicken. I'll show you how to track space properly. Once. Don't waste it."
Adrian blinked, stunned. For the first time, a veteran wasn't dismissing him—he was teaching him.
And so, under the pale glow of floodlights, a silent lesson began.
---
The night air was cool, brushing against Adrian's sweat-drenched skin. Ramos stood in the middle of the pitch, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes sharp under the floodlights.
"First lesson," Ramos said, planting his boot on the ball. "You don't chase the ball. You chase space. Understand?"
Adrian frowned, panting. "But the ball is what matters—"
Ramos cut him off with a glare. "And while you're chasing leather, your opponent is carving open your flank. Football isn't about where the ball is. It's about where it's going."
He kicked the ball aside and gestured with his arms. "Picture it. Their winger pushes wide, your full-back is dragged high. What do you do?"
Adrian hesitated. His instinct screamed to press the winger. But he remembered Robles' whistle. He clenched his jaw. "…I drop. Cover the space he left."
Ramos' mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Again."
For the next hour, Ramos orchestrated invisible plays. He barked orders, shifted cones like players, forcing Adrian to track, anticipate, and move into spaces that didn't yet exist.
"Too slow. Reset."
"Shoulder check—always check!"
"Stop staring at me. Read the field!"
Adrian stumbled at first, frustrated. His instincts rebelled against restraint. But repetition burned into his body. Drop when the line breaks. Close the passing lane, not the man. Think two moves ahead.
By the thirtieth drill, his lungs burned, but something clicked. His body started reacting without hesitation. He shifted, turned, filled the gap before Ramos even barked.
The veteran paused, watching. His eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of approval.
"You're raw," Ramos muttered, "but you learn fast."
Adrian's chest heaved, but despite exhaustion, his eyes glowed. For the first time, it felt like he wasn't just running wild. He was playing chess at full sprint, just as Robles said.
When the drills finally ended, Ramos tossed the ball back to him.
"Don't expect me to hold your hand, Silva. I don't babysit. But I hate wasted talent. You keep grinding like this, and maybe...maybe—you'll be more than just a highlight reel."
Adrian gripped the ball, his pulse racing. His throat was too dry for words, but his nod was enough.
As Ramos walked off, the floodlights hummed in the silence. Adrian dropped onto the grass, staring up at the night sky. His body was wrecked, but his mind was sharper than it had ever been.
For the first time, he felt the fire of chaos inside him beginning to shape into
something deadly.
The morning sun spilled across the training ground, warming the dew that clung to the grass. The squad jogged out, chatter and laughter bouncing in the air, but Adrian's chest was tight. His legs still ached from last night's drills with Ramos, yet his mind felt sharper than ever.
Robles stood at the center circle, arms folded, face carved in stone.
"Today, defensive shape," the coach barked. "You want to attack? Fine. Prove you can defend first. Without balance, you're useless to me."
A shrill whistle cut through the air.
The drill began: a full-pitch practice game, veterans pressing the younger players. Adrian lined up on the left, nerves buzzing.
The ball rolled, and instantly pressure closed in. A winger darted toward his side, dragging their full-back forward. Instinct screamed at Adrian to charge, to strip the ball and break.
But he remembered Ramos' voice.Don't chase leather. Chase space.
He dropped instead, sliding into the empty pocket. His presence sealed the gap just as their midfielder tried to slip through. The pass was cut off by his teammate.
Robles' whistle chirped. "Good shape. Play on!"
Adrian's heart kicked hard in his chest.
Minutes blurred. Sweat poured. Adrian forced himself to check shoulders, to anticipate, to shift before the danger arrived. He wasn't perfect but sometimes a step late, sometimes overcommitting—but something was different.
And then it came.
The veterans switched the ball quickly, a sweeping diagonal across the pitch. Their winger tore down the flank, the full-back stretched thin. Adrian darted, cutting off the channel before the winger could cross. His timing was clean, his recovery instant.
He didn't win the ball but he killed the danger.
From the sideline, Robles' eyes flickered. Not quite praise, but no scorn either. For a coach like him, that silence was louder than applause.
The scrimmage raged on. Near the end, the ball finally landed at Adrian's feet. His instincts flared—he burst past one defender, shoulders loose, the ball glued to his boots. A roar of excitement rippled across the pitch—that was the Adrian they all knew.
But this time, as a second defender closed in, he didn't force the dribble. He cut back, slid a pass into midfield, and darted wide again, pulling his marker with him.
The move opened a lane. A teammate struck.
Goal.
The whistle blew.
Robles exhaled through his nose, rubbing his chin. He didn't smile, but his voice carried a rare weight.
"Not bad, Silva. Maybe you can be more than a show pony."
Adrian's chest swelled not with pride, but with relief. A crack in Robles' wall of disdain.
A chance.
As the squad jogged off for water, a few of the veterans cast subtle glances his way. No words, no nods but less dismissal in their eyes. A shift. Small, but real.
Adrian tightened his fists. The fire in him burned brighter. He wasn't just surviving. He was beginning to belong.