The headlines wouldn't stop. By midweek, Adrian's name was everywhere a storm of praise and doubt swirling around him.
"Adrian Silva—Defensive Wall or One-Match Wonder?"
"Cortez vs. Silva: Training Ground Rivalry in the Making?"
"Can the Newcomer Handle the Pressure?"
Clips of his tackles played on highlight reels. Pundits dissected his positioning with slow-motion arrows and telestrators, voices booming with either admiration or skepticism.
Fans online debated in comment threads that stretched endlessly as some crowning him the next defensive anchor, others sneering that he'd be exposed the moment he faced a real star.
And always, Javier Cortez's name was there, too. Smiling in interviews. Flashing goals in training footage. Sliding subtle jabs into his answers.
"He's eager, that much is clear," Cortez told a reporter, grin never wavering. "But football isn't about moments. It's about consistency. Let's see if Silva even makes it to the end of the season."
The locker room was no sanctuary.
Teammates teased good-naturedly, replaying the article titles out loud. "Hey Silva, you gonna sign autographs now?" Others just gave knowing glances like the kind reserved for players who'd suddenly stepped onto a bigger stage.
Adrian said little. He trained harder, doubled down on Ramos' drills, forced himself to ignore the chatter. But late at night, lying awake in his small apartment, the words clawed at him.
One match. One mistake. And everything would collapse.
That Friday, Ramos called him into his office. The air smelled faintly of coffee and turf, a clutter of tactical charts spread across the desk.
"You've seen the press," Ramos said, not looking up from his notes.
Adrian nodded. "Hard to avoid."
"Good. Don't try." Ramos finally looked up, his gaze sharp. "This is what football is. Pressure. Opinions. Rivals who will do everything to expose you. You think Cortez is just talking for the cameras? No. He's sharpening himself on you. He wants to break you, and he'll enjoy every second if you let him."
Adrian's hands curled into fists. "Then I won't let him."
Ramos leaned back, studying him. For once, there was no smirk, no sarcasm.
"Understand this, Silva: it's not enough to stop him. You have to grow past him. The world doesn't remember shadows. They remember the ones who take the light and hold it."
The words sank deep. Adrian left the office with his chest burning, the echo of chants still alive in his memory. Silva. Silva. Silva.
This time, it wasn't enough to survive. He had to own the stage or be swallowed by it.
---
The apartment was too quiet.
The hum of the fridge, the occasional car passing outside none of it drowned out the noise inside Adrian's head. The headlines, the chants, the sneer in Cortez's voice.
He dropped his bag by the door, the same way he had every night that week, but instead of collapsing into bed, he rolled the rug back across the floor and set up cones. Plastic bottles. Anything to mark space.
Midnight training.
He moved with a relentless rhythm side steps, short sprints, quick pivots. Over and over until his lungs burned and sweat stung his eyes. Every stumble, every slip of balance replayed in his head as if the crowd was watching, judging.
SILVA. SILVA. SILVA.
He hated how the chant had shifted. Days ago, it was fuel. Tonight, it sounded like a question.
Do you deserve this? Or is it a fluke?
The drills Ramos had given him lay open on the table, the paper wrinkled from constant use. He whispered the steps to himself between breaths.
"Angles. Anticipation. Control. Again."
He dropped into push-ups until his arms trembled. He bounced a ball off the wall until the plaster bore marks. The obsession gnawed at him—if he stopped, he'd fall behind; if he rested, Cortez would get sharper.
By dawn, his body ached so fiercely he could barely lift his arms to pull on his jacket. He still went to training, dark circles under his eyes.
Ramos noticed. Of course he did.
During drills, the coach's whistle cut sharp across the pitch. "Silva! Your legs are heavy. You think I can't see it?"
"I'm fine," Adrian panted.
"Fine doesn't win battles." Ramos stepped closer, voice dropping. "You're pushing too hard. Training without rest isn't strength—it's weakness wearing a mask. You'll burn out before you face real fire."
Adrian swallowed hard, biting down the instinct to argue. He couldn't explain it—that rest felt like slipping back into the shadows. That stopping, even for a night, meant risking irrelevance.
Later, as teammates laughed and joked in the locker room, Adrian sat apart, taping his sore ankle in silence. The loneliness settled in the kind that came not from being ignored, but from carrying a weight nobody else seemed to feel.
Outside, the press buzzed louder each day. Cameras waited after training. Questions sharpened. Fans leaned over fences with posters and jerseys, chanting both his name and Cortez's, already framing them as opposites.
Adrian kept his head down. But inside, the obsession only grew.
He didn't just want to survive Cortez.
He wanted to erase any doubt that he belonged.
Even if it cost him everything.
Cameras loved Javier Cortez.
Every step he took out of the training facility felt staged for the world, though none of it looked rehearsed. The way he ran a hand through his perfectly cut hair, the lazy grin he tossed to reporters, the wink at the group of kids holding his jersey it all seemed effortless.
"Javier, another stunning performance last week. Do you feel unstoppable right now?" a journalist asked, shoving a recorder forward.
Cortez laughed, flashing teeth like he'd practiced in the mirror. "Unstoppable? Football's a team game. I just try to make it beautiful for the fans."
The headline would read something else, though. CORTEZ: UNSTOPPABLE.
Inside the training ground, teammates gravitated to him. He cracked jokes in three languages, teased the veteran goalkeeper until even the sternest staff couldn't help but smirk. When the coach barked orders, Cortez was the first to execute the drill flawlessly, gliding with a confidence that made the difficult look simple.
It wasn't arrogance but it was certainty.
Everyone knew Cortez was destined for the top. Scouts whispered of international call-ups. Sponsors circled like hawks. His locker was always stacked with new boots, personalized kits, gifts from brands desperate to have their logo tied to his rise.
And yet, behind that golden veneer, Cortez's eyes stayed sharp.
Because even golden boys saw threats.
He'd noticed Adrian Silva.
The whispers in the press. The murmurs in the stands. A nobody defender stepping into the spotlight. It was laughable, really, but laughable things had a way of catching fire if ignored.
So Cortez didn't ignore.
During a small-sided training match, he lingered near Adrian, waiting for the right moment. When the ball rolled between them, Cortez pounced—fast, sharp, aggressive. He didn't go for the ball. He went for dominance.
The clash sent Adrian stumbling. Cortez smiled.
"You've got heart, Silva," he said quietly, just for Adrian. "But heart won't save you when I turn you inside out."
He jogged away, throwing his arms up as if the challenge had been nothing. Teammates laughed, play carried on, and to anyone watching, it was ordinary.
But Adrian felt it the intent the message he wanted to give him.
The golden boy wasn't going to share his spotlight.
And under the floodlights of the next match, Adrian would find out what it meant to face not just talent, but a player born to own the stage.