The press room smelled of stale coffee and tension.Cameras clicked in bursts, reporters jostling for space as the coach fielded questions ahead of their toughest fixture yet.
At the back, Adrian sat with his teammates, mostly silent.
He wasn't the one the cameras came for.
That was Cortez.
"Javier, do you see yourself as the leader of this team now?" a journalist asked.
Cortez leaned toward the mic, smile easy, posture perfect. "I don't see myself as the leader. I just do my job. If I score, if I create, the fans are happy. That's what matters. The rest? That's for others to decide."
The room chuckled warmly, charmed.
Then came the question that shifted every eye.
"And what about Silva? The fans have been chanting his name. Some say he's the defensive piece this squad has been missing. Do you feel competition rising within the team?"
A pause. Cortez's smile never slipped, but his eyes cooled, sharp as glass.
"Silva's a hard worker," he said finally.
"Effort's good. But effort doesn't win trophies. Quality does."
The quote hit the headlines within hours. CORTEZ: EFFORT ISN'T ENOUGH.
Adrian read it in the locker room, jaw tightening. He wanted to snap back, to prove himself in words but Ramos' voice echoed in his head. Your feet finish. Your head wins.
So he said nothing. He trained.
The night of the match arrived. The stadium brimmed with anticipation, fans buzzing at the promise of fireworks: the golden boy versus the rising shadow.
From the first whistle, Cortez sought him. He drifted wide, then inside, always hovering near Adrian's space, waiting for cracks.
The first duel came quick. Cortez received the ball near the sideline, one-on-one. The crowd rose, expecting magic. Cortez feinted right, then snapped left with blistering pace.
But Adrian was ready. His shadow drills replayed in his mind. He mirrored, pivoted, cut the lane. Cortez tried to burst through—but Adrian's tackle was clean, strong, and decisive.
The ball skidded free. The crowd gasped, then roared.
"Silva reads it perfectly! That's world-class defending!" the commentator shouted.
Adrian didn't celebrate. He reset, eyes locked on Cortez.
Cortez smiled not the charming grin for cameras, but something darker. "Not bad," he murmured. "Let's see how long you last."
And so it began.
Every time Cortez touched the ball, Adrian was there. Every time Adrian won, Cortez came harder. The duel became its own match inside the match, crowd feeding on the tension.
By halftime, sweat poured down Adrian's back, his lungs ragged, but Cortez had not broken him.
In the tunnel, Cortez brushed past, whispering just loud enough. "You're making this interesting. But the second half is mine."
The whistle cut through the air, sharp as a blade as the second half began.
The pace was different now. Faster. Harsher. Cortez moved with a predator's patience, drifting out of sight only to strike when least expected.
Adrian tracked him relentlessly. Each sprint felt like dragging lead weights, but adrenaline carried him. He blocked one cross, then another, his tackles clean, his anticipation sharper than ever.
The crowd began chanting again. "Sil-va! Sil-va!" It rolled across the stands, pushing him forward.
For a while, it felt like he could keep this up forever.
Until the 72nd minute.
A quick turnover in midfield. Adrian was slightly out of position, just half a step too slow to recover. Cortez darted into the space like lightning, his first touch immaculate, the second a blur past Adrian's lunging boot.
Adrian twisted, desperate to recover, but Cortez was gone.
One stride. Two strides. Then the finish—clinical, curling past the keeper into the far corner.
The stadium erupted. Cortez sprinted toward the stands, arms wide, soaking in the thunder. Reporters scribbled, cameras flashed, his name roared like a storm.
Adrian stood frozen, chest heaving, the weight of failure crushing him. One lapse. That was all Cortez needed.
From the sideline, Ramos' voice cut through the chaos. "Get your head up, Silva! The game isn't over!"
Adrian swallowed hard, forcing his legs to move. He reset, fighting back the tide of shame. He refused to vanish. Not now.
Minutes later, the chance came again. Cortez, brimming with confidence, tried to dance through once more. He shifted inside, flicking the ball with audacity.
Adrian was ready.
He timed it perfectly, body low, sweeping the ball clean off his boot before smashing it clear. Cortez stumbled, glaring as Adrian rose to his feet, unflinching.
The crowd roared just as loud as before—this time for the duel, for the fight itself.
By the final whistle, the scoreline favored Cortez's brilliance. But Adrian had not broken. He had not faded into the shadows.
As players shook hands, Cortez lingered. His words were low, meant only for Adrian.
"You're not there yet. But…" he paused, a grin tugging his lips. "…you're closer than I thought."
Adrian met his eyes, sweat stinging, exhaustion drowning his body but inside, the fire burned hotter than ever.
---
The morning after, Adrian woke to the buzz of his phone. Dozens of messages lit the screen.
Teammates, old friends, even his cousin back home they all sent the same thing. Links. Screenshots. Headlines.
"Cortez shines, Silva shows promise."
"New defender on the rise? Silva's grit catches the eye."
"One slip, one goal but signs of a fighter."
Adrian scrolled, his stomach twisting. His name was everywhere. Not as the hero. Not as the villain. Something in between. A rookie caught in the light.
On TV, a panel of pundits dissected the match.
"Look, the kid's raw. He got burned for that goal, no question. But you can't ignore the way he came back after. He didn't hide. That takes character."
"He's young. You give him two years, three tops, with the right guidance… he could be the backbone of this defense."
"Or he burns out, like so many before him."
Adrian muted the sound, jaw clenched. Praise felt foreign. Doubt felt familiar. Both burned.
The knock at his door startled him. When he opened it, Ramos stood there, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other.
"You read this garbage yet?" Ramos asked, waving the folded sports page.
Adrian nodded. "Some of it."
"Good. Then forget it. Headlines won't save you. They won't bury you either. Only your work will." Ramos set the coffee down on the counter like it belonged there. "Last night was a test. Cortez exposed you. That's not shame. That's a gift. He showed you where you're weak. Now you fix it."
Adrian hesitated. "You really think I can reach that level?"
Ramos' eyes narrowed. "That depends. Do you want to be remembered for one brave match? Or do you want to be feared by players like Cortez?"
Adrian's answer was quiet, but fierce. "Feared."
"Then stop reading, and start running."
Ramos left as abruptly as he came.
Adrian didn't even finish the coffee. He grabbed his boots, stuffed the crumpled paper of drills back in his pocket, and headed for the annex pitch.
The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the city gold. The field was empty. The silence was his again.
He dropped the ball at midfield, whispering to himself.
"One mistake. Never again."
Then he started. Recovery runs. Shadow marking. Ball control. Faster. Harder. Until his lungs begged for mercy, until his legs wobbled beneath him.
But Adrian didn't stop.
Because somewhere out there, Cortez was smiling at his victory. And Adrian swore he would erase that smile the next time they met.
The obsession deepened. The fire spread. And in the shadows of the empty field, a defender was being forged.