Chapter 5: Dr. Cruz and the Rusted Engine
The morning after the trial was a blur of exhausting drills under Coach Losa's icy glare. The new MF 3 base stat felt marginally better than the old MF 2, but the previous day's drain had left Mateo operating at minimal capacity. He navigated the passing exercises and short sprints with technical competence, but his mind was dulled, relying entirely on rote memory.
When the session ended, Losa simply pointed to the administration building. "Remember the contract, Ríos. Dr. Cruz. Now."
Mateo found the office on the third floor. The hallway was hushed, smelling faintly of sterile air and wood polish, a stark contrast to the sweat and turf below. The door was marked with a minimalist brass plaque: DR. S. CRUZ – SPORTS PSYCHOLOGY.
He knocked and was met by a crisp, clear voice. "Come in, Mateo."
Dr. Sofia Cruz's office was not what Mateo expected. Instead of a clinical white room, it was warm, with large windows overlooking the training grounds. There was a low, comfortable leather couch, a small library of psychology texts, and a desk that was organized but clearly used.
Sofia Cruz stood to greet him. She was perhaps five or six years older than Mateo, with dark, intensely focused eyes and thick, wavy hair tied back in a professional braid. She wore a simple, tailored navy suit that suggested both authority and practicality. Her gaze was neither sympathetic nor judgmental—it was purely analytical, like Losa's, but directed at his soul, not his feet.
"Please, sit down," she said, indicating the couch. She took the armchair opposite, holding a thick, leather-bound notebook. She had a pen poised, but she didn't write immediately.
Mateo sat stiffly, his back straight. He felt immediately scrutinized, stripped down to his psychological components. This was the most dangerous environment he could be in. He had to be honest about the symptoms but utterly opaque about the cause, the System.
He could feel the Apex Catalyst System dormant, but the memory of its aggressive, data-driven utility was fresh.
PQL 2: THE ANCHOR
Objective: Establish a working, trust-based relationship with Dr. Sofia Cruz and stabilize psychological vulnerability. (9 Days, 18 Hours Remaining)
Sofia spoke first, her voice low and even, like the smooth, constant rhythm of a deep-sea wave. "Coach Losa's report was predictable. World-class talent, zero composure under pressure. You executed a high-complexity lob pass, a moment of true genius and then nearly fainted on a two-meter tap-back. I've read your file, Mateo. The collapse two years ago, the media frenzy, the complete withdrawal. I know the diagnosis: The Yips, or what we formally call performance anxiety disorder."
She leaned forward slightly. "So, tell me, Mateo. Why are you here? Why come back now, after two years of silence? Are you here because you want to play football, or are you here because Losa gave you an ultimatum?"
Mateo knew lying here was useless. He had to give her truth wrapped in half-truths.
"I'm here because of the ultimatum," he admitted, surprising himself with his directness. "But also because I can't live knowing the talent is still there, locked up. It's a constant, aching promise. I came back to confirm that the fear is still there, and I confirmed it yesterday."
He paused, trying to find the words to describe the paralysis that the MF stat represented. "When the pressure hits, Dr. Cruz, it's not mental hesitation. It's physical. It feels like an electromagnetic pulse. My vision narrows, my feet become lead. My mind screams one thing, don't fail and that fear paralyzes the neural pathway to execution. It's like the engine is a Ferrari, but the transmission shifts itself into neutral at the sight of a speed bump."
Sofia listened without interruption, her focus absolute. She finally made a small note in her notebook.
"A beautiful metaphor, Mateo. The Ferrari engine and the broken transmission," she mused. "But transmissions don't spontaneously break. They break because the operator pushed too hard or ignored the warning signs. Two years ago, what was the warning sign you ignored? What was the moment the fear first rooted itself, not as an annoyance, but as a terror?"
Mateo instinctively blocked the memory of the systemic failure that preceded his final penalty kick, the moment the old, invisible pressure system had cracked. He had to shift the blame to the event, not the invisible truth.
"It was the final penalty against Sevilla B," he said, looking at a point just over her shoulder. "We were up 1–0 in the 90th minute. I was awarded the penalty. Captain. I had never missed a penalty in my life. I stepped up, and suddenly, the stadium noise went quiet. Not muffled. Quiet. It was a physical silence, like a vacuum. And in that silence, I realized: If I miss this, we don't win the league. I stared at the keeper, and I froze. My left leg wouldn't move. I stuttered the shot, the keeper saved it, and they scored the equalizer two minutes later. We lost the league on the final day."
He felt a cold sweat break out on his neck, reliving the moment. This was the key, the emotional truth she needed.
Sofia nodded slowly. "So, the physical response the paralysis is a defense mechanism against that deafening silence, against the catastrophic fear of failure. Your body is trying to protect the engine by disconnecting the transmission."
She tapped her pen lightly on the notebook. "My challenge, Mateo, is this: Losa says you're world-class. I see the technical profile. But my job is to ensure you're not a liability. And what you described yesterday the genius pass and the collapse that is a huge liability. It suggests a sporadic, unsustainable brilliance."
She fixed her intense gaze on him. "I need to know, precisely, how you achieved that lob pass. Was it luck? An adrenaline spike? Or did you find a new way to temporarily override the fear?"
Mateo's heart skipped a beat. She was asking about the Cognitive Focus Boost he'd drained his entire MF for. He had to create a believable, internal reason.
"It wasn't luck," Mateo said, leaning forward, matching her intensity. "It was anger. Losa's threat, that he would blacklist me, that I'd wasted his time that triggered a different emotion. For five seconds, the anger at his judgment was louder than the fear of failure. It was a momentary override. A surge of pure, cold focus. And then it was gone."
He was lying, but it was a good lie. It fit the psychological narrative of an athlete fighting his demons.
Sofia considered this, her expression softening marginally. "Anger. A powerful, if destructive, catalyst."
She placed her notebook down. "Here is the plan. I will not give you meditation or breathing exercises right now. We need to build your mental capacity to withstand pressure. I call it Emotional Resilience Training."
"The goal is simple: You need to learn how to sustain that 'cold focus' you just described, but without relying on the destructive energy of anger. We are going to build your internal anchor."
She picked up a small, smooth, river-worn stone from her desk and handed it to him.
"This is your immediate work. When you feel the pressure the tunnel vision, the silence, the paralysis, you don't fight the fear. You identify it, acknowledge it, and then you mentally anchor yourself to the certainty of your technique. You use the stone as a physical tether. We are reinforcing the neural connection between certainty and execution."
Mateo accepted the stone. It was cool and heavy, a tactile, real-world object against the ephemeral data streams of the System.
PQL 2: THE ANCHOR - PROGRESS
Anchor Concept Established: Emotional Resilience Training.
Strategy: Build internal stability to support MF Base.
Required Action: Engage fully with the psychological program. Daily report on 'Anchoring' attempts.
"Starting tomorrow," Sofia continued, standing up to signal the end of the session, "you will participate in a series of custom training drills Losa and I have designed. They are not about technique; they are about psychological load. You will train with a wristband that monitors your heart rate and sweat production, and Losa will stop the drill the moment your physiological response indicates a panic attack."
She offered him a professional, neutral smile. "My role is not to be your friend, Mateo. My role is to make sure you can play at 100% talent without crashing. If I can't fix the transmission in ten days, I recommend Losa cut you. The clock is ticking."
Mateo walked out, clutching the river stone. He was in the academy, he had a higher MF base, and he had secured the mandatory psychological support. But now, his battle was against the single most intelligent, perceptive woman he had ever met, who was literally tasked with dissecting the very problem the System was designed to solve. And he was obligated to report to her daily.
The internal anchor. The physical stone felt impossibly heavy. He had to find a way to make her training work without revealing that his 'cold focus' came from a digital overlay. This felt like a trap set by the System itself.