Daniel's ass was going numb from the bench, and Barcelona was up 2-1.
He shifted his weight. Didn't help. The metal bleacher seat wasn't designed for comfort, and he'd been planted here for seventy minutes watching Rafael Costa waste chance after chance.
The Barcelona winger cut inside again. Their number 10 was ridiculous. Seventeen years old and playing like he had a GPS installed in his brain. Every pass found feet. Every movement created space.
"Come on!" Marcos shouted from somewhere on the pitch. His voice carried even over the small crowd. Parents, scouts, the usual faces who showed up to youth friendlies pretending they weren't sizing everyone up.
Daniel leaned forward. Elbows on knees. He'd already mapped out how to stop their attacks. Drop deeper, clog the passing lanes, force them wide where their fullback was weak. Basic stuff. Coach Vicente hadn't adjusted yet.
Rafael made a run. Wrong timing. The pass went behind him.
"Shit," Daniel muttered.
Next to him, Hugo the backup goalkeeper was scrolling on his phone. Didn't even look up when Rafael threw his hands in the air, blaming the midfielder.
It was the 73rd minute when everything changed.
Rafael went down.
No contact. Just planted wrong coming out of a turn and his leg buckled. Hamstring, probably. Daniel had seen enough injuries to know.
The physios jogged out. Rafael limped off, face twisted in pain and frustration. Coach Vicente turned to the bench.
His eyes found Daniel.
"Romero. Warm up."
Daniel's heart kicked. He was up before the sentence finished, peeling off his warmup jacket. The evening air hit his skin, cooler now, October creeping in.
Thirty seconds of high knees and butt kicks. His ankle felt good. Strong. The one his dad always said was special: "Your left foot, mijo. That's your magic."
His dad had been dead four years. The ankle was fine.
"Romero!"
He jogged to the sideline. Coach Vicente grabbed his shoulder, squeezed hard enough to hurt.
"Stay central. Link up play. Don't try to be a hero."
"Vale."
"I mean it."
Daniel nodded. The fourth official held up the board. Number 19. His number. Not the one he wanted, but the one he had.
He ran on.
The grass felt different under his feet. It always did. Didn't matter how many times he played, that first touch of the pitch as a substitute always felt like stepping into cold water.
Their center-back was huge. Probably eighteen, full beard, looked like he paid taxes. Daniel was five-nine on a good day and still waiting for his final growth spurt.
Didn't matter. He'd outthink him.
First touch came thirty seconds later. A simple pass back to the midfielder. Safe. Get into the rhythm.
The next one was better. Their defensive midfielder pressed high, left space behind. Daniel checked to the ball, turned, and suddenly there was room to run. He pushed it forward. Three steps and he could see the whole pitch.
Marcos making a diagonal run. Their right-back not tracking.
Daniel hit it with his left. Outside of the foot, bending away from the defender. The ball curved perfectly into Marcos's path.
Marcos took one touch and fired. The keeper got a hand to it. Corner.
"Joder, tío!" Marcos shouted, pointing at Daniel. "That was perfect!"
It was. Daniel knew it was.
He jogged back into position. His phone was in the locker room, but he could feel it anyway, his mom watching the stream from the hospital break room, Lucía probably ignoring homework to watch on her laptop. They'd seen that pass.
Maybe the scouts had too.
The corner came to nothing. Barcelona cleared and countered immediately.
That's when Daniel made his mistake.
Not a mistake. A choice.
Their winger got the ball at midfield. One touch and he was running. Fast. The kind of fast that came from genetics and expensive trainers and protein shakes that cost more than Daniel's groceries.
Their center-back tried to step up. Too slow. The winger went around him like he was a mannequin.
Suddenly it was one-on-one with the keeper.
Daniel was already running. Sprinting back, lungs burning. He wasn't going to make it. The angle was wrong. The winger was too quick.
But if he didn't try, nobody would.
Ten meters. Five. The winger's foot pulled back to shoot.
Daniel dove.
Sliding tackle. Left leg extended. He got the ball clean, felt it deflect off his foot, rolling harmlessly to touch.
Perfect tackle.
Then the winger came down.
Daniel's ankle was planted. The winger's full weight, probably seventy kilos of muscle, landed directly on the joint.
Something popped.
Not like cracking knuckles. Like a branch breaking. Wet and wrong and way too loud.
The pain came a second later.
White-hot. Spreading from his ankle up his leg, into his spine. Daniel tried to breathe and couldn't. Tried to think and couldn't. Just pain, eating everything else.
He was screaming. Maybe. Someone was screaming.
Faces above him. The winger, looking horrified. The referee. Marcos appeared, shoving people back.
"Don't move him! Don't fucking move him!"
The medics came. Two of them, carrying the stretcher. One knelt next to Daniel's head.
"Can you hear me?"
Daniel nodded. His teeth were chattering.
"Don't look at it. Look at me."
Too late. Daniel had already looked.
His ankle was pointing the wrong direction.
His stomach flipped. He turned his head and threw up on the grass.
The medic put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. We've got you."
They lifted him onto the stretcher. The sky was orange and pink sunset. Pretty. Stupid thing to notice.
Coach Vicente walked beside the stretcher to the sideline. His face was hard to read. Angry? Worried?
"Stupid, brave kid," he said quietly.
Then Daniel was in the tunnel, away from the lights and the pitch and everything he'd worked for.
The ambulance ride blurred. Bumps in the road sent fresh waves of pain through his ankle. The paramedic gave him something. The edges got softer but not gone.
His phone was buzzing. Someone must have grabbed it from the locker room, shoved it in his bag. The paramedic pulled it out.
"Should I call someone?"
"My mom. Carmen Romero."
She answered on the first ring.
Daniel couldn't hear what she said. Just the paramedic's half of the conversation: "Yes, ma'am. Hospital Clínico. We're ten minutes out."
Then to Daniel: "She's coming."
He closed his eyes.
The hospital was fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell and nurses who'd seen worse. They wheeled him through corridors that all looked the same. Curtains got pulled. Someone cut his sock off. His ankle looked like a balloon someone had twisted wrong.
A doctor came. Older guy, grey hair, calm voice.
"I'm Dr. Herrera. We're going to take some X-rays, but I can already tell you it's a significant fracture-dislocation. You're going to need surgery."
"Will I play again?"
The doctor paused. Just a second, but Daniel caught it.
"Let's take this one step at a time."
That wasn't a yes.
They wheeled him to X-ray. Then back to a room. Private, small. A TV mounted on the wall playing nothing. One chair.
His mom arrived twenty minutes later.
She still had her scrubs on. Her hair was pulled back. She looked exhausted - she always looked exhausted - but when she saw him, something cracked in her face.
"Dani."
"I'm okay."
"Don't lie to me."
She pulled the chair next to the bed and took his hand. Her palm was cold. Or his was hot. Probably both.
"Lucía wanted to come. I told her to stay home."
"Good. She doesn't need to see this."
His mom's thumb rubbed the back of his hand. Same thing she'd done when he was little and sick. When his dad died. When the world felt too big.
"What did the doctor say?"
"Surgery. I don't know when."
She closed her eyes. Daniel saw her doing the math. Surgery meant recovery. Recovery meant time away from football. Time away meant losing his spot. Losing his spot meant no professional contract. No contract meant...
He didn't want to finish that thought.
"We'll figure it out," she said.
"Mamá—"
"We will."
The doctor came back an hour later. Had films up on a lightbox, pointing to bones Daniel couldn't identify.
"Fractured fibula. Significant ligament damage. The dislocation reduced on its own, which is good. But you're looking at surgery within forty-eight hours, then eight to twelve weeks in a boot, then physical therapy."
"When can I train again?"
Dr. Herrera looked at him. Really looked at him.
"Son, right now we're focused on you walking normally again. Football is a long way down the road."
"How long?"
"Six months. Maybe. If everything goes perfectly."
Six months.
The season would be over. His teammates would be ahead. Rafael would heal from his hamstring in three weeks and take back the striker spot. The scouts would forget Daniel's name.
Six months might as well be forever.
The doctor left. His mom stayed, holding his hand like he was twelve again.
Daniel stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed. One of them flickered.
His phone vibrated on the side table. Messages piling up. Marcos probably. Maybe the team group chat. Maybe Coach.
He didn't look.
What was there to say? He'd made the tackle. Saved the goal. Probably ended his career.
Worth it?
The pain was getting worse as whatever they'd given him wore off. His ankle throbbed with his heartbeat. Each pulse reminded him it was broken. Wrong. Maybe permanently.
His mom squeezed his hand.
"Try to sleep."
He couldn't. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how dreams died.
Not with some dramatic moment. Just bad luck and wrong timing and a winger landing on your planted foot.
The lights kept buzzing.
His ankle kept throbbing.
And somewhere across the city, the match was probably over. Barcelona had won. His teammates were showering, getting dressed, going home.
Life was moving on.
Daniel was stuck here.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep didn't come.