"Talent survives anywhere. Belief survives only where it is protected."
The academy felt wrong the moment Theo stepped inside.
Not hostile.
Not cold.
Just… empty.
The grass stretched endlessly, trimmed to perfection, marked with straight white lines that didn't bend, didn't forgive. No walls to compress the game. No corners to hide mistakes. No cracks to slow the ball down.
Everything was exposed.
Theo adjusted the borrowed boots again. They still felt stiff—like they were fighting his feet instead of following them.
Luke jogged ahead, loose shoulders, light steps. He belonged here now. His movements were efficient, almost rehearsed.
"Stick close," Luke muttered under his breath. "First session is always chaos."
Theo nodded, though his chest was already tight.
A sharp whistle cut through the morning.
"Warm-up grids! Five by five! Two-touch max!"
The voice was harsh, clipped, accented by impatience.
Coach Valente.
Theo had seen men like him before—faces carved by routine, eyes trained to look past excuses and straight into weaknesses.
The drills began immediately.
Short passes. Constant movement. Scanning over the shoulder.
Theo's first touch was instinctive—sole on the ball, body opening—but the pause killed him.
"MOVE IT!" someone shouted.
The pass came late. A fraction too late.
The rhythm flowed around him, fast and unforgiving. No one slowed down to accommodate him.
Luke, on the other hand, slipped into the tempo effortlessly. One-touch layoffs. Half-turns. Angled runs between lines. He scored twice during the warm-up rondo, ghosting into space before anyone noticed.
But Theo noticed something else.
Luke was open.
Again.
And again.
Yet the ball didn't come.
A winger chose to shoot instead. Skied it.
A midfielder forced a through ball. Intercepted.
Theo saw the glances. The whispers.
Three boys stood out immediately.
Bruno — tall, sharp-featured, academy-born confidence dripping from every step.
Caio — stocky, aggressive, the type who tackled first and asked questions later.
Rafa — lean, quiet, eyes always calculating, mouth always smirking.
They were watching.
Waiting.
The whistle blew again.
"Possession drill. Full tempo. Lose it, you defend."
Theo inhaled deeply.
The ball came to him.
He cushioned it cleanly, instinct screaming to turn—but the space was wrong. Too much of it.
He hesitated.
Bruno closed him down fast, cutting the angle instead of diving in.
Theo tried to roll him anyway.
Bad choice.
Bruno's shoulder crashed into his chest, legal, clean, brutal. The ball popped loose.
"Too soft," Caio muttered as he ran past.
Theo got back up quickly, cheeks burning.
Next sequence—he played it safe. Sideways pass. Invisible.
The next time he touched the ball, Rafa was already there, reading him like a book. A toe poke. Gone.
"Street tricks don't work here," Rafa whispered as he passed.
Theo's throat tightened.
Then came the match.
Five versus five.
Real intensity.
Luke scored first.
A quick give-and-go, third-man run, calm finish at the far post. Classic academy movement.
Theo smiled instinctively—then noticed no one celebrated with Luke.
No pats on the back. No shouts.
Just nods.
Restart.
Theo positioned himself centrally, forcing himself to scan, to breathe, to wait.
A pass finally came.
He took it on the half-turn.
Caio lunged.
Theo sidestepped—barely.
Bruno recovered immediately, blocking the lane, forcing Theo wide.
Theo tried to dribble.
The defender didn't bite.
He waited.
Then nudged Theo off balance with a subtle hip check.
Theo went down.
No foul.
"Get up," Caio said, stepping over him.
Luke was nearby.
He saw everything.
Theo looked up.
Luke hesitated.
Then turned away.
The counterattack ended in a goal.
Laughter followed.
"STOP."
Coach Valente's whistle screamed.
He walked onto the pitch slowly, eyes locked on Theo.
"You," he said, pointing. "Come here."
Theo obeyed.
"You don't see space," Valente said flatly. "You survive because walls do your thinking for you."
A few boys snickered.
"You panic when the pitch opens up. You hide when you're supposed to demand."
Theo swallowed.
"This isn't street football," the coach continued. "This is structure. Discipline. Intelligence."
He leaned closer.
"And intelligence is not optional."
More laughter.
"Go back to your alleys," Valente finished. "There, the walls protect you."
The match resumed without Theo.
Luke didn't look at him again.
Theo walked off the pitch alone.
He didn't touch a ball for three days.
The boots stayed by the door.
The walls felt quieter now.
His father noticed.
"Come with me tomorrow," he said. "Garage."
Engines replaced whistles. Oil replaced grass.
On the third day, his father spoke.
"You know Ayrton Senna?"
Theo nodded faintly.
"He was told he didn't belong too," his father said. "Wrong background. Too emotional. Too aggressive."
He tightened a bolt.
"They said he was reckless. That he drove like the rain owed him something."
Theo listened.
"In Europe, they mocked him. In Brazil, they waited."
His father wiped his hands.
"But Senna didn't change. He mastered what others feared."
Theo felt something stir.
"He drove where others hesitated. In rain. In chaos."
That night, Theo watched his brother's friends play.
The ball rolled to him.
The circle formed.
The Rondo returned.
And this time—
The spark didn't fade.
It sharpened.
The next morning, Theo stood outside the academy gates again.
Not invited.
Not welcomed.
But ready.
Coach Valente saw him.
And frowned.