The suspension came the next morning.Two games out, minimum. Plus a formal disciplinary hearing with the academy staff and coach Ríos.
I knew it was coming. I still wasn't ready for it.
I skipped breakfast. Couldn't taste anything anyway. My mom asked what had happened, gently. I just shook my head and muttered, "Red card." She didn't push. My dad didn't speak at all.
I spent the whole morning replaying it: Medina's words, the burn in my chest, the moment I crossed the line—head first. I tried to justify it, then gave up. I had lost control. No one else.
At noon, I walked to the training ground even though I wasn't allowed to join the session. I sat on the concrete steps near the old goals, watching the rest of the squad stretch and warm up. Sosa spotted me from midfield and trotted over during a water break.
"You didn't have to come," he said, offering me his bottle.
"I needed to."
He sat next to me, sweat dripping from his temples.
"Ríos was pissed," he said. "But he wasn't disappointed in you—he was disappointed for you. That's worse."
I looked at my scuffed shoes. "I embarrassed the team. I embarrassed myself."
Sosa nudged me with his elbow. "We've all cracked. But only some come back stronger. What matters is what you do now."
That afternoon, Ríos called me into his office.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even sit behind the desk—he sat beside me, on the bench by the window, like a father ready to talk instead of judge.
"I've seen worse, Lucas. At your age, I made dumber mistakes."
I stared ahead. "I should've listened to you."
"Yes," he said. "But it's not about avoiding mistakes. It's about learning fast." He paused. "You've got heart. And you've got pride. Good qualities—until they eat each other."
I nodded. He placed a hand on my shoulder.
"You'll miss two matches. But I'm not benching you after that. Only one thing matters: that you come back hungrier than ever. But for the summit—not revenge."
His words sank deep. I didn't cry. But I felt something in me begin to realign.
The next two weeks, I trained in silence. I stayed late after team drills, doing solo sprints, shooting drills, balance work. When the others went home, I stayed on the edge of the field juggling the ball, punishing my body, rebuilding my focus.
Miguel passed by one evening with a broom and nodded. "You're still here?"
I looked up. "Trying not to waste it."
He smiled. "Good. The ones who stay after the floodlights go off? Those are the ones who rise."
One night, back home, I found an old notebook under my bed—the one I used to write in after training as a kid. I flipped to the last page. A sentence stared back at me:
"Remember why you started."
I grabbed a pen and wrote underneath:
"Not for pride. Not for anger. For greatness."
When my suspension ended, I didn't announce anything. I just trained harder, passed quicker, talked less, and listened more.
And the team noticed.
Sosa gave me a look after a sharp sequence of plays in our return match and whispered, "You're back."
I shook my head. "I'm just starting."
The weeks passed. I found my rhythm again, and more than that, I felt sharper—like the edges that had once cut others were now honed inward, a blade of purpose.
I wasn't the loudest, or the strongest, or even the most talented. But I became the most prepared.
And Ríos saw it.
At the end of one Friday session, he pulled me aside.
"You've changed," he said simply. "And the scouts noticed. One of them asked me what position you really play."
"What did you say?"
He smiled. "I said, 'He's a 10—but he doesn't just wear the number. He carries it.'"
I felt something swell in my chest—not pride, not ego. Just hunger.
That night, I walked the long way home through the barrio. I passed by the broken potrero where it all began, where I once juggled with a crumpled bottle. I kicked a rock and watched it skip across the dust.
Two kids were playing near the corner fence. One was tall and quiet. The other was fast and laughing. I watched them a while.
Then I turned and kept walking—toward home. Toward the summit.
[End of Chapter 21]