"Are you here for the trials?" a woman asked. Beside her stood a man in his mid-thirties. Both wore welcoming smiles, white tracksuits layered with thick sweaters bearing the club's emblem on the left breast.
Pedro felt his tongue tighten, but he forced the words out in a heavy stammer. "I'm here for the trials," he said meekly.
"Oh, you're number twelve!" the man exclaimed. "Come on, you're late. Let's check you over so you can join the others for warm-up." He pointed toward a nearby bench.
Pedro took a step forward, but a strong tug on his sweater stopped him.
"Hey!" José called, locking eyes with him. "Beat their asses."
José was the only friend Pedro could truly claim, more brother than friend. Their bond stretched back to kindergarten days, though neither remembered any of it, their parents always insisted it had started there. Since then they had stood by each other through everything. Today was no different. José had lied to his own parents and risked trouble just to be here. The only way Pedro could repay him now was to play his absolute best.
Pedro met his gaze. "It's this or nothing," he repeated, then turned and followed the two adults to the bench.
They gestured for him to sit, and he obeyed, watching as they opened their medical kits on the ground.
"You've got your gear with you, right?" the man asked.
"Yes, sir," Pedro answered.
"You'll have to change here. There's no time to go to the dressing room."
Pedro glanced around. A plastic cover shielded one side of the bench, but from most angles the pitch, and the distant spectators would have a clear view. The thought made him shudder, but he knew there was no alternative.
"All right, let's check you," the woman said. She took his index finger and slipped it into a pulse oximeter. The device felt cool against his skin. A chime sounded, followed by a soft, continuous beep as it read his vitals.
The man produced a thermometer shaped like a toy gun, aimed it a few inches from Pedro's forehead, and waited. After a moment he entered the reading into a tablet.
"Good, I'm done here," he said, then pulled out a finger lancet that resembled a pen.
Pedro watched curiously. The other tools had been familiar, but this one was new. Still, he stayed rigid and let them work.
"This will sting a little," the man warned. He pressed the device to Pedro's finger. A sharp prick followed, like a needle.
"I'm done with these two," the man said.
"And I'm finished here," the woman added, removing the pulse oximeter and recording the figures on the tablet.
"All right, time for you to get ready and join the warm-up," the man told Pedro. Then, to his colleague, "Let's give him some space."
Once the adults had stepped aside, Pedro began to undress. He peeled off his thick blue sweater, and the cold rushed in like it meant to claim him. He rubbed his palms frantically over his arms for warmth, but the friction offered only fleeting relief.
Swallowing his shame, he stripped off his shirt and trousers. The winter breeze clawed at his bare skin. He shivered violently as he hurried into his school PE uniform. It looked plain and out of place next to the crisp sports jerseys the other boys wore, but it was all he had, along with his worn-out boots.
"Good, you're ready," the man said, observing him with a steady smile. The woman's expression softened with empathy she couldn't quite hide. Pedro ignored their reactions. He was simply relieved no one in the stands appeared to have noticed, though the distance made it hard to be sure. The early winter chill still bit at him mercilessly.
As Pedro stood on unsteady legs, the other boys finished their warm-up and gathered at the center of the pitch. From the youth complex emerged five more adults in thick sweaters, all heading toward the same spot.
"Here we go, it's about to begin," the man said. He looked at Pedro. "You'll have to join them now. Go, go!"
Pedro broke into a jog, hurrying toward the group. As he drew near, the other boys turned and stared, eyes wide as if they had seen a ghost. Their gazes only heightened his anxiety. Not only was he the only one in a school PE kit, the rest wore gleaming, brand-new gear clearly purchased just for these trials. The pressure in his chest grew unbearable. He tried to hang back, positioning himself not too far from the group but not too close either.
"Hey. You're number twelve, aren't you?" one of the boys called from beside him.
Pedro pretended not to hear, hoping the boy would drop it. Instead, the boy stepped closer and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Aren't you number twelve?" he asked again.
"Er… yeah," Pedro answered. "I'm twelve."
"So that means we are complete. Finally, everybody is prepared…" the boy said, scanning the faces around him before his gaze settled on Pedro, sweeping from head to toe. Pedro stood rigid as stone, anxiety rooting him to the spot.
"…I have to ask—can your cleats carry you through the trials?" The boy glanced down at Pedro's boots.
Pedro didn't know how to respond. Every possible reply seemed to sink into the ground before it could form. He stared at his own feet, and for a moment a sharp pang of regret hit him. Why had he even come? Everyone here seemed leagues ahead, their gear, their physiques, their confidence. And yet here he was, unable to afford even a proper jersey for the day.
"Those same boots won him the regionals cup." A voice cut through the gathering tension.
Pedro looked up. The boy was slim but tall, with short black hair parted to the side.
"Wait, you're saying—"
"Yes. His school won this year's regionals in the Alentejo."
"Wow, that's crazy." The first boy tapped Pedro's shoulder. "Let's hope they carry you through the match." He gave one last tap and moved forward.
Pedro watched him go, then turned to the other boy. He didn't recognize him and doubted they had ever met, yet somehow this stranger knew about the regional games.
"They all have some stupid amount of pride," the boy said. "I guess that comes with being good."
"He's good?" Pedro asked.
"Not just him. Every single one here is good."
This time Pedro looked around more carefully. Now he noticed it, something he hadn't picked up at first but could feel clearly now, a strong, silent aura surrounding each boy. He had seen it before, even felt it in himself at times. Absolute confidence, the kind born from knowing you're the best in the room. It was ego.
"If they're so good, why didn't they just apply to the regular youth program?" Pedro asked, his perspective shaped by how well-equipped they all seemed financially.
"This is Sporting we're talking about. Not some club like Feirense or Penafiel. Their youth slots are always full. Now they've opened an extra one, and it's free—who in their right mind would turn that down?"
"You're right," Pedro whispered.
"Everybody here was handpicked from across Portugal. At first you think it's just luck, but when you realize how many other kids they passed over to choose you, you understand how extremely fortunate you are." The boy paused, eyeing Pedro for a moment. "I'm Raya, by the way."
"Oh. I'm—"
"Pedro!"
"Yes. Pedro. How did you know my name?"
"Who in the Alentejo wouldn't know? The young star who led Lusitânia Crest High School to the regionals title and won the trophy. You may not remember, but we played against each other in the first round," Raya explained.
Pedro felt a flush of embarrassment. He had no recollection of the boy. "The first round… that was a long time ago. I can't remember much…"
"Don't worry about it. That's the past. Now is the present—let's focus on that, who knows, depending on our positions today you might just remember who I am. And a piece of advice." Raya's voice dropped lower. "You're alone here. They might group us into teams for certain tests, but remember, trials are about impressing the coaches. The only way to do that is to show what you can do when you have the ball."
Raya tapped Pedro on the back, his tone returning to normal. "Use that wisely." Then he headed to the front.
The five adults stood before the candidates, subtle smiles on their faces. At the center was a man looking bright and young, with a long face and broad chin. He picked up a microphone and began.
"Good day, everyone. I welcome you all—the parents and guardians, and the candidates, to Academia Cristiano Ronaldo. My name is Mateo, head coach of the youth team. Beside me are the tactical analysts, and together we will oversee today's trials." He scanned the group with his small, sharp eyes.
"I presume by now you've familiarized yourselves with one another, because for these trials you'll be grouped into teams, seven candidates per team. You'll need to work together toward victory."
As Mateo paused, Pedro glanced toward Raya. The boy wore a half-smile that clearly said, I told you so.
Still, it seemed manageable. Yes, they would be in teams, but everything still came down to individual performance. It was no different from a standard football match, outperform the rest and the opposition while maintaining teamwork. How hard could that be?