Adrian reached home just before noon, sweat drying on his skin, muscles still humming from the morning session. His aunt's townhouse sat quietly at the end of the street, sunlight warming the brick walls and the small garden she tended with almost religious devotion. He slipped inside, hoping to make it to his room before she noticed.
He didn't make it three steps.
"Adrian."
Her voice came from the kitchen — calm, but firm enough to stop him mid‑stride.
He turned. "Morning."
"It's almost noon," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "And you look like you've been hit by a truck."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"And I'm always—"
"Don't finish that sentence," she warned, pointing the towel at him. "Sit."
He sat.
Rosa placed a glass of water in front of him, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed. She wasn't angry — she rarely was — but she had that look again. The one that meant she'd been thinking too much.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," she said.
"I'm preparing."
"For what?"
"Three weeks."
She sighed. "You can't live your life in countdowns."
"I'm not."
"You are." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I know you want this. I know you're talented. But you're sixteen, Adrian. You're allowed to breathe."
He didn't respond. Breathing felt like a luxury he couldn't afford.
Rosa softened. "Just promise me you'll take a break today. A real one."
"I have afternoon training."
"Then after that."
He hesitated — not because he disagreed, but because he didn't know how to promise something he wasn't sure he could do.
"I'll try," he said.
It wasn't a promise, but it was enough for her.
"Good. Eat something before you go."
He did. Quietly. Efficiently. Then he showered, changed, and headed back to the academy.
The afternoon sun was warm, but the field felt colder than it had that morning. Players were scattered across the pitch, stretching, passing, joking around. Adrian walked past them, expression unreadable, mind already locked into the session ahead.
Lucas was juggling a ball near the center circle. He spotted Adrian and grinned.
"Back for round two?"
Adrian didn't break stride. "Training starts soon."
"That wasn't an answer."
"It wasn't a question."
Lucas laughed, but there was something sharper beneath it. "You know, you're funnier than you look."
"I'm not trying to be."
"That's what makes it funny."
Adrian ignored him and began his warm‑up. Lucas watched him for a moment, then joined the group as Coach Mendes blew the whistle.
"Alright, listen up!" Mendes called. "We're working on transitions today. Quick changes from defense to attack. High intensity. No slacking."
The drill began. Adrian moved with precision, intercepting passes, redirecting the ball, shifting between roles seamlessly. His body responded before his mind did — instinct, discipline, repetition.
But Lucas kept drifting into his space again.
Not aggressively.
Not obviously.
Just enough to disrupt the rhythm.
During a tight sequence, Lucas stepped into his lane at the exact moment Adrian received the ball. Adrian adjusted, but the touch came off his foot a fraction too heavy.
The ball rolled out of bounds.
Two mistakes in one day.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
Adrian reset his stance. "Yes."
"You sure? Because that's twice now."
"It won't happen again."
Lucas smirked. "You said that earlier."
Adrian didn't respond. He couldn't. His chest felt tight, his pulse too loud in his ears. He hated slipping. He hated reacting. He hated that Lucas noticed every crack.
The drill continued. Adrian pushed harder, sharper, faster — too fast. His touches were clean, but his pace bordered on reckless. Mendes noticed.
"Vale!" the coach called. "Ease up!"
Adrian didn't.
He couldn't.
Not with the scouts coming.
Not with Lucas watching.
Not with the memory of his past life whispering in the back of his mind.
During a transition play, Lucas received the ball and turned sharply. Adrian closed in, faster than he intended. Their shoulders collided — hard.
Lucas stumbled. "What the—?"
Adrian froze.
He hadn't meant to hit him that hard.
He hadn't meant to react at all.
But the instinct had flared — the old fighter in him, the one who didn't like being pushed.
Mendes blew the whistle sharply. "Enough! Both of you!"
Lucas rubbed his shoulder, glaring. "Relax, Vale. It's training."
Adrian didn't answer. His jaw was clenched too tightly.
Mendes stepped between them. "If you two want to fight, do it outside my session."
Lucas scoffed. "Tell that to him."
Adrian stayed silent. He didn't trust himself to speak.
The drill resumed, but the tension lingered like static in the air. Adrian forced himself to slow down, to breathe, to regain control. But the damage was done.
He'd reacted.
He'd slipped.
He'd shown something he didn't want anyone to see.
When training ended, players drifted off in groups, laughing and talking. Adrian stayed behind, gathering cones and resetting equipment. Mendes approached him quietly.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Adrian didn't respond.
Mendes sighed. "You can't let Lucas get to you."
"He doesn't."
"He does. And if you don't get a handle on it, it'll cost you."
Adrian looked away. "I won't let it."
"I hope not," Mendes said. "Because the scouts won't just be watching your talent. They'll be watching your temperament."
Temperament.
The word hit harder than Lucas's shoulder.
Adrian nodded once, then grabbed his bag and left the field.
The walk home felt longer than usual. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the pavement. His muscles ached. His mind buzzed. His chest felt tight in a way he didn't like.
He hated losing control.
He hated slipping.
He hated that today felt like a warning.
When he reached home, his aunt was waiting on the porch.
"You're late," she said.
"I stayed after."
"Of course you did." She studied him for a moment. "You look… off."
"I'm fine."
She didn't believe him. She never did. But she didn't push.
"Come inside," she said softly. "You need to rest."
He followed her in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders.
Three weeks.
That was all that mattered.
But as he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted — small, subtle, but real.
A crack in the armor.
A warning.
A beginning.
And he wasn't sure whether it made him stronger…
or exposed.