Rain fell steadily over the Indonesian skies, hammering Leandro's windshield, but he kept his eyes on the road. The neon lights of the small seaside city blurred into red and yellow streaks. The wipers moved back and forth, struggling to keep up.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, jaw clenched. His knuckles turned pale against the worn leather.
Tonight's score was 9-0.
With every turn of the tires, the number echoed in his mind. It was like a wild song he couldn't turn off.
They had let in nine goals and scored none. It was pure humiliation for ninety minutes.
He could still hear the cruel laughter of the opposing fans. As they walked into the tunnel, his teammates argued and blamed each other. The locker room was filled with a heavy silence.
The worst part was that their coach hadn't even yelled. He didn't shout, slam doors, or throw chairs. He just stood in the middle of the room, looking at them with a blank stare, as if they were strangers who had wasted his time.
Leandro had spent the whole game sitting at the far end of the bench. He hadn't even warmed up or stretched.
"Bench warmer," one of the coaches muttered as they left. Leandro hadn't played a single minute or even gotten a look from the staff. The man didn't bother to lower his voice. He just said it, as if it were a fact. It felt like Leandro wasn't even worth whispering about.
Leandro pretended he hadn't heard. By now, he was good at it.
Tonight's match was supposed to be a chance for Bali United, who were struggling in the Indonesia Super League, to beat league leaders Gresik United and move up in the rankings. It was also Leandro's chance to prove he deserved more from the first team.
Instead, it had become a nightmare. Not just any nightmare, but the kind caught on camera, shared online, and impossible to escape. The kind that would haunt you for years.
He could already imagine the headlines back home in Brazil. People would joke that he was so bad he couldn't even start for a losing team. It was laughable.
The streetlights ahead stretched into long golden lines through the rain. Only a few motorcycles braved the storm, their riders hunched over with ponchos flapping. The road was almost empty.
Each time he hit a puddle, his cheap car rattled. Water splashed on both sides, making the frame shake. It felt like the car could fall apart at any moment.
He tried to calm himself, breathing out slowly through his nose. "Calm down," he told himself. "Just get back to the hotel, take a shower, and go to bed. You can think about what to do next tomorrow."
But didn't yesterday's problems always come back tomorrow?
He had turned twenty-eight this year. As a left winger, he had decent agility, good ball skills, solid crossing when given space, and strong endurance for his age.
When Bali United signed him from his childhood club, Vila Nova in Brazil, two years ago, the scouting reports had said the same. But reality was very different.
In reality, he felt invisible like a ghost in a jersey. Once he sat on the bench, the coaches forgot about him. Opposing defenders liked having him there because of how badly he played, and fans barely remembered him. He was just someone to forget.
He was raised as an orphan on the outskirts of São Paulo, Brazil. His parents died when he was young, and he was too little to remember them. His older sister, Mariana, raised him while working over two jobs. She was the only one who believed in his dream, even when he didn't.
But he had no connections in football. No uncle who played professionally, no famous agent with contacts, and no safety in Brazil's tough neighborhoods. All he had was his skill and a desperate belief that football was his only way out of poverty.
But even that belief had started to fade lately.
A loud crack of thunder shook his chest as it boomed overhead. Leandro jerked back, taking his foot off the pedal without thinking. The car slowed down.
Now deep puddles covered the road, reflecting the streetlights like broken mirrors. It looked as if the world outside was drowning.
Leandro glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 22:47.
In this weather, it was too late to be driving. But the team bus had left hours ago, and he wanted to be alone. He needed it. The thought of sitting next to teammates who wouldn't even look at him was unbearable.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat, a notification lighting up the screen.
He didn't answer the phone. It was most likely his sister checking in on him from thousands of miles away,. When he got to the hotel, he would give her a call.
"I'm fine," he whispered to the empty car. His chest felt constricted, as if someone were sitting on it, and his voice sounded hollow. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't fine.
Near the edge of the city, the buildings thinned out, and the road curved sharply to the right. Streetlights grew scarce, and construction sites and empty lots took the place of houses.
The rain grew even heavier, though he hadn't thought that was possible. He could barely see, except for the occasional red taillight in the distance and the gray sheets of water. Suddenly, a blinding flash of headlights surrounded him.
Leandro's breath caught in his throat. A large truck appeared ahead, out of its lane. It was sliding and drifting fast.
The driver had lost control due to hydroplaning.
Everything seemed to slow down. In the headlights, Leandro could see each raindrop hanging in the air. He could even count the seconds between his heartbeats.
He yanked the steering wheel to the right, but the tires didn't respond. They just spun on the wet road. The car kept sliding forward, the world tilting as it went.
The truck's horn blared, long and desperate, but it was too late.
BOOM!
Metal shook. Glass burst inward, shattering everywhere, and the noise was deafening. The airbag exploded and slammed into his face.
The pain was sudden and intense. His head, left arm, and ribs were all twisted at an angle not intended for them.
Then the pain disappeared as quickly as it had come, as if someone had flipped a switch.