13: Breaking Point

The weeks after the match felt like an uphill battle for Carlos. Training sessions became increasingly punishing, and Herrera's once-motivating critiques turned sharper with each passing day. Carlos felt the weight of the missed opportunity during the game linger like a storm cloud over his head. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he was falling short.

To make matters worse, his responsibilities with Vega continued to pile up. He was constantly pulled between grueling practice sessions and back-to-back promotional shoots. The flashes of cameras and the staged smiles felt suffocating, a far cry from the joy he'd once felt playing in the dusty courtyards of San Azura.

Even his connection with his teammates began to fray. Diego, once a sharp-tongued rival with begrudging respect, now barely spoke to him. Sofia seemed distant, and Luis and Mateo avoided him altogether. The camaraderie they'd built felt like a distant memory.

One night, as Carlos lay awake in his room, Chico resting by his side, his phone buzzed with a message.

Herrera: I've arranged a meeting for you tomorrow with Vega's executives. Don't be late.

Carlos groaned, tossing the phone onto his nightstand. Another meeting. Another demand. The weight of it all pressed down on him like an iron vice.

The next day, Carlos sat stiffly in a sleek conference room, facing a panel of Vega executives. Their polished smiles didn't mask the calculating glint in their eyes. Herrera sat at the head of the table, his presence as imposing as ever.

"We're pleased with your progress, Carlos," one executive began, her voice smooth. "But we expect more. The missed opportunity during the match raised questions among some of our stakeholders."

Carlos clenched his fists under the table, his frustration bubbling just below the surface.

Another executive chimed in. "Herrera assures us you have the potential to rise above this, but potential isn't enough. We need results, both on and off the pitch. Your performance in the next game will be critical."

Carlos nodded, forcing a smile, but inside, he felt like a pawn in a game he didn't fully understand.

As the meeting ended, Herrera pulled him aside.

"Carlos," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "This is the reality of professional football. It's not just about skill—it's about proving your worth every single day. Are you ready to do that?"

Carlos hesitated before replying, his voice quiet but resolute. "Yes, sir."

Back at the academy, Carlos threw himself into training with renewed intensity, but the cracks were starting to show. His touch felt heavier, his runs slower. Frustration mounted with every misstep, and the pressure became harder to bear.

During one particularly grueling session, Carlos found himself squared off against Diego in a one-on-one drill. Diego's movements were sharp and fluid, while Carlos struggled to keep up. When Diego slipped past him and scored, Carlos' frustration boiled over.

"Again!" Carlos shouted, his voice tinged with desperation.

The drill restarted, but the result was the same. Diego danced around him, making it look effortless.

"Maybe you should take a break," Diego said, his tone more exasperated than mocking.

Carlos snapped. "I don't need a break! I need to be better!"

Diego's eyes narrowed. "You're burning yourself out, Carlos. Football's not just about running yourself into the ground. It's about playing smart, trusting your instincts—and your team."

Carlos opened his mouth to retort, but Sofia stepped in.

"Diego's right," she said gently. "You've been trying to do everything on your own, Carlos. But that's not how you got here. Remember the scrimmage? We worked together, and that's what made the difference."

Their words stung, but Carlos couldn't deny the truth in them. He'd been so focused on proving himself to Herrera, Vega, and everyone else that he'd lost sight of why he loved the game in the first place.

That night, Carlos found himself back at the park where it had all started. Chico rolled at his feet as he stared up at the stars, their quiet brilliance a stark contrast to the chaos of his life.

He thought of his mamá's sacrifices, Navarro's guidance, and the joy he'd felt playing in the courtyards of San Azura. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost that joy.

Carlos picked up Chico and began juggling, the rhythmic thud of the ball against his foot grounding him. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to play without the weight of expectations.

"I'm not giving up," he whispered to himself. "But I have to find my way back."

The next day, Carlos approached Herrera after practice.

"I need to talk," Carlos said, his voice steady.

Herrera raised an eyebrow but nodded for him to continue.

"I've been pushing myself too hard," Carlos admitted. "I've lost focus. But I'm ready to make a change. I'll give everything I have in the next game, but I need to play it my way. No more trying to impress everyone. Just football."

Herrera studied him for a moment before nodding. "Fair enough, Carlos. But remember—this is your chance to prove you belong. Don't waste it."

Carlos nodded, a newfound clarity in his eyes. The pressure hadn't disappeared, but for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.

As he walked off the field, Chico tucked under his arm, he felt a flicker of hope. The road ahead was still daunting, but Carlos was determined to face it on his own terms.