WE UP

That night, long after his parents had gone to bed, Alonso lay wide awake, the echoes of the game still buzzing in his head. His ankle throbbed with a dull ache, but he barely noticed.

All he could think about was that moment—slipping past Javi, the ball flying into the back of the net.

He had done it.

The move he'd practiced a hundred times in the alley behind their apartment—the same feint and quick cut he'd seen Messi do in a YouTube video. He never thought it would work against real players, let alone someone like Javi.

Alonso rolled onto his side, staring at the cracked ceiling.

"I did it," he whispered to himself, as if saying it out loud would make it more real. .

A smile tugged at his lips, but underneath the excitement, there was something else—a hunger.

If he could do it once, he could do it again. And better.

Throwing off his thin blanket, Alonso slipped out of bed and padded across the cold floor. His backpack lay against the wall, the worn leather football peeking out from the top.

He pulled out his battered phone, the screen barely holding together with a spiderweb of cracks. He searched for the video—the same one he'd watched a dozen times before.

It was grainy, filmed from the stands, but it didn't matter. There was Messi, gliding past defenders like they weren't even there. The way he moved was different. Smooth. Effortless. But Alonso knew better.

It wasn't magic.

It was practice. Thousands of hours, over and over again, until his feet knew what to do before his brain did.

Alonso hit play, leaning in closer. He watched Messi feint left and cut right. Paused. Rewound.

Watched again. Every detail mattered—the shift of his shoulders, the angle of his foot, the moment he accelerated. If he wanted to be more than just another kid in a broken neighborhood, he needed to learn everything.

"Every night," Alonso murmured to himself. "I'll watch this every night. Until I get it right."

He set the phone aside and crawled back under his blanket, but sleep didn't come easily.

His mind raced with visions of green fields and roaring crowds. Of defenders falling behind as he sprinted toward the goal.

When he finally drifted off, one thought burned in his heart:

One day, they'd remember his name.

The next morning, Alonso was up before the sun.

His ankle still ached, but the pain felt distant—as if it didn't belong to him anymore. He dressed quietly and slipped out the door, the air sharp with cold as he made his way to the empty lot down the street.

The lot wasn't much. Cracked pavement, a few rusted goalposts, and patches of grass fighting to grow between concrete. But to Alonso, it might as well have been the San Mamés Stadium.

He dropped his bag and pulled out his ball. It was scuffed and losing air, but it still rolled true. For the next hour, he practiced the move. Again and again.

Feint left. Cut right. Accelerate.

Sometimes, his ankle buckled, and he had to bite back a cry. But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

When he finally limped back home, the sun was rising, casting a golden glow over the city. His stomach rumbled as he pushed open the door, the smell of coffee and warm bread filling the air.

His mother stood at the counter, her back to him. "You're up early," she said without turning around.

Alonso hesitated. "I wanted to practice."

She sighed softly, shaking her head. "You'll wear yourself out, hijo."

He stepped forward, his voice low but firm. "I have to get better, Mama."

This time, she turned, her face tired but soft. "You're already good," she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "But being good isn't always enough."

Alonso swallowed hard. He knew she was right. In their world, talent wasn't always enough. But still—

"I can be more," he whispered.

His mother didn't answer right away. Then she nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "Eat before school. You can't play on an empty stomach."

Later that day, Alonso returned to the schoolyard, his ankle wrapped tightly beneath his sock. The older kids were already there, kicking the ball around in lazy circles.

Javi leaned against the fence, watching. His eyes narrowed when he spotted Alonso. "Back for more?"

Alonso ignored the ache in his ankle and nodded. "Yeah."

Javi pushed off the fence and rolled the ball toward him. "Let's see if yesterday was luck."

The game began fast. Faster than the day before.

Alonso felt the burn in his legs, but his focus sharpened with each touch of the ball. When it came to him, he didn't hesitate.

Feint left. Cut right.

This time, Javi was ready. He lunged sooner, cutting off Alonso's angle. Alonso barely had time to react. His breath hitched, but something clicked in his mind.

Don't panic.

He flicked the ball behind his standing leg—a move he'd seen in another video—and spun away, leaving Javi stumbling.

The ball stayed glued to his foot as he surged forward.

A burst of laughter rang out from one of the boys. "Yo, Javi, he got you again!"

Javi's face darkened, but Alonso didn't stop. His blood sang with energy, a wild mix of fear and joy. He couldn't believe it himself. He was doing it.

He could do this.

When the final bell rang, Alonso dragged himself home, his body sore but his spirit burning brighter than ever. That night, after homework and dinner, he watched the video again. And again.

"One day," he promised himself. "One day, I'll be the best."

But as he lay down to sleep, a new thought crept into his mind—one that sent a chill through his excitement.

If Javi hated losing to him now, what would he do if Alonso kept winning?