RISING STAR

The next few days followed the same rhythm. School. Practice. Pain. Repeat.

Alonso's ankle still ached, but the more he moved, the less he noticed. Every morning, he woke up before the sun, dragging himself to the empty lot to work on his footwork.

By the time he reached school, his legs felt heavy, but his heart pounded with determination.

He studied every video he could find—Messi, Mbappé, even the old legends like Ronaldinho.

The moves they made didn't seem impossible anymore. If they could do it, why couldn't he?

At recess, the schoolyard buzzed with shouts and laughter as the boys gathered for their daily match. Alonso had always been a shadow on the edge of these games—too small, too quiet. Not anymore.

"Teams!" Javi called out, his voice carrying over the noise. As the self-proclaimed king of the yard, he always picked first.

Javi's eyes flicked to Alonso. For a tense moment, it seemed like he might call his name. But then he snorted and turned away. "Carlos, Miguel—you're with me."

Alonso swallowed the sting of rejection as the teams formed around him. He ended up with the leftovers again—the ones who didn't run fast or kick hard. It didn't matter.

He had something else.

The game started fast, the ball moving in quick, chaotic bursts. Alonso stayed patient, waiting for his chance. When the ball finally rolled his way, Javi was already closing in.

Feint left.

Javi bit hard, lunging forward to block the angle.

Cut right.

Alonso slipped past him, the ball dancing at his feet. He heard Javi curse as he spun clear. But another defender loomed ahead, and for a split second, Alonso hesitated.

Don't panic.

He dipped his shoulder and rolled the ball backward with the inside of his foot. The defender lunged, but Alonso was already gone, sprinting into open space.

A rush of exhilaration filled his chest as he charged toward the goal.

The keeper was out of position. This was his moment.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

"Handball!" Javi shouted, his voice sharp and accusing.

Alonso froze, confusion knotting his stomach. "What? No, I—"

"I saw it," Javi insisted, stepping closer. "You used your arm."

"I didn't!" Alonso's hands curled into fists at his sides.

The other boys shifted uncomfortably, unsure who to believe.

Javi's glare hardened. "Doesn't count," he snapped, turning back to the game as if the argument were already settled.

Alonso's stomach twisted with frustration. He wanted to fight, to scream that it wasn't fair—but what would be the point? Javi always got the last word.

But next time? Next time, he'd leave no doubt.

The days blurred into weeks. Alonso's skills sharpened with each sunrise, his body adapting to the early mornings and aching muscles. His ankle healed slowly, but his confidence grew faster.

He stopped waiting for Javi's approval. Instead, he let his game speak for itself.

Word spread. Kids who once ignored him began to take notice. Even during class, Alonso could feel their eyes on him, the whispered rumors of how he'd humiliated Javi more than once.

Javi noticed too.

One Friday afternoon, as the final bell rang, Javi caught Alonso by the shoulder. His grip was tight, too tight.

"You think you're something special?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Alonso forced himself to meet Javi's gaze. "I don't think. I know."

For a breathless second, Javi just stared. Then he laughed—a cold, humorless sound. "Big words," he said, shoving Alonso backward. "Let's see if you can back them up."

The next game was different.

Everyone knew it. It wasn't just recess anymore. This was a challenge.

The teams were chosen carefully. Javi ensured his side was stacked with the strongest players—the ones who could outrun and outmuscle anyone else.

Alonso's team? They were the leftovers, as usual.

But that didn't scare him.

From the first whistle, the game was a war.

Every pass, every tackle had an edge to it. Alonso felt the weight of Javi's glare, felt the pressure of every mistake. But he didn't falter.

When the ball came to him, he moved with the same smooth confidence he'd built in the lonely hours before dawn.

Feint left. Cut right. Accelerate.

By the second goal, even Javi stopped smirking.

But Alonso knew it wouldn't end there. Not with Javi.

Not with how much pride he had to lose.

The final minutes ticked down, the score tied. Breathless, bruised, Alonso could barely feel his legs, but his mind was sharp. One more chance. That's all he needed.

And then it came.

A sloppy pass from Miguel bounced loose near the center circle. Alonso pounced, his foot connecting cleanly.

He was off—racing toward goal, heart pounding loud in his ears.

Javi was right behind him.

Alonso felt him closing in, faster than he expected.

Panic clawed at his chest, but he shoved it down. He had trained for this. He knew what to do.

A flash of movement—Javi diving in for a desperate tackle.

Alonso spun sharply, the ball flicking away from danger. For an instant, everything slowed.

The goal was wide open.

He struck the ball clean and true, watching it soar past the goalkeeper's outstretched hands. Silence hung heavy in the air before the cheers erupted.

He did it.

But as the sound washed over him, Alonso felt something else.

A cold weight in his gut.

Because when he turned back, Javi wasn't watching the ball.

He was watching Alonso.

And the look in his eyes promised that this wasn't over.