MAN OF THE MATCH

The echoes of "Alonso the playmaker!" still rang in his ears as he sat on the bench, chest heaving from the exertion. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching, but he couldn't stop smiling.

Around him, his teammates laughed and shouted, still buzzing from the dramatic comeback.

The crowd was beginning to thin, but a cluster of Bilbao Central supporters still lingered by the fence, chanting Alonso's name.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden streaks across the field, but Alonso felt like he was floating above it all.

"Hey, kid!" Coach Herrera's voice cut through the noise. Alonso turned, wiping sweat from his forehead as the coach approached.

In his hands, Herrera held a sleek box with a bold red and black logo printed across the top. Alonso's heart skipped a beat when he recognized the emblem—a brand-new pair of limited-edition football boots.

The kind he had only seen in magazines and store windows, far beyond anything his family could afford.

"For the man of the match," Herrera said, holding out the box. "You've earned it."

Alonso stared at the box, his throat tightening. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out to take it. The cardboard felt cool and crisp under his fingertips.

He lifted the lid slowly, his breath catching in his chest.

Inside, the boots gleamed like treasure. Sleek black leather with crimson accents, the studs shining under the fading sunlight.

He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, barely able to believe they were real.

"Coach..." Alonso began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Herrera said, his usual sternness softening just a little. "Just keep playing like you did today."

Alonso swallowed hard, lifting his head to meet his coach's eyes.

"I will," he promised. "I won't stop."

A rare smile touched Herrera's lips. "Good." He clapped Alonso on the shoulder, his grip firm.

"Get changed. I'm driving you home myself."

Alonso blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Really," Herrera confirmed. "I want to meet the parents who raised a boy like you."

The ride home was quiet at first. Alonso sat in the passenger seat of Coach Herrera's old but well-maintained car, the box with his new boots resting gently on his lap.

The worn leather seats creaked softly beneath him as they pulled away from the stadium and into the winding streets of Bilbao.

Alonso couldn't stop glancing at the boots.

They felt like more than just a prize. They felt like proof—proof that he was capable of more. That he could be something special.

"You play like that every week," Herrera said, breaking the silence, "and scouts will notice."

Alonso's heart skipped. "Scouts?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Herrera warned, but there was a warmth beneath his usual gruffness. "But yeah. You've got something. Today? You showed everyone."

Alonso sat back in his seat, his mind racing. The idea of scouts watching him, of a future in football beyond the neighborhood pitches, felt impossible and real all at once..

When they finally turned onto his street, the familiar sight of the small apartment building came into view. It was an old building with peeling paint and rusted balconies, but it was home.

Herrera parked the car and turned off the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, the coach glanced at Alonso. "Lead the way."

Alonso nodded and pushed open the door. He held the box tightly as he walked up the narrow stairwell, his footsteps echoing softly against the walls.

Outside his family's apartment, he paused and took a deep breath before knocking.

His mother opened the door, still wearing her work apron.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and lines of exhaustion creased her face. But when she saw Alonso standing there, her expression softened into a smile.

"Mijo!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug. "I was starting to worry."

"I'm fine, Mama," Alonso reassured her, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

When she released him, her gaze drifted to Coach Herrera, who stood awkwardly in the hallway. "Good evening, Señora," he said, his voice uncharacteristically polite.

"I wanted to bring Alonso home myself. He had quite a game today."

Her eyes widened. "Oh?"

Alonso lifted the box slightly, unable to hide his excitement.

"I scored four goals, Mama. Coach gave me these for being man of the match."

His mother's hand flew to her mouth.

For a moment, she just stood there, speechless. Then she stepped aside. "Please, come in, Señor Herrera."

Inside, the apartment was small and tidy, the scent of arroz con pollo lingering in the air. Herrera took a seat at the worn kitchen table while Alonso carefully placed the box on the counter.

"Four goals," his mother repeated softly, pride shining in her tired eyes. "Your father will be so proud when he gets home."

Herrera cleared his throat. "I wanted to tell you myself, Señora. Your son—he has real talent. I see a lot of boys come and go, but Alonso... he's different."

Alonso's chest swelled with warmth at the words. To hear Coach Herrera—a man known for his strictness and high expectations—speak about him like that felt almost unreal.

His mother smiled, though there was a touch of sadness behind it. "He works so hard," she said softly. "He dreams so big. But dreams..."

She trailed off, shaking her head. "They aren't always easy."

Herrera leaned forward. "No, they aren't," he agreed. "But sometimes, they're worth it."

Alonso watched as his mother wiped the corner of her eye quickly, as if to hide it. "Thank you for bringing him home," she said quietly. "And for believing in him."

Herrera stood, giving a respectful nod. "It's my job to push him," he said simply. "But the belief? That's all his."

As the coach made his way to the door, he paused and glanced back at Alonso. "I expect to see you at practice Monday," he said. "And don't let those new boots slow you down."

Alonso grinned. "I won't, Coach."

When the door closed behind him, silence settled over the apartment.

Alonso's mother sighed and pulled him into another hug, holding him just a little longer this time.

"I am proud of you, mijo," she whispered. "Always."

Alonso clung to her, the weight of the day finally sinking in. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—his dreams weren't so impossible after all.