NEW HOPE

Alonso walked home in silence, his mind replaying every moment of the match. The way Gustavo Academy moved with such precision, the helplessness he and his teammates felt, and most of all, the words of Coach Herrera still echo in his mind.

We stop accepting that we are second-best.

It wasn't just about losing. It was about how they lost, how they had stepped onto that field already defeated, their minds shackled by doubt before they had even kicked a ball.

His house was a small apartment on the outskirts of Bilbao, the paint slightly peeling, the scent of his mother's cooking seeping through the cracks in the old wooden door.

When he stepped inside, he found his mother and younger sister, Lucia, sitting at the dining table, his father nowhere to be seen.

His mother glanced up at him, instantly reading the exhaustion on his face. "Tough match?" she asked gently.

Alonso hesitated, then nodded. He dropped his bag near the door and sat down at the table, his body feeling heavier than before.

Lucia, always curious, leaned forward. "Did you win?"

"No." The word felt bitter on his tongue. "We lost. Badly."

His mother sighed, reaching out to brush some sweat-matted hair from his forehead. "It happens, mijo. You'll get another chance."

Alonso looked down at his hands, frustration simmering beneath his skin. "They were better. Faster. Smarter. It felt like we didn't even belong on the same pitch as them."

His mother gave him a small, understanding smile. "So what will you do about it?"

Alonso hesitated before speaking. "Train harder. Coach wants us to start tomorrow."

His mother arched a brow. "Tomorrow?"

Alonso nodded. "Yeah, he said to be there early. No excuses."

His mother chuckled, shaking her head. "Did Coach Herrera forget that tomorrow is the weekend?"

Alonso's eyes widened slightly as realization hit him. After everything that had happened, after the loss, the speech, the weight of failure, he hadn't even considered what day it was.

Lucia giggled. "Guess you don't have practice after all."

Alonso let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah… I guess not."

But even as the conversation drifted to other things, he couldn't shake the need to train. If there was no practice tomorrow, then he would train on his own.

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the echoes of the match still haunted him. The way Santiago Valverde had controlled the game, the way his team had moved as if they shared a single mind, the look of confidence in their eyes.

One day, he would face them again.

And next time, he wouldn't lose.

The next morning, Alonso was up before the sun. He tied his shoelaces with practiced speed, grabbed a water bottle, and stepped out onto the quiet streets of Bilbao.

The city was still asleep, but he wasn't.

If his team wasn't training today, then he would train alone.

He jogged toward the nearest field, his breath steady, his mind focused. Every step he took felt like a promise, a silent vow to himself.

When he reached the small, worn-out field near his neighborhood, the grass was still damp with morning dew. The goalposts were rusted, and the white lines marking the pitch had long since faded, but none of that mattered.

This was where he had trained as a child, where he had learned to love the game.

Alonso dropped his water bottle at the sideline and started his warm-up. He stretched, feeling the tension in his muscles loosen, then began his drills.

Footwork first—quick, precise movements, mimicking the way Santiago had shifted past him effortlessly. He set up cones and weaved through them, pushing himself to move faster, sharper.

Next, he practiced passing against the wall, receiving and controlling the ball as if he were in a high-pressure match. The ball bounced back at unpredictable angles, forcing him to adjust, to stay light on his feet.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, but he barely noticed.

Then came shooting. He lined up at the edge of the penalty box and struck the ball, sending it flying into the net.

But he wasn't satisfied. He repositioned, tried again, over and over, until his legs burned and his breath came in short gasps.

Hours passed. The sun rose higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the field.

Alonso's muscles ached, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He imagined himself back on the pitch, facing Santiago again. Every movement, every kick, was a step closer to that moment.

As he paused to catch his breath, he heard footsteps approaching. Turning, he saw an older man watching him from the sideline. It was Mr. Ibarra, the old coach who had trained many of the neighborhood kids before retiring.

"You've been at it for a while," the man remarked, stepping onto the field. "What's gotten into you?"

Alonso wiped the sweat from his brow. "I lost yesterday. Badly."

Mr. Ibarra nodded, crossing his arms. "And you think training alone will change that?"

Alonso met his gaze. "I have to start somewhere."

The older man studied him for a moment before nodding approvingly. "Then let's make it count."

Alonso blinked. "You're going to help me?"

Mr. Ibarra smirked. "If you're serious about this, you need more than just hard work. You need direction."

Alonso straightened, determination flaring in his chest. "I'm serious."

"Good," Mr. Ibarra said, stepping onto the field. "Then let's begin."

The old coach wasted no time. He corrected Alonso's posture, adjusted his foot placement, and made him redo his dribbles with more control, more awareness. Every mistake was met with firm but constructive criticism.

Alonso had always thought he trained hard before, but this was different. Mr. Ibarra pushed him beyond his limits, forcing him to think, to refine his movements rather than just repeating them. The exhaustion in his limbs grew, but so did something else—confidence.

By the time they finished, the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. Alonso collapsed onto the grass, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Mr. Ibarra chuckled, offering him a hand. "You've got ]potential, kid. But talent means nothing without discipline."

Alonso took the offered hand and stood. His legs felt like lead, but he had never felt more determined. "Thank you, Coach."

Mr. Ibarra clapped him on the back. "Don't thank me yet. We've only just started."

As Alonso walked home, sore and exhausted, he knew one thing for certain—this was just the beginning of something greater. The next time he faced Gustavo Academy, he wouldn't just be another player.

He would be ready.