Luca Cappetta

The rain streaked down in relentless sheets, turning the practice pitch into a muddy battlefield. Luca Cappetta gritted his teeth, his boots slipping as he chased the ball.

At fourteen, he was smaller than most of the AC Milan U15 starters—wiry, not stocky—but he had something they didn't: a fire that burned hotter than the San Siro on match day. Or so he told himself.

The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, but Luca didn't stop. He couldn't. Not when every coach's glance felt like a judgment, every teammate's whisper a dagger: "He's only here because of his dad."

"Luca, enough!" Coach Rossi barked from the sidelines, his voice barely cutting through the storm. "You're done for today!"

But Luca ignored him. One more sprint. One more chance to prove he wasn't just Gianpiero Cappetta's kid.

He darted toward the ball, planted his left foot, and twisted—too hard, too fast. A sickening pop echoed in his knee, drowned out by the rain but deafening in his head.

Pain seared up his leg like wildfire, and he crumpled into the mud, clutching his knee. The world blurred—rain, shouts, the distant thud of boots as teammates rushed over.

"Nooooo," he hissed, blinking back tears. Not now. Not when he'd finally started to feel like he belonged.

…

Hours later, Luca sat in the sterile white of the hospital room, his leg propped up, the brace cold against his skin. The doctor's words still rang in his ears: "Torn ACL. Six to nine months, minimum. Surgery's tomorrow." 

His dream—AC Milan's first team, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the red-and-black jersey—felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

The door creaked open, and his mother, Emily, stepped in. Her blonde hair was damp from the rain, her American accent softening the Italian she'd picked up over the years. "Oh, honey," she said, rushing to his side. "You scared me half to death. How're you feeling?"

"Like I just ruined everything," Luca muttered, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want anyone's.

"Don't say that." She squeezed his hand, her voice firm but warm. "You're tough. You'll get through this. Your dad's on his way—he's cutting his trip short."

Luca snorted. "Great. So he can tell me how I screwed up."

Emily frowned. "Luca, he's proud of you. You know that."

Did he? Gianpiero Cappetta was a legend—AC Milan's midfield maestro in the late 2000s, a World Cup hero for Italy. At thirty-seven, he was still a towering figure, now scouting and coaching for the U19 national team. Luca grew up with stories of his father's glory days, but all he ever felt was the shadow they cast. Being a reserve on the U15 squad was supposed to be his start, his chance to step out of that shadow. Instead, he'd overtrained, pushed too hard, and now this.

The door swung open again, and Sophia breezed in, all long legs and effortless confidence. At seventeen, his sister was everything Luca wasn't—popular, brilliant, untouchable. Her dark hair, inherited from their dad, framed a face that turned heads, and her grades made teachers swoon. She dropped her backpack by the bed and smirked. "Well, you really did it this time, huh?"

"Shut up, Soph," Luca grumbled.

She ignored him, pulling out a protein bar from her bag. "You're lucky I'm studying sports nutrition. I'll get you back on your feet—literally. But seriously, you look like a drowned rat."

"Thanks," he said, deadpan.

Emily shot Sophia a look. "Be nice. He's had a rough day."

Sophia shrugged, but her smirk softened. "Fine. You're still my little brother, even if you're an idiot."

Luca didn't reply. He stared at the brace, his mind replaying that moment on the pitch—the slip, the twist, the fall. Nine months. Nine months of watching from the sidelines while his teammates moved on without him. The thought made his chest tighten.

That night, alone in the dim hospital room, Luca couldn't sleep. The painkillers dulled the ache in his knee, but not the one in his head. He closed his eyes, willing the frustration to fade. Then, out of nowhere, a voice—cool, mechanical, and impossibly clear—spoke inside his mind.

[System Activated: Football Prodigy Protocol. Host: Luca Cappetta. Objective: Rise to the top. First Task: Recover.]

Luca's eyes snapped open. "What the hell?" he whispered, heart pounding. The room was empty, silent. But the voice lingered, promising something he couldn't yet grasp. For the first time since the injury, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest. Maybe this wasn't the end. Maybe it was just the beginning.