Benfica Trial (2)

The second half began.

The match became wilder, and Benfica started truly showcasing their class.

Tiago Moreira and Luís Vasconcelos dominated the midfield, controlling the tempo with the calmness of a maestro.

João Cancelo and Victor Lindelöf were like steel walls at the back, making the trial team frustrated to no end.

Arghana kept running, closing spaces, forcing pressing—but it felt like all his efforts were drowned out by Benfica's dominance.

Minute 62, they struck again.

Eduardo Salvio received the ball from Rúben Amorim, twisted his body slightly to deceive the defender who was late to close the space, then sent in a perfect cross.

Tiago Moreira came like a ghost from the second line—first-time shot hard into the lower corner of the goal!

The trial team's goalkeeper didn't even have time to react.

2-0.

Arghana clenched his jaw.

Damn. This is getting worse.

His breath was heavy, and his legs were starting to feel like concrete.

It felt like a punch of reality: no matter how hard he tried, Benfica was still above everything.

===

But something started to change in minute 68.

The breathing technique from Dr. Annelies that he had been repeating throughout the match began to work.

The oxygen flow to his body became more stable. His head no longer felt heavy. Suddenly, everything felt clearer.

The empty spaces that were previously invisible now seemed to shine in his eyes.

He could read Benfica's playing pattern better.

He was no longer just chasing the ball like a headless chicken—now he knew where the ball would come before the opponent even realized it.

He intercepted passes. Once. Twice. Delivered quick passes to his teammates.

He organized pressing efficiently.

But even though he was improving, Benfica remained calm.

They slowed down the tempo, playing with the certainty of a giant that knows it's in control.

Meanwhile, the trial team was falling apart. Mistake after mistake emerged.

Panic crept into their game.

===

In a small stand overlooking the training field, two men sat with clipboards in hand.

"Look at number 17," the man in the leather shirt pointed to the field with a pen. "He's starting to find his rhythm."

The man in the Benfica jacket squinted. "Earlier he was like a wild dog chasing a car, but now... his movement is more precise. He knows when to press, when to drop. His stamina is insane too."

===

On the field, Arghana began entering focus mode.

He was no longer just a player desperately running. He was reading the game.

He closed spaces perfectly. If before he was only reactive, now he began to take control.

But there was a problem—his team was still chaotic. Too selfish. Too individualistic. No coordination.

"This kid has something," the man in the leather shirt said, his tone filled with interest. "But this is a trial.

Who cares about smart play? What they're looking for is who can steal the spotlight.

Look at the other players—they're too busy showing off skills rather than building the play."

The man in the Benfica jacket sighed. "I like his mentality. He doesn't give up even though his team is falling apart.

But is that enough?"

On the field, Arghana's breath grew heavier, but his mind remained clear.

His legs felt heavier, but he refused to give up.

He kept using his breathing technique to maintain his rhythm. His movements became sharper.

He read his opponent's passes as if he could see the future. He knew where to position himself before the ball even came.

But there was something still missing.

His technique wasn't smooth enough. His touches were still a bit too rough.

His teammates' decisions were still full of ego.

He tried giving instructions, trying to organize the play—but no one cared.

For him, it was about proving himself. But for them? It was about showing who could shine the most.

Arghana clenched his fist. He didn't have much time left.

If he wanted to survive in Europe, he had to find a way to make a difference.

Now.