Chapter 10: Finding Space

The sky was a pale blue when I arrived at the training ground, the same cracked pavement and rusted gates greeting me as always. But in my mind, everything felt different. I was no longer the kid who waited in defense to mop up mistakes. Today, I was stepping into a new world—one where I would be judged on creativity, vision, and the ability to carve out space in the attack.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and nodded to the groundskeeper, Miguel, who gave me a knowing smile. He'd seen kids come and go, rise and fall. But until a few weeks ago, I was just another runner on the fringes. Now, he greeted me differently—almost like he expected I'd do something.

"Morning, Lucas," he said, tapping his mop against the fence. "Ready to paint the grass with magic?"

I grinned. "I'll do my best."

Inside the locker room, the air was thick with sweat and the smell of fresh laundry detergent. My teammates changed quickly, laughing and shouting, already comfortable in their roles. I found an empty locker and began pulling on the new training bib Coach Ríos had handed me: the number 8. The number of the box-to-box midfielders. The number of the playmakers.

I stared at it for a moment, fingers tracing the printed digit. A switch flipped in my chest—excitement mixed with fear. To play in midfield meant doing more than just following orders. It meant thinking ahead, anticipating runs, unlocking defenses with a single pass. All eyes would be on me.

I shook it off, zipped my bag closed, and joined the group stretching on the far sideline. As the assistant coach blew his whistle, we jogged onto the field, the morning sun warming our backs.

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Settling into a New Role

The drills began with rondos—tight circles of six against two. The pace was frantic. Defenders closed space in a heartbeat; attackers needed to stay light on their feet. I moved into the circle, palms ready, eyes scanning. My first touch was crisp but safe; my second found a teammate's feet. One defender lurched to block me, but I slipped the ball past his outstretched leg and parted the circle.

"Good," the assistant coach barked. "Lucas, again!"

I repeated the sequence, each time more confident. My teammates murmured approval under their breaths. By the third lap, the grin I'd held in my head leaked onto my face.

Next came the pattern play: a 4–3–3 setup, shifting from defense to attack in three quick passes. I was stationed on the right half-space, where I'd have to link with both the winger and the deeper midfield pivot. As soon as the pass arrived, I took a single touch to the inside, looked up, and threaded a pass through a narrow channel. My target, the winger, twisted away from his marker and raced down the flank.

"Nice vision, Altamirano," one of the senior midfielders called out.

A flicker of pride warmed me. I'd always loved making passes others didn't see. My height had served me well in defense, but here, with the ball at my feet, I felt taller than ever—as if the pitch itself bent to my will.

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First Test in Practice Match

Finally, Coach Ríos split us into two teams for a full-field scrimmage. I was paired with Duarte and the returning captain, Vargas, in midfield. The field was wider than any practice drill, the goals bigger, the stakes higher.

We kicked off. I pressed forward, looking for pockets of space. Vargas dropped deep; Duarte hugged the line. I found myself between the two, a gap forming just outside the penalty area. The wingback spotted me and slipped a pass to my feet.

On instinct, I turned, took a toque, and struck the ball with the inside of my foot. It curved toward the far post—but the goalkeeper stretched and tipped it wide.

"Almost," Vargas patted my shoulder.

"Next time," I promised.

The game sped up. My legs burned, but I chased every loose ball, darted into channels, helped press when we lost possession. The transition from defense to attack felt natural—faster than I expected, more intuitive. By the time the whistle blew for halftime, I was drenched in sweat but buzzing.

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Private Feedback

In the break, the players filtered off. I jogged toward the water cooler when Ríos appeared, clipboard in hand, silhouette framed by the morning light.

"Lucas," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. "You're learning. Don't force it—let it come from the game. You've got the touches. Now use your brain."

I nodded, trying to steady my breathing. "Yes, coach."

He gave me a curt nod and moved on to the next group. I watched his back until he disappeared behind the goal posts. His words weren't glowing praise, but they were real: he'd noticed me, considered me, spoken to me as a midfielder.

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Building Confidence

The second half began, and our scrimmage was suddenly a chase: 2–1 down. The coach's voice echoed from the sideline: "Fight, boys! Fight for every inch!" We pressed high; Vargas played long balls; the wingers overlapped. I stayed glued to the ball, covering ground like I'd never covered before.

In the 78th minute, we won a free kick twenty-five yards out. Vargas was our specialist, but he tapped the ball to me. Everyone spread out—wall forming six yards from the line, defensive line retreating. I took two steps back, measured the distance, and struck the ball with the inside of my foot. It flew just over the wall, dipping at the last second… and crashed off the crossbar.

"Get the rebound!" Duarte shouted.

I rushed forward, slid in, and poked the loose ball into the net with the side of my boot. The sideline erupted. Duarte clapped me on the back so hard I stumbled. Vargas roared my name. Even the coach allowed himself a small smile as he watched the replay on his phone.

That goal, though in practice, was a turning point. It meant more than just finishing; it meant belief. It meant I could affect the game beyond defense and headers.

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Closing Moments

As the session wound down, we circled around the coach one last time. In typical Ríos fashion, he didn't single out names in front of everyone. Instead, he spoke to the group about resilience, about adapting, about knowing one's strengths.

When he was done, he glanced at me and said, "Keep working on that shot. The net won't always come to you."

I smiled and tucked the comment away. It hung in the air—my next challenge.

On the way back to the locker room, Duarte fell into step beside me. "Nice finish today," he said quietly. "Thought you might just spray it wide."

I laughed. "Thought I might too."

He shook his head. "You're full of surprises."

We reached the changing area. I peeled off the muddy bib, stashed my boots, and grabbed my bag. The chatter had shifted—my name floated in conversations about free kicks and midfielders who could score.

For the first time, I realized something important: talent might open doors, but attitude and hard work kept them from slamming shut.

[End of Chapter 10]