rodtang

In a neighborhood forgotten by hope, Lucas Altamirano had only two choices: survive or dream.
He chose to dream.

Football was his escape, his reason to believe. But in a world where every opportunity comes with a hidden price, Lucas will learn that talent isn't enough and that sometimes, chasing your dream demands everything you have... and everything you are.

A ball, a field, a boy willing to lose it all.
This is not just a story about football.
It’s a story about sacrifice, betrayal, and the brutal cost of believing in a better future.

How far would you go to make it?

The Price of Making it.

The morning after the match, I arrived at the training ground with my hoodie pulled tight and my bag slung low. My ribs still ached from the late challenge I took near the end of the game, but I didn't mind. Pain was a reminder. I'd earned it.

As I stepped into the hallway, something strange happened.

Not all of them. Not Duarte or Vargas—they already saw me as part of the team.

But some of the others. The ones who used to look through me like I didn't exist.

Even Martínez, the center-back who once told me I'd never make it, glanced at me without scowling.

It wasn't friendship. It wasn't a welcome party.

After training, I was called to the video room.

Coach Ríos stood at the front with his arms crossed, remote in hand. The projector lit up the wall with footage from yesterday's game—low resolution, shaky camera, but clear enough.

He didn't say anything at first. Just pressed play.

It was the play where I broke the line with that diagonal pass, the one that led to the goal.

"You didn't look," he said. "But you knew."

I nodded. "I saw the run before I got the ball."

He gave the slightest nod. "Good."

Then he skipped to another clip. This time, I took too long. Got closed down. Lost the ball.

"I thought the winger was coming short."

"He was," Ríos said, pausing the frame. "But your job isn't to guess. It's to feel the game. Trust the rhythm. And if you don't know—act anyway."

He rewound one last time and played it again, this time in slow motion.

"You're not there yet. But you're moving forward."

Coming from him, that was the highest praise I could have hoped for.

That night, my mom made pasta. Real pasta—not instant noodles, not leftovers from the day before. She lit a candle on the table even though there was no occasion. Or maybe there was.

"For what?" I asked, twirling the first bite onto my fork.

She smiled across the table. "For playing like someone who finally believes he belongs."

My dad didn't say much. He rarely did. But when I got up to grab a glass of water, I passed by the old family computer in the corner. On the screen, paused mid-frame, was a blurry replay of my assist.

He minimized it quickly when he noticed me. Said nothing.

Later that night, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. My body ached, but my mind wouldn't rest.

I grabbed my phone, more out of habit than hope.

Miguel (Field Guy): "I saw the pass, pibe. The one that broke the line. That's the kind of thing they don't teach you—they either feel it or they don't."

Miguel: "You're starting to look like a player, not just a kid with good feet. Keep it humble."

The shift wasn't just tactical. It was emotional.

My position on the field had changed—and so had the way people looked at me.

Coaches. Teammates. Even the ones who used to pass by like I was invisible.

But if you don't stay grounded… it can burn you too.

[End of Chapter 12]

Chapter 12: The Shift