Chapter 15: The List

The morning air felt heavier than usual. You could tell something was coming, even before Coach Ríos walked in with the clipboard tucked under his arm like it held the keys to our futures.

We stood shoulder to shoulder in the locker room. Some guys were whispering. Others stretched in silence.

When Ríos finally spoke, the tone in his voice cut through everything.

"Next week," he said, "the Reserve team will hold a closed-door friendly. They're calling up a few from here. Not to play—just to observe."

He paused, let the silence sink in.

"You won't know who's picked until Friday. List goes up at noon. If your name's there, show up early. If it's not—keep working."

He didn't smile. Didn't soften it.

Then he turned and left.

---

Training that day was different.

Sharper.

Colder.

Passes were faster. Tackles were harder.

Suddenly, every mistake felt like it had weight.

Duarte barely spoke to anyone. Vargas barked orders like a sergeant.

Even Martínez, the guy who usually coasted through warm-ups, was sprinting like it was a final.

I stayed focused. Tried not to overthink.

But I could feel it.

Eyes on me.

Some curious. Some calculating.

That night, I barely touched my dinner. My mom asked what was wrong.

"Nothing," I said.

But inside, everything was noise.

---

The next morning, we were in the locker room early.

No one was joking. No music playing. Just the sound of cleats tapping the tile.

Around 11:55, guys started checking the hallway in turns.

At 12:03, someone yelled, "It's up!"

We all moved like a herd—half sprint, half silence.

The list was printed on a single white sheet, taped to the bulletin board outside the coaches' office.

I scanned it fast, heartbeat in my throat.

"OBSERVADOS PARA AMISTOSO RESERVA – MIÉRCOLES 10:00"

Duarte

Vargas

Sosa

Altamirano

Mercado

Iglesias

There it was. My name.

Not bolded. No asterisk.

Just there. Like it belonged.

---

I stood staring at it longer than I needed to.

"Hey."

I turned.

It was Sosa, same age as me. Quiet guy. We'd barely spoken more than ten words since I arrived.

"You played really well against Vélez," he said, almost shy. "You, uh… you see the passing lane before it's even open. That's rare."

I blinked. "Thanks."

He looked down, then back up.

"Don't let Duarte get in your head. He thinks he owns the midfield. But you've got something."

That hit different.

Not flattery. Just… honesty.

"You think we'll actually play?" I asked.

Sosa shrugged. "Doubt it. But they'll be watching. That's enough."

He extended his fist.

I bumped it.

It felt small, but real.

Maybe I wasn't alone in here anymore.

---

That evening, I stayed late after training, just juggling the ball under the setting sun.

One touch. Two. Three.

The number didn't matter. Just the rhythm.

My chest felt lighter.

Not because I'd made the list.

But because I'd made a step.

A quiet one.

But it was mine.

[End for chapter 15]