Chapter 17: Under the Microscope

Morning mist clung to the training ground as I laced my boots. The dew on the grass glistened like a million tiny lights beneath the floodlamps. Today was my second Reserve friendly—my first real test under the watchful eyes of coaches and the echo of senior expectations. I glanced over at Sosa, who waved and grinned.

"Ready, Skinny?"

I smiled at the old nickname, a reminder of the boy who'd outgrown mere labels."Always," I replied.

Coach Ríos gathered us on the sideline. No preamble—just a nod.

"Watch your runs, keep your head up, and remember: this is your audition," he said, voice low. "It's not about goals. It's about presence."

I swallowed, heart pounding.

We kicked off under a sky still painted with dawn. The Reserve team's jerseys were heavy—marked men, older by at least a year. From the first whistle, I felt the difference: their passes were sharper, their tackles firmer. My first touch under pressure was heavy; I corrected with a quick turn, but I could see the coach's eyes flick toward me.

In the eighth minute, a lanky midfielder closed me down hard as I received the ball near the wing. His elbow caught me in the ribs, a crack of bone and breath that stole my wind. I stumbled, vision blurring. He shrugged and sprinted on.

"Hey!" I yelled, but the referee only raised his whistle for a foul on the attacker. It felt wrong.

I pressed on, forcing the ache aside. Sosa jogged over and offered a bottle of water."Tough one," he said gently. "Shake it off."

I nodded, jaw clenched. I'd expected pressure—but not this. Everyone watched me, waiting for me to break.

Twenty minutes in, we moved to possession drills. Rotations of four attackers against three defenders in tight channels. I dropped deeper, seeking space. Each time I received the ball, two pairs of eyes closed in—Reserve defenders teaching me how little room I truly had.

I looked up to see Sosa in the next station, smiling. His confidence steadied me. I flicked a pass into his path; he one-touched it forward, and I darted after it. A quick give-and-go split the defenders.

I felt the ball hit my boot with sweet precision—one moment of clarity in a sea of chaos.

The onlookers on the sideline murmured. I heard Coach Ríos whisper something to the assistant: "He's finding his rhythm."

By halftime, I was drenched, panting, every muscle screaming. The Reserve coach gave us a curt thumbs-up and walked off. Ríos didn't debrief—just a simple gesture:

"Keep pushing."

Second half: small-sided match, four vs. four. Hurried passes. Breakaways. I noticed how often the defenders yelled instructions—no room for silent mistakes.

In the 50th minute, I received a cross-field ball near the center circle. I feinted a turn, then cut inside, leaving one man grasping at air. His teammate lunged and clipped my heel.

I hit the ground hard. Sharp pain in my ankle. I hissed. He didn't even apologize.

The whistle stayed silent.

I rose, teeth gritted, and took a deep breath.

I wanted to lash out. To respond with force. But then I saw Sosa's hand, steady on my shoulder: a reminder of why I was here.

I shook my head, straightened, and continued.

Less than five minutes later, Sosa won a loose ball and swung it toward me. I chested it down, spun, and clipped a low pass through the legs of the same defender who'd fouled me. The ball rolled to Sosa, who nodded and returned it to my feet.

That moment, the crowd of coaches leaned forward. I lifted my head and saw their eyes—calculating, evaluating, nodding.

Finding small victories felt like reclaiming control.

In the closing ten minutes, we played full-pitch with goalkeepers. The Reserve keeper was quick, swatting away low drives. But on one counter, I spotted a cracked space between two defenders. I sprinted into it, and Sosa fed me the ball. At the edge of the box, I turned and unleashed a curling shot—too high. It kissed the crossbar and bounced out.

I fell to my knees, breathless, staring at the wobbling bar. A collective exhale from the sidelines.

The final whistle blew: a draw. No scoreboard, but a sense of achievement hung in the air. We gathered in a tight huddle, jerseys sticky, chests heaving.

Coach Ríos stood before us. He didn't smile.

"Today, you earned their attention," he said. "You showed you belong under scrutiny. But remember: real tests come against real opponents who don't mark by coach's whistle. Be ready."

As we dispersed, Sosa slapped my back. "They saw you today. They'll talk."

I closed my eyes. The ache in my ribs faded beneath a thrill I'd never known.

[End of Chapter 17]