GOAT7

its the year 2014 14 Year old João Félix is a prodigious young talent playing in FC Porto's youth academy. Though physically undersized, he demonstrates exceptional spatial intelligence, technique, and tactical awareness. His teammates call him “O Mago” (The Magician) for the way he creates opportunities from impossible angles. His family is supportive but modest—his father a teacher, his brother Hugo a fellow academy player.

But João’s rise halts abruptly when he is cut from the FC Porto youth system, with the reason cited as “developmental concerns” (a euphemism for being too small and not physically developed enough). The decision devastates him. Suddenly, the player everyone was talking about disappears from the football world. Teammates stop replying to his messages. His name fades from league records. No clubs call. João becomes invisible.

He returns to Viseu, haunted by shame and self-doubt. He refuses to train. Watches old match footage in silence. The once-prodigy now battles depression and isolation.

Then, during a solo jog, João notices a man watching him from afar. This man, Tiago, introduces himself as a former analyst from Porto. He presents João with a notebook—filled with diagrams and data focused solely on João’s off-the-ball movements. Tiago offers him something no one else has: belief and a new system of training. He calls it “Jogo Sem Bola”—the game without the ball.

João accepts. He will train in secret. No spotlight. No club. No recognition.

Just the work.

The Ghost of Portugal

Chapter 8 – The Offer (600 words)

João sat in the passenger seat, wet socks stuffed into his duffel bag. Tiago drove without music, eyes locked on the road. Rain whispered across the windshield. João replayed the scrimmage in his mind — not the goals, but the movement. The moments between touches. The half-second decisions.

"What's Benfica doing here?" he asked finally.

"They weren't invited," he said. "But word gets around."

João stared out the window. The Lisbon skyline blurred past.

Tiago turned to him briefly, jaw hard. "You needed to play like no one was watching."

João bit back a response. Tiago wasn't wrong. But it still felt like control — another decision made for him.

"They want a closed trial. No contracts. Just an observation. Two days from now."

João nodded, quietly. But his stomach twisted. Benfica. The club that passed on him the first time. The club where everything changed.

João exhaled. That pitch again. The one with the perfect turf and silent judgment.

"I'm not the same kid anymore," he muttered.

"No," Tiago agreed. "Now you're invisible. That's the difference."

The Seixal training ground gleamed under the morning sun. João stood at the edge of the pitch, heart pounding in his throat. The boots on his feet didn't feel like his. The air smelled of trimmed grass and filtered pressure.

He scanned the faces around him — ten trialists, some from Angola, some from Madeira. Tall, fast, built like machines. A few are already whispering about João.

A coach in the Benfica red barked instructions. The warm-up started. Quick touches. One-two drills. João focused on his feet. Not his breath. Not his nerves. The system, he reminded himself. Space. Timing. Disguise.

Three touches max. Eleven aside. Benfica U19s mixed with trialists. João's team wore yellow bibs. The ball barely found him in the first ten minutes.

A switch pass came flying, waist-high. João deadened it with his thigh, turned blindside, and released the ball into the channel without breaking stride.

Ten minutes later, he dropped deep, scanned once, then fed a vertical pass between the lines — clean, silent, devastating. The striker latched on. Shot. Bar. Goal.

João didn't celebrate. He was already rotating wide, dragging defenders with him.

On the sidelines, a suited man stepped forward. Director? Agent?

João didn't notice. He was too locked in.

He played for thirty-five minutes.

No goals. No stepovers. Just clean touches, invisible movement, and plays that created plays.

The coach gathered them all mid-field.

"Good intensity," he barked. "A couple of you showed something. João Félix—stay behind."

Heads turned. Someone swore under their breath.

João stepped forward. The rest jogged off, muttering.

The coach handed him a folded piece of paper. "Report to the office tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. You'll speak with the director."

The coach turned and walked off. João stood there, sweating under the Lisbon sun, paper clenched in his hand like a passport to a life he'd already lost once.

Later, on the train ride back, João sat alone. Tiago hadn't come. Said it was João's test to face.

But João felt the weight behind it.

They hadn't seen his suffering. His rebuild. They hadn't watched him sweat through The System. They just saw the result.

Or burn it down and build his own.

The offer