Chapter 5 – Miguel's Secret and the Lisbon Scouts
Chapter 5 – Miguel's Secret and the Lisbon Scouts
A week after the inter-squad match, whispers began floating around the training center—quiet, electric whispers that moved from boy to boy like wind through dry leaves.
"They're coming."
"From Lisbon."
"Real scouts. Benfica. Maybe even Sporting."
No one knew for sure. But the coaches moved with sharper eyes, and the drills grew more intense. The boys started to measure each other not just as teammates, but as rivals. Passes were cleaner. Runs were harder. Eyes, more focused.
But amidst the tension, two boys remained calm.
Jota.
And Miguel.
---
Miguel had quickly become Jota's closest friend at the center. They trained together, ate together, sat side by side on the bus. But Jota knew little about his past—until one rainy afternoon.
They were sitting under the metal awning outside the gym, sheltering from a sudden downpour. Miguel leaned against his duffel bag, silent. Then he said, "You know I don't live in Viseu, right?"
Jota glanced over. "No?"
"I live nowhere."
Jota blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I sleep where I can. Train station. Old buildings. Sometimes a cousin takes me in, but not for long."
Jota didn't reply. The wind howled in the gaps of the roof above.
"I had a home once," Miguel continued, "in Aveiro. Then my father left. My mother got sick. After that, I moved from place to place. But football… football stays the same no matter where I sleep."
Jota didn't ask more. He just pulled the zipper of his coat higher and offered the rest of his bread roll.
Miguel took it without a word.
---
Three days later, Coach Ribeiro announced the match.
"A full 11-a-side scrimmage. Lisbon scouts will attend. You don't need to be perfect. You need to show you care."
He didn't name the clubs. But everyone already knew.
Benfica. Sporting. Two giants of Portuguese football.
And possibly the only door out.
The boys buzzed. João Pedro claimed he would dribble past everyone. Vasco said he bought new cleats just for the match.
Jota remained quiet. He'd played in stadiums before. But this... this was his second first step.
---
On the night before the match, Jota couldn't sleep.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing through the floorboards. It wasn't nerves. It was responsibility.
He thought of Ana. Of Helena's tired hands. Of Miguel's story. Of his own body—a boy's body—carrying the soul of a man who had once worn the red of Portugal.
He got up, pulled on a sweater, and stepped outside.
The moon hung low and pale. The wind was still. In the back yard, under the old tree, he juggled the ball in silence.
One. Two. Three.
He didn't count.
It was rhythm. Meditation.
Then he whispered to the wind:
"Don't let me waste this chance."
---
Match day.
Cold wind swept the field at the training center. Coaches zipped up their jackets. The boys lined up with stiff shoulders and dry mouths. Most wore nervousness like an extra layer of clothing.
Except Jota and Miguel.
They were both placed on Team Azul. Jota at left wing. Miguel in midfield.
Team Amarelo looked stacked—taller players, louder voices. One boy was rumored to be from a junior Sporting feeder team. Another had scored 10 goals in the past month.
But Coach Ribeiro gave only one instruction:
> "Play with your heart. Scouts don't sign tricks. They sign spirit."
The whistle blew.
The match began.
---
From the first touch, the game was tight. No one wanted to make a mistake. Passes were safe. Defenders cleared everything. The midfield was a battlefield of hesitation.
Ten minutes in, Miguel made his move.
He intercepted a pass near the center circle, looked up, and sent a perfect ball down the left line.
Jota had already taken off.
He reached the ball just before the defender, cut inside, feinted, and curled it low past the diving keeper.
1–0.
No cheers. Just a few claps from the sideline.
The scouts said nothing. But one wrote something in a notebook.
---
Team Amarelo equalized five minutes later with a header from a corner. Tension returned.
Jota didn't force anything. He drifted, read the game, found spaces. His passes were clean. His decisions, calm.
Then, just before halftime, he slipped a diagonal pass between two defenders. Miguel arrived like a bullet and slammed it into the net.
2–1.
They bumped fists. Quiet joy.
At halftime, Coach Ribeiro gave no praise. Just said, "Again."
---
Second half. The wind grew colder.
Team Amarelo came back aggressive. Hard tackles. Loud shouts. One rough challenge sent Miguel tumbling.
He stayed down longer than usual, clutching his knee.
Jota ran over.
"You okay?"
Miguel nodded, biting his lip. "It hurts. But I'm fine."
He limped, but refused to be subbed out.
That's when Jota decided.
He dropped deeper, closer to Miguel, to protect and connect. He stopped waiting for the ball. He went and got it.
And in doing so, the match changed.
He ran the midfield like a quiet general. Not with yelling—but with movement. Direction. Timing.
He passed through lines, split defenses, controlled tempo.
The scouts began paying attention.
And when the final whistle blew—3–2 to Team Azul—Jota walked off the field with mud on his boots, sweat in his eyes, and something heavier in his chest.
Not pressure.
But confirmation.
---
The next morning, Coach Ribeiro handed him an envelope.
"Give this to your mãe."
Jota held it like something sacred.
"What is it?"
"Interest. From Benfica. Lisbon wants to see you this summer."
Jota nodded slowly. "Obrigado, Mister."
Coach Ribeiro gave a rare smile. "You earned it."
---
That evening, Helena read the letter in silence. Ana peeked over her shoulder.
"Lisbon?" she gasped. "You're going to Lisbon?!"
Jota folded the letter carefully.
"If we can afford it," he said.
Helena rubbed her eyes. "We'll find a way. But promise me this—don't lose yourself there. Don't forget this village."
Jota looked out the window. The sun was setting over the hills.
"I won't."
---
But something tugged at his thoughts.
Miguel hadn't shown up to training that day.
Nor the next.
On the third day, Jota took the early bus and went looking. He found Miguel sitting under a bridge, backpack at his feet, a bruise darkening under one eye.
"What happened?" Jota asked.
Miguel looked away. "My cousin kicked me out. Said I'm too old to stay for free."
"Why didn't you call me?"
Miguel chuckled bitterly. "I don't even have a phone."
Jota stood. "Come. You're staying with us."
---
Helena didn't hesitate.
Miguel was given a blanket, a pillow, and a place at the table.
Ana shared her coloring books.
For the first time in weeks, Miguel slept with warmth on his skin.
That night, he whispered as he lay in the room with Jota:
"I didn't make the scout list."
Jota stared at the ceiling. "Doesn't matter."
"It does."
"Then we'll make them regret it. Together."
Miguel smiled faintly. "You're not normal, you know."
Jota turned to him. "Neither are you."
And somewhere between broken dreams and rising hope, two boys in a small Portuguese village quietly began building something unshakable.
A bond.
A future.
And perhaps—
A new legacy.
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