The pitch stank of rain and fertilizer. Studs ripped into the soft turf as boots chased the ball like hungry dogs. João didn't chase. He waited.
The ball spun across the surface like a skipped stone, flicked from the boot of the centre-back. João read it before it left. He cut in, shoulder dipped, weight shifting just enough to freeze the defender marking him. A whisper of space opened. That was all he needed.
Touch. Turn. Gone.
"Félix, wide!" someone shouted.
He didn't pass. He saw the left-back drifting, too slow, hips locked. João drove at him. A feint inside—right foot fake. The kid bit. João slipped past on the outside, edge of the box now. The keeper rushed near the post—wrong move.
João curled the ball low and inside the far post. Net rippled. Silence. Then the coach's whistle cut through the stillness like a knife.
"Again," the coach barked. "Build-up phase. Same pattern. Reset."
The defenders groaned. João jogged back, breathing steadily. His calves burned. Sweat streaked his neck. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Behind the fence, near the trees, a figure leaned with arms folded—hood up, still. João noticed him before. Not a parent. Not a scout. He hadn't moved all session.
They started again.
This time, the midfield pressed a bit harder. João dropped deeper, pulled a defender with him, then peeled into the half-space, receiving a diagonal ball on the half-turn. He ghosted between two midfielders, breaking their shape like cracking glass.
"Félix, release it!"
João drove forward. He saw the run from the striker, the gap in the channel. He played the ball—not to where the striker was, but where he'd be three seconds from now.
Perfect weight. Goal.
Again, no celebration. No smile. He knew what it looked like. He knew they'd talk about the pass.
But that man by the trees… still didn't move.
The coach clapped his hands. "Water break."
João jogged to the side. He didn't go to the team huddle. He walked toward the bench, grabbed a bottle, then turned and looked across the fence.
The man was gone.
He blinked.
No rustle in the trees. No movement. Gone.
"What are you looking at?" Rui, the striker, asked, elbowing him.
"Nothing."
João sipped water, eyes fixed on the place the man had been. It wasn't anything.
Not the way he stood.
Not the notebook in his hand.
Not the way he never watched the ball—only the space.
The break ended. João walked back to the pitch, adjusting his shin pads. His heart beat faster now. Not from the match. From the man.
He heard the whistle.
He exploded forward.
If someone was watching—really watching—they had to see everything. The way he vanished between the lines. The way defenders lost him. Not because he was fast. Not because he was strong.
Because he saw everything before it happened.
That was his edge. That was his game.
He wasn't trying to prove himself to the coach. Or the scouts. Or even to his teammates.
He was playing for the man in the shadows.
Whoever he was.
After the 3: 0 victory for porto i recievd a letter.
---