The San Lorenzo training ground was a sea of green under a sky heavy with the threat of rain, the air sharp with the scent of wet grass and anticipation. I stood at the edge of the pitch, my bag slung over my shoulder, its weight heavier than it should've been. Three days had passed since Papá placed my diary and phone in my hands, their edges worn from strangers' grip. Three days since I'd seen that flicker of something dark in his eyes, a shadow I couldn't name but felt in every quiet moment since. Mamá's worried glances followed me out the door this morning, her hands trembling as she poured the mate, but I hadn't asked. The questions were too big, too jagged, too close to the truth I wasn't ready to face.
I scanned the field, searching for Alexis. His grin was my lifeline, the one thing that could pull me back from the edge of my thoughts. He was there, juggling a ball near the sidelines, his curls bouncing with each touch. Ángel was beside him, his movements sharp, every flick of his boot a quiet declaration of his talent. They waved me over, but my steps dragged, my chest tight with something I couldn't shake.
"Flaco, you're late," Alexis called, tossing the ball my way. I trapped it with my chest, the motion automatic, but my mind was elsewhere. The Huracán tattoo from that night—the night I'd been jumped, my diary ripped from my hands—flashed behind my eyes. Papá's jaw had clenched when he handed it back, like he was holding back a storm. What had he done to get it? Who had he faced?
"You good?" Ángel asked, his dark eyes narrowing. He didn't say much, but he saw everything.
"Yeah," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just ready to leave you two in the dust."
Alexis laughed, but his eyes lingered, like he could see the cracks I was trying to hide. Before he could press, Coach Herrera's whistle pierced the air, sharp as a blade. "Circle up!" she barked, her clipboard tucked under her arm. Her gaze swept over us, pausing on Ángel, who stood a little taller today, like he knew something we didn't.
"Scrimmage today," she said, her voice cutting through the morning chill. "The reserve coach is watching. Show them you belong, or don't bother coming back."
My heart thudded, a mix of hunger and nerves. The reserve team—the next step toward the Nuevo Gasómetro, toward the dream that had burned in me since I was a kid kicking a battered ball under streetlights. But the weight of that night, of Papá's silence, clung to me like damp grass on my boots. And now, something new—a folded piece of paper I'd found in my bag this morning, slipped into the side pocket when I wasn't looking. I hadn't opened it yet. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
We started with a passing drill, the ball zipping between us in tight triangles. I moved on instinct, my body remembering what my mind wanted to forget. Alexis fed me a pass, and I flicked it to Ángel, who burst forward with a speed that left the others scrambling. He was different today—sharper, hungrier, like he could see the reserve pitch shimmering in the distance. Coach Herrera watched him, her clipboard forgotten, a rare glint of approval in her eyes.
The scrimmage came next, a brutal ten-a-side on a shortened pitch. I was slotted as the striker, Alexis on the left wing, Ángel drifting between midfield and attack on the opposing team. The ball came to me early, a long pass from the back. I controlled it, my first touch clean, but a defender was on me like a shadow. I tried to spin past, but my hesitation cost me—a heavy tackle sent me sprawling, the ball skittering out of bounds. A groan rippled through my teammates. My cheeks burned, the memory of my missed shots in the tryouts creeping back.
"Focus, Altamirano!" Herrera's voice sliced through my haze. I nodded, jaw tight, and jogged back into position. But every time I glanced at the sidelines, I half-expected to see Papá's silhouette—or worse, the tattooed arm from that night.
The game turned frantic, the ball ping-ponging between hurried touches and desperate clearances. Alexis weaved through two defenders, his cross curling perfectly into the box. I sprinted, timing my run, my body coiling as I leapt. My forehead met the ball with a satisfying thud, sending it toward the top corner. For a moment, I thought it was in—then it clipped the post, spinning wide. A collective groan rose from the sidelines. I cursed under my breath, hands on my hips, the sting of failure sharper than the tackle.
Ángel jogged past, his expression calm but his eyes blazing. "Next one's yours, Flaco," he said, his voice steady. But he was playing like a man possessed, every touch a statement, every run a challenge to the scouts in the stands. He scored the only goal, a curling shot that kissed the inside of the post, and the scouts scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
By the final whistle, we'd lost 1-0, and I was dripping with sweat, my legs heavy but my mind heavier. Herrera called us in, her face unreadable. "Some of you showed up today," she said, her eyes lingering on Ángel. "Others need to decide if they're here to play or to daydream."
I swallowed hard, her words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. As we trudged off the pitch, Alexis nudged me, his grin subdued. "Don't let it get to you, Flaco. You'll get the next one. But did you see Ángel? He's on another level."
I nodded, my throat tight. Pride for my friend mixed with a sharp pang of envy. Ángel was pulling ahead, and I was stuck, tangled in notes and shadows. "Heard the reserve coach was talking about him," Alexis added, his voice low. "They might pull him up soon."
My stomach twisted, but before I could respond, I reached for my bag. My fingers brushed the folded paper I'd found this morning, and my pulse quickened. I pulled it out, my hands trembling as I unfolded it. The handwriting was jagged, the ink smudged but unmistakable: "The game's just starting, Altamirano. Watch your back."
My breath caught, the Huracán tattoo flashing in my mind. I scanned the emptying stands, the floodlights casting long, jagged shadows across the pitch. For a moment, I swore I saw a figure move—just out of sight, just out of reach. Then it was gone, leaving only the chill of the note and the weight of a truth I couldn't ignore: whoever was watching me wasn't done yet.
[End of Chapter 26]