Chapter 0
Twelve chairs, each one an exact copy of the others, were positioned around a single, imposing table. The table's surface was smooth and dark, reflecting the dim light like a still pond. No windows broke the starkness of the walls; there was no view of the outside world, just bare, unadorned surfaces. No signals, whether cellular or radio, could penetrate the room's defenses; calls and messages were blocked, isolating the occupants from the outside. The only indication that the room wasn't completely sterile was the soft, rhythmic pulse of a synthetic heart. It beat steadily and quietly from the very center of the black marble slab that formed the table's top, a subtle thump that could barely be heard. Above it, a display of data constantly swirled and shifted, with numbers and lines tracing the faint outline of a human body. The figure was spectral and incomplete, rendered in a ghostly pale blue light.
At the head of the table, Élodie Vaillant sat, the undisputed conductor of the meeting, though her power was exercised subtly. She stirred her espresso with slow, deliberate movements, each action precise and controlled. Her demeanor revealed no nervousness or haste; she was calm and collected.
"The market's stale," she began, her voice crisp and deliberate, each word perfectly formed and enunciated. "There are too many inflated egos to manage, too much unpredictable risk jeopardizing our investments. We need reliable performance that we can count on. Pure, raw talent, yes, but guided and controlled to minimize deviations. Predictable outcomes, every single time."
To her right, Dr. Hiroshi Muto carefully adjusted his hololens, making sure the device sat perfectly and comfortably on his face, ensuring an optimal viewing experience. With a subtle gesture, he then triggered the device, bringing a complex and detailed display to life. The simple rotating skeleton that had been visible moments before transformed, blooming into detailed layers of anatomical information that seemed to float in the air. Nerve pathways glowed with pulsating bright colors, muscles were meticulously wrapped in advanced nano-filament lattices, showcasing their extraordinary strength and resilience.
"Version Three is ready for deployment," he announced, his tone clinical and detached. "Full neural integration has been successfully achieved. Peak physical endurance is assured, allowing for extended performance. Reflex acceleration is significantly enhanced beyond natural human capabilities. Post-match detoxification can now be completed in under six hours, guaranteeing rapid recovery and minimal downtime."
Victor Denholm, always impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that discreetly hinted at his immense wealth and influence, leaned forward slightly, a practiced half-smile playing on his lips. "And the payment model for these enhanced athletes? How will we compensate these… assets, ensuring both their motivation and our profitability?"
"Result-based," Élodie stated firmly, brooking no argument. "There will be no guaranteed salaries that reward mediocrity, and no excessive image bonuses based solely on popularity or marketability. They earn strictly based on their demonstrated performance on the field. We're implementing a direct data-to-income translation system, a seamless link between achievement and reward. Success is directly and undeniably tied to compensation."
A heavy breath escaped Colonel Yusuf Kareem, who sat motionless in his chair, seemingly carved from stone, a figure of imposing silence. "What specific measures are in place to address potential risks if they fail to meet our stringent expectations? Or, even worse, if they decide to speak out against our operations, potentially exposing our activities?"
Lucia Rojas, her eyes fixed on her holopad, only now looked up, her expression carefully neutral and guarded, revealing nothing of her thoughts or intentions. "That scenario simply won't occur. Not if we exercise due diligence in selecting them correctly. We must keep the operation small, contained, and discreet to avoid unwanted attention. We specifically target players in lesser-known leagues and obscure tournaments, minimizing scrutiny. We seek out athletes with broken dreams, individuals desperate for a second chance to revive their careers. Hungry players, the ones no one remembers or notices, who would be unwilling to risk their last opportunity for success by betraying us."
Across the table, Nikolai Vetrova exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke from a slim, expensive cigarette, his eyes narrowed in a calculating gaze, and a smirk of dark amusement twisted his lips. "But what happens if our plans are too effective? What happens if they exceed our initial expectations and calculations? What if they become genuine stars, attracting worldwide attention?"
Élodie calmly sipped her espresso, her eyes never wavering from Vetrova's, maintaining direct eye contact. "Then we simply give them more opportunities and resources. We allow them to rise in prominence, carefully managing their trajectory. We allow them to believe their success is solely attributable to their own innate talent and unwavering hard work, nurturing their egos. Until the system requires them to be… more compliant and cooperative with our ultimate objectives."
Anil Bakshi, the team's highly efficient data operations lead, added his insights, his voice even and carefully controlled, displaying no emotion. "Our influence networks are already firmly established and prepared to manage their public image and trajectory. Media distraction protocols are also prepared and ready for immediate deployment should any unwanted scrutiny arise. Early retirements, if necessary, can be arranged discreetly and explained plausibly, ensuring minimal disruption. Burnouts are statistically expected, given the pressures involved, and we have fully accounted for them in our long-term projections."
Marta Gálvez, responsible for overseeing the ethical aspects of performance enhancement, folded her arms tightly across her chest, a troubled and conflicted expression evident on her face. "And the implants themselves? What assurances can you provide that there are no unforeseen or long-term side effects on the players' overall health and well-being?"
"Potential side effects are statistically minimal," Dr. Muto reassured her with practiced confidence. "Provided that individual performance thresholds are meticulously observed and never exceeded. However, it's essential to remember that the system inherently exploits the athletes' ambition, relentlessly pushing individuals to their absolute limits in pursuit of success. That intrinsic drive and unrelenting pressure always carries a degree of risk, regardless of our precautions."
Tomislav Havel, in charge of logistics and ensuring all player transfers are executed smoothly and without complications, glanced impatiently at his expensive watch, a subtle gesture conveying his focus on efficiency. "When do we officially initiate the comprehensive plan? When can we reasonably expect to begin seeing tangible results and a return on our considerable investment?"
"We already have," Élodie replied, a barely perceptible hint of a smile touching her lips, suggesting a quiet satisfaction.
René Strauss, who had remained remarkably silent throughout the entire meeting, observing everything with keen eyes, finally spoke, his voice barely audible above a whisper. "We're not really changing the fundamental nature of the game, are we? We are merely revealing and streamlining the inherent truth of what it has always been, existing beneath the surface glamour and the enthusiastic cheering from the crowds."
As René spoke, the lights above the table dimmed even further, casting the room into an oppressive darkness. The skeletal model that had been the focal point vanished completely, leaving only the unsettling feeling of its presence.
The twelve individuals seated around the table stood in complete silence, each deeply contemplating the weighty implications of their collective decisions. There would be no formal signatures on any official documents, no physical records of the meeting to be discovered. Only the profound and irreversible weight of decisions made in the shadows, a burden they would all carry.
Last to leave the room was Dr. Hiroshi Muto, who paused briefly at the heavy door, his gaze lingering on the now-empty space where the synthetic heart had pulsed moments before, its faint outline fading slowly into the all-encompassing darkness.
"Let the system choose its champions, and then let us skillfully and subtly guide them toward our desired outcomes," he murmured quietly, almost to himself.
Then, with a soft, barely audible hiss, the massive door sealed shut behind him, leaving the room empty, silent, and utterly isolated once more.
Chapter 1
The Sunday league pitch was more than just a field; it was a graveyard of ambition. A desolate place where dreams went to die a slow, agonizing death, and promising careers floundered and sank in the clinging mud. It was a stark and brutal reminder that not every dream reaches its crescendo, not every hopeful beginning finds a glorious end. Some simply fizzled out like damp fireworks, sputtering their last in the cold and the wet, unseen and unheard. Many promising young athletes, their eyes bright with hope and hearts full of unwavering belief, had stepped onto this very field, ready to conquer the world, only to find their grand aspirations slowly sinking into the mire, leaving them disillusioned, defeated, and questioning everything they thought they knew. The once-bright futures, once gleaming with possibility, dimmed and faded, swallowed by the unforgiving reality of the beautiful game and the relentless challenges that the pitch itself seemed to throw at anyone daring to dream.
It was the kind of place where dreams came to rot beneath the relentless drizzle, where hope was as scarce as dry ground, a commodity more valuable than gold. The Redwood Recreation Ground lay battered and broken, a forgotten patch of earth, unloved and uncared for, lost to the grime and grit of the sprawling city. Once, long ago, in a time almost forgotten, the pitch might have been a green jewel, proud and lush beneath the warm embrace of the summer sun. Locals would come to picnic on the sidelines, spreading blankets and sharing food, kids would chase stray balls with unbridled energy, and the air would be filled with the joyful sound of laughter, echoing through the trees. But now, those memories were ghosts. Now it was a swamp, a bog, a quagmire. Mud churned beneath every step, a thick, clinging goo that sucked greedily at your boots, threatening to steal your shoes with every stride, turning a simple run into an exhausting ordeal. Pools of water shimmered like oil slicks in the fading light, reflecting the grim sky above, turning the field into a distorted mirror of despair, a bleak reflection of shattered hopes. The grass was torn and patchy, barely clinging to life, offering no purchase for a decent pass, no grip for a well-timed tackle, making every play a treacherous gamble, a roll of the dice in the hopes of avoiding disaster. The vibrant memories of summer days seemed like distant echoes, fading whispers from a forgotten past, swallowed whole by the relentless decay and the suffocating gloom.
Rain hammered down in relentless sheets, the kind of rain that made the air thick and heavy, pressing down on you like a physical weight, soaking into your bones no matter how many layers you wore in a futile attempt to keep dry. It ran in rivulets down your neck and into your boots, a constant, chilling intrusion that no amount of willpower could block out. It fell in a steady roar, a deafening curtain of water, drowning out everything but the slap of boots on wet earth and the occasional barked command from the sidelines, rendering careful strategy and tactical planning useless in the face of nature's overwhelming fury. The floodlights sputtered overhead, their glow intermittent, flickering like the last gasps of a dying man, casting a ghostly pall over the entire scene, turning the players into spectral figures. One buzzed with a high-pitched whine that grated on the nerves, a piercing sound that added a layer of auditory torture to the already miserable conditions, a constant reminder of the bleakness of the situation. Their pale beams cut weakly through the storm, casting long, jagged shadows that danced and twisted with every gust of wind, making the players seem like grotesque figures in a macabre ballet, their movements exaggerated and distorted in the flickering light, as if controlled by some unseen, malevolent force.
The match wasn't just a game; it was a war zone. A brutal battle for survival, fought inch by muddy inch, a test of endurance and willpower. Two teams faced off in this soggy hell, each fighting for scraps of glory and the pride that still flickered stubbornly beneath the surface, refusing to be extinguished. Every tackle was a risk, a potential injury waiting to happen, every pass a gamble against the elements, a constant struggle against the unforgiving conditions and the relentless opposition. The Redwood Rangers, a scrappy bunch stitched together from has-beens clinging to their last chance, never-weres who never lived up to their potential, and one or two might-bes still daring to dream, clung desperately to a narrow 1-0 lead against the formidable Dockyard Dogs. They were the underdogs, the underfunded, the underappreciated, fighting with the desperation of men who knew this might be their last chance, their fading hopes pinned on this one game, this one moment to prove themselves. The Dogs were a different breed altogether—built like brick walls, immovable and brutal, their every challenge a battering ram intended to break bone as well as spirit, to crush their opponents both physically and mentally. They played with a ruthless efficiency, their eyes cold and devoid of any sympathy, driven by a single-minded determination to crush their opponents, to dominate the field and claim victory at any cost.
And in the middle of it all, orchestrating the chaos, driving his team forward, was Rocco Accorso.
He wasn't just playing a game; he was a man on fire, a force of nature unleashed.
His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, strands slipping into his eyes, the rain mixing with sweat, creating a stinging film as he charged forward through the muck, his determination unwavering. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to the hard planes of his torso, muscles tensing and flexing with every furious stride, a testament to his raw power and athleticism. To watch Rocco play was to watch a man not just moving with purpose, but fighting—warring with everything he had, body and soul, against the elements, against the opposition, against his own limitations. There was no casual touch in his game, no quiet control or subtle finesse. Every touch was a declaration, a statement of intent, every run a battle cry, a physical embodiment of relentless determination and unyielding passion.
He barreled past a defender, mud spraying like cannon fire, a shower of brown droplets exploding from beneath his boots. His voice cracked through the rain, sharp as a blade, cutting through the storm like a lightning strike.
"Move, idiota!"
The defender lunged, desperate to stop him, but Rocco spun, slipping through the clutches like smoke, as elusive as a phantom. The man tumbled, face planting in the wet earth, swallowed by the mud, humiliated and defeated.
The crowd erupted.
Thirty soaked, miserable souls, packed under umbrellas, tarps patched together like a second skin, shielding them from the worst of the downpour, shouting and cheering through the storm, their voices hoarse but filled with unwavering support. Their voices were ragged but fierce, a ragtag choir singing in the tempest, united by their shared misery and unwavering support for their local team.
On the wing, Jackie Terrzas watched, silent and calculating, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
Jackie was the yin to Rocco's yang—lean where Rocco was broad, calm where Rocco was fire, a study in contrasts. He moved with a grace that seemed effortless, like smoke slipping through cracks, his movements fluid and precise. His eyes were sharp and quick, taking in the chaos and parsing it into a thousand possibilities in an instant, analyzing the field, predicting the plays, always one step ahead. His Spanish lilt cut through the cold air, smooth but edged with steel, a calm voice of reason in the midst of the storm.
"Rocco, tranquilo," Jackie called, voice low but firm, his words carrying a weight of authority. "You're going to get yourself sent off."
Rocco's grin was wild, teeth flashing in the dim light, a flash of defiance and untamed energy.
Jackie shook his head, lips twitching with reluctant amusement, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
The ball found Jackie's feet next, and suddenly the game shifted, the momentum swinging in the Rangers' favor. The chaos slowed, time bending around him like a bubble, as if he could control the flow of the game. Defenders closed in, but Jackie was already two steps ahead, anticipating their moves, predicting their intentions. A feint left, a flick right—he slipped through the Dogs' defense with the ball glued to his boots, a magician weaving his spell.
"¡Vamos!" came the shout from the sideline, urging him forward.
Jackie didn't need the encouragement. He saw the gap before it even opened, visualizing the play before it unfolded, and he slid a pass with surgical precision, as accurate as a guided missile. The ball traced a perfect arc, a beautiful curve against the grey sky.
Rocco met it with a thunderous strike, a shot of pure power and precision.
THWACK.
The crossbar rattled, the sound echoing like a gunshot, a loud, resonating clang that reverberated through the air. The Dogs' goalkeeper flinched, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat, knowing he had been beaten.
"Mierda," Jackie muttered under his breath, a touch of frustration in his voice.
Rocco laughed, the sound raw and defiant, unbowed and unbroken.
"Next time, eh?"
The whistle blew for halftime, slicing through the storm like a knife, bringing a temporary reprieve from the relentless battle.
The Rangers retreated under a leaking canopy, huddled together for warmth and shelter, the cold rain turning their breaths to mist in the damp air. Their coach, MacAllister, was a grizzled old Scot, weathered by years of battles fought in the rain and mud, his face a roadmap of hard-won victories and bitter defeats. His face was lined with years of experience, but his eyes were sharp and unforgiving, missing nothing.
He spat into the mud, a spray of brown droplets that landed with a soft plop, a gesture of disgust and frustration.
"You're playing like you've never met each other," he growled, voice low and rough, his Scottish brogue thick with disapproval. "Except you two." He jabbed a finger at Rocco and Jackie. "You're the only ones who look like you give a damn."
Rocco wiped rain from his face, eyes burning with fierce pride, refusing to back down.
"What'd you expect gaffa?"
Jackie said nothing, his gaze fixed on the far sideline, where something—or someone—caught his attention, drawing his focus.
A man stood there, tall and immaculately dressed, the sharp crease of his overcoat untouched by the rain, as if he were immune to the elements. His shoes gleamed as if freshly polished, reflecting the dim light, and his shirt was crisp and white beneath the dark coat, a stark contrast to the muddy chaos surrounding him. He wasn't shouting, wasn't cheering with the crowd, wasn't showing any emotion. He simply watched, unmoving, like a predator surveying its prey, calculating and assessing. The contrast between his pristine appearance and the muddy chaos of the field was striking, highlighting his detachment and purpose, setting him apart from the rest.
"Who's that?" Jackie asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
MacAllister's face darkened, the faintest shadow crossing his features, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
"Scout."
Rocco's head snapped up, eyes narrowing, his competitive instincts kicking in.
"For who?"
"Does it matter?" The coach's voice was bitter, laced with cynicism. "They're all the same. They chew you up and spit you out."
Jackie didn't look away, his gaze unwavering. The scout met his eyes and nodded once, sharp and sure, as if acknowledging him, recognizing his talent.
Like he'd already made up his mind, as if he had already seen everything he needed to see.
The second half was a brutal test of stamina and resilience.
The rain didn't ease; it intensified, turning the field into a swamp. The pitch worsened, sucking at the players' boots with every step, turning sprints into struggles and tackles into battles against the earth itself. The Dockyard Dogs pressed relentlessly, pounding forward with a desperation that only grew as the minutes slipped away, their frustration mounting with each failed attempt to break through the Rangers' defense.
Rocco was everywhere—chasing down loose balls, throwing his body into tackles, driving forward with an untamed fury that electrified the Rangers, inspiring his teammates to fight harder. Jackie was the calm in the storm, his feet dancing through the mud, threading passes and finding space where none seemed to exist, his movements a study in controlled chaos, a display of skill and precision.
Every moment was a struggle, every breath a battle against exhaustion and despair.
With just five minutes left, the Dogs won a corner, a last-ditch opportunity to equalize.
The ball swung in like a scythe, cutting through the rain, a dangerous cross aimed at the heart of the Rangers' defense.
Rocco leapt high, twisting through the air with the grace of a wildcat, his body a coiled spring. His head struck the ball with a thunderous crack, a resounding impact that echoed across the field.
The ball flicked just over the bar, narrowly missing the target.
The crowd groaned, the sound low and pained, a collective expression of disappointment and anxiety.
Jackie sprinted back, eyes fierce, ready to defend, prepared to do whatever it took to protect their narrow lead.
The Dogs pressed forward, waves of attack crashing against the Rangers' desperate defense, a relentless onslaught.
When the final whistle blew, the Rangers erupted in celebration, their relief palpable.
They slapped backs, shouted, and laughed, faces slick with rain and mud but lit with triumph, their joy uncontainable. Rocco roared, lifting Jackie onto his shoulders as if they'd conquered the world itself, a gesture of camaraderie and shared victory. The muddy earth beneath their boots was soaked in sweat and determination, a testament to their hard work and unwavering spirit.
Then the scout moved forward, his presence commanding attention.
Up close, the man smelled like money—sharp cologne, the scent of fresh shirts and shoes that had never seen the mud, an aura of wealth and privilege.
"Rocco Accorso,"The italian introduced himself, voice cool and deliberate, his tone suggesting he was used to being listened too. Jackie followed suit
"Jackie Terrezas."
Rocco's grin didn't fade, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"You here to offer us a contract, amico?"
The scout's smile didn't reach his eyes, his expression remaining guarded and professional.
"Something like that."
"Trials?" Jackie asked, voice barely steady, trying to contain his excitement.
The scout tilted his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Call them… auditions."
MacAllister stepped forward, voice rough and warning, his tone filled with concern.
"Don't do it, lads."
Rocco was already opening his envelope, eyes bright, his gaze fixed on the promise of a better future.
"Why not?"
The coach's voice dropped, heavy with years of regret, his words carrying the weight of experience.
"Because nothing is free. Especially not this."
The scout ignored him, dismissing his concerns.
"You'll need to undergo some… physical evaluations. Standard procedure."
Jackie's stomach twisted, a knot of unease forming in his gut.
"What kind of evaluations?"
The scout's smile widened, revealing a hint of something unsettling.
"The kind that'll see everything."
Jackie stared at the scout, the words hanging heavy in the rain-thickened air, a sense of foreboding washing over him. His fingers tightened around the envelope as if it might burn him, as if it contained something dangerous. Trials? Auditions? Evaluations? What the hell did that mean? His mind spun, racing through every story he'd ever heard about scouts, contracts, promises made—and broken, dreams realized—and shattered. The potential rewards were immense, a chance to escape their current lives, but the potential pitfalls were terrifying, the risk of exploitation and disappointment ever-present.
The scout—Antonio Ferrara—held both invites out to them. His eyes, once soft and observing, had hardened with quiet expectation. He seemed to be weighing their worth, assessing their potential to deliver on the promise he saw in them, scrutinizing their every move.
"You don't have to decide right now," he said, "but if you want this—if you really want this—sign the documents tonight."
Jackie and Rocco exchanged another glance. This one didn't feel competitive or wary. It was solemn. Heavy. Final. This was the moment of truth, the point of no return. The decision they made now would shape the course of their lives, for better or for worse, a defining moment that would determine their futures.
Jackie reached for the Manchester City contract first. "You said you saw me in the second half?"
"I saw you dominate the left side. I saw you tracking back, fighting for every ball, starting plays from nothing. That's not just skill. That's vision."
Jackie nodded slowly. He liked that answer. It validated his hard work, his dedication to the game. It meant that someone had noticed the hours he spent honing his craft, perfecting his technique, sacrificing everything for his dream.
Rocco took his copy next. He ran his finger across the embossed Juventus crest, like he was trying to feel its truth, to ascertain whether it was real or just another illusion.
"And me? You want me for my goals?"
Ferrara chuckled, a low, knowing sound.
"I want you because your third goal didn't look like a striker trying to impress. It looked like instinct. And instinct at this level is rare."
They didn't need to hear anything else, his words sealing their decision.
Ferrara reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. "Now," he said, tapping quickly, "I'm going to need both of your numbers. I'm sending over some forms electronically—parental waivers, trial agreements, travel clearances."
Rocco gave his number first, eager to move forward. Jackie followed, his heart pounding in his chest.
Almost instantly, both phones buzzed with a flurry of links and messages, a deluge of information.
"Go through everything carefully. Sign the digital copies tonight. I've already emailed your guardians the same paperwork."
Jackie's heart thudded, a wave of panic washing over him. "Wait…my mum—?"
"She'll be contacted officially, yes. She'll be fine with it," Ferrara said smoothly, his tone reassuring but firm. "Trust me. You'll have time to talk to her tonight."
Rocco nodded, swallowing hard, trying to contain his nerves. "So what happens next?"
Ferrara stood and adjusted his coat, his movements precise and deliberate. "Tomorrow night. Come back to this field by 10:15 PM sharp. You'll each be picked up by a driver. We've arranged airport shuttles, checked in your flights, and reserved your hotel rooms. You don't have to worry about anything."
Jackie blinked, taken aback by the speed of events. "Wait—this soon?"
Ferrara offered a tight smile, a hint of impatience in his expression. "You don't pause when a door opens, boys. You walk through it before it shuts."
With that, he turned and walked out, his polished shoes clicking on the sidewalk as he disappeared into the night, leaving them standing in the rain, the weight of their decision pressing down on them, their lives about to change forever.
They stood there under the lamp post, the quiet of the park thick around them, the silence broken only by the sound of the rain.
Jackie opened the contract email and scanned it, his thumb hovering over the signature button, a moment of hesitation.
"You think this is real?" he asked quietly, his voice laced with doubt.
Rocco didn't answer for a moment, his gaze fixed on the contracts. Then he glanced up, the edges of his mouth curling into the smallest grin, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "If it's a scam, it's the most convincing one I've ever seen."
Chapter 2
That night was filled with chaos—the kind that lives not outside, but inside your chest, beating against your ribs like it's trying to get out.
Rocco Accorso pedaled home with fire still burning in his legs, the wind scraping past his ears, the hum of adrenaline carrying him faster than he had ever cycled. The streets of the neighborhood were still, shadows stretched long under flickering street lamps. The old brick apartment block on Via San Giovanni looked like it always did—tired, a bit crooked, but standing.
He leaned his bike against the fence and took the steps two at a time.
The door creaked softly as he entered.
Inside, the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Nonna was already asleep. Rocco knew because her TV wasn't muttering reruns from the tiny room near the back. But someone was still up.
In the kitchen, his mother, Grazia Accorso, sat at the table folding laundry. A small table lamp threw a soft yellow light across her face and made shadows dance under her cheekbones. She didn't look up.
"You're late," she said, her voice low, like a warning. She folded a pair of socks slowly, precisely.
Rocco stood frozen for a moment in the hallway. His chest was still heaving from the ride, and his cleats clicked against the floor as he stepped forward.
"Ma…" he began, but his voice caught halfway.
That one word—Ma—carried more weight than anything he'd ever said. And something in his tone made her stop.
Grazia looked up, eyes narrowing.
She saw the glow on his face. Not sweat or fatigue—no, it was something else. Breathless awe. The stunned silence of someone who had touched a dream and still felt it tingling in his fingers.
Her brows furrowed, but she stood up slowly, folding her arms.
"Che hai fatto?" she asked. What have you done?
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. Still catching his breath, he began.
"The match today… Ma, it wasn't just a match."
Her lips pressed together. She said nothing, just watched him with that sharp-eyed stillness only Italian mothers had.
"There was a man," Rocco continued. "Antonio Ferrara. He's a scout. From Juventus UK."
Grazia blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, but she still didn't speak.
"He said he's been watching me. He saw me play against Kingston. And again today."
Her hands slowly lowered to her lap. The washing forgotten.
"He offered me a trial," Rocco said, eyes blazing. "In Italy. In Turin. Ma, è vero. He said there's a place—an open spot in their Primavera squad. They're flying me out in two days. A real shot."
Silence hung between them. Heavy. Alive.
Finally, she breathed in through her nose, then out through her mouth, slow and careful.
"You're telling me…" she said in Italian now, her voice barely above a whisper, "that a Juventus scout watched you play today and offered you a trial. And you're leaving for Italy. Just like that."
He nodded.
She stared hard, her eyes glinting.
"Che vuoi che dica?" she asked, not accusing, but truly asking. What do you want me to say?
"I don't know," Rocco admitted. "I don't even know how to feel yet."
Grazia rose from her seat, turned her back, and walked to the kitchen counter. She gripped the edge of the sink, breathing deeply. Her black hair, streaked with silver, fell in a tired braid down her back.
"Do you remember when you were ten," she said without turning around, "and you broke your arm sliding into the goal during that match in the rain?"
He nodded, though she couldn't see him.
"You came home soaking wet, blood on your sleeve, and you cried—not because of the pain, but because you said you couldn't train the next week. That's when I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That this wasn't just a game to you. That this… was going to be your life. Whether I wanted it or not."
She turned now, her expression softening.
"You always chased it," she said, her voice breaking a little. "Even when it didn't make sense. Even when we couldn't afford the cleats or the bus ride to matches. You never stopped."
Rocco stared down at his hands. They were rough, scarred, fingers slightly crooked from a dozen small injuries. But tonight, they felt like hands that could build something.
"I didn't think it would come this fast," he said.
His mother walked back and sat down across from him again.
"It never does," she murmured. "But you're ready."
A silence passed, more peaceful this time.
"You have the contract?" she asked, switching back to English.
"No—well, not yet. I have the itinerary. The trial first. If I impress them…" He stopped himself. "When I impress them, they'll talk contracts."
She nodded slowly. "You'll take your good boots?"
"The Mizuno pair, yeah."
"Not the white ones. They squeak."
He chuckled, the tension easing a little.
"I'll pack them both."
They sat in silence again, the fridge humming behind them like a distant song.
"I'll talk to your nonna," Grazia said quietly, almost like she was speaking to herself. "She'll be scared. But she'll understand."
Rocco looked toward the hallway that led to Nonna's room.
"She always said I'd end up playing for the big boys," he said.
"Mm-hm. But she thought you'd play for Napoli," Grazia smirked.
They both laughed.
Then Rocco's laughter faded, and his smile dimmed just a little.
"Ma…"
"Hmm?"
"I'm scared."
She reached across the table, took his hand. Hers was dry, calloused from years of working—first as a seamstress, then later as a cleaner in the mornings and a hotel laundry worker at night.
"You're allowed to be," she said. "This is the leap. Every man has one in his life. This is yours."
He squeezed her hand.
"Just promise me something," she said, her eyes locking on his.
"Anything."
"Don't lose yourself. Not for fame, not for money, not even for the badge. You hear me?"
He nodded. "I promise."
She smiled, tired and proud.
"Va bene," she whispered. "Now go shower. You smell like turf and nerves."
As Rocco stood up, he suddenly paused, looking back.
"Can I leave a letter for Nonna? In case I don't get to tell her everything?"
His mother nodded.
"There's paper in the drawer."
He pulled out a sheet, sat back down, and scribbled a short letter in Italian. It was messy, full of love, and ended with Ti voglio bene sempre, tuo Rocco.
By the time he finished, Grazia had cleared the laundry and was putting the kettle on.
"Tea?" she asked.
"Please."
As the water boiled, Rocco leaned against the counter, watching her. The kitchen, with its chipped tiles and fridge covered in family photos and old supermarket magnets, suddenly felt very far from where he was going.
"Do you think Papa would be proud?" he asked softly.
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Your father always thought you should be a lawyer."
Rocco smirked.
"Then maybe it's best he's not around to see me in boots."
She turned fully and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"But yes," she said, gently. "He'd be proud. Deep down, he'd be bragging at the café already."
They sipped tea together in the quiet until the clock struck one.
"You should sleep," she said. "Big day tomorrow."
Rocco nodded, finishing his cup.
As he turned to go, she called out one last time.
"Rocco."
"Yeah?"
She smiled.
"Don't forget who you are. You're still the boy who slid in the rain."
He grinned, his heart full.
"Always."
And with that, he walked to his room, the letter tucked under his arm, dreams racing just ahead of him.
Chapter 3
The bus dropped Jackie off two streets from his block, tires hissing on the soaked asphalt. The rain had let up but left the pavement slick and glittering under streetlamps. His cleats dangled over his shoulder by the laces, mud still clinging to the studs like old memories. A white plastic bag—his makeshift boot cover—swung from his wrist.
He passed Mr. Delgado's corner shop, still lit but quiet. Turned the corner by the broken stop sign. Up the concrete stairs with the chipped red paint. The buzz of the intercom barely worked, so he knocked.
His mum opened the door before the third tap.
She stood in her slippers and a faded Barça hoodie, arms crossed. Her dark hair was tied in a bun with loose strands curled against her cheeks. The scent of arroz con pollo wafted out, warm and familiar.
"Jackie," she said, her voice a mix of worry and relief.
"I know I'm late."
"You're lucky your papa is working. He would've locked you out."
Jackie tried to smile, but his face stayed flat. He stepped inside, dripping. His socks squelched.
She followed him to the kitchen. The table was set for one—his. A plate covered in foil. She peeled it back and pushed it toward him wordlessly. Steam rose from the rice.
He sat down and ate in silence. She watched.
It was only when he finished, wiped his mouth, and leaned back that she said it.
"¿Entonces?" Her tone was clipped, but her eyes were soft.
He inhaled.
"They're flying me out tomorrow," he said. "City."
She didn't react.
"Mamá," he said gently. "This is happening."
"I thought maybe… you'd change your mind."
Jackie shook his head slowly.
"They want to see me play again. I need to go."
She turned her back to him, fiddling with a pot on the stove that didn't need stirring. Her voice came out quiet.
"I kept thinking it was a phase. You know how many boys dream of fútbol? But now…"
She trailed off.
He stood and walked over, resting his hand on her shoulder.
"It's not a phase."
She laughed dryly. "You think I don't know? You used to cry when I made you take your boots off for dinner."
Jackie smiled at the memory.
She finally turned to him.
"Mi amor… this is not easy for me. You're not just going to another city. You're going into a world that doesn't love boys like you."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do." Her voice cracked. "In Spain, maybe. Here? In England? They see your skin and your name and think bench. Or worse."
"Mamá," he said softly, "City saw something else."
"That's what scares me. That they'll take that light in your eyes and burn it out."
Jackie's jaw tensed. "You always told me I had to be twice as good."
She looked at him, eyes shining. "And I hate that I had to say it."
They stood in silence for a while. The clock ticked above the fridge. Somewhere outside, sirens whined distantly.
"I'm not going to let them break me," he said at last. "You raised me too strong for that."
She touched his cheek, thumb tracing the side of his face like she had when he was a toddler.
"You'll call me when you land?"
"Sí, mamá."
"You'll eat properly?"
"Swear."
"No partying, no girls, no nonsense."
He grinned. "City's academy, not Ibiza."
She laughed a little through her tears.
"Come on," she said, turning away. "Your suitcase is a disaster. Let's pack properly."
Chapter 4
The floodlight buzzed faintly overhead, a lonely, high-pitched whine, almost insect-like, that cut through the otherwise still night, its beam a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness, casting long, stretched-out shadows over the empty, neatly lined pitch at Redwood Recreation Ground. The painted white lines of the pitch, usually vibrant under the daylight sun, seemed to extend into infinity, disappearing into the gloom, hinting at the endless possibilities and challenges that lay ahead for Jackie and Rocco. It was nearly 10 PM—the kind of late that felt like a secret whispered between the stars, a time when the world held its breath. The air was cool, damp with the lingering smell of fresh-cut grass, a scent both familiar and comforting, a constant presence throughout their childhoods, now mixed with the promise of rain that hung heavy in the air, promising a cleansing shower, and the white goalposts loomed like pale, silent sentries under the vast, dark sky, guarding the memories held within the field, the victories and defeats, the laughter and tears.
Jackie leaned back against the worn wooden bench where they'd sat earlier that morning, strategizing and dreaming, the rough wood pressing uncomfortably against his spine, a minor annoyance he barely registered, legs bouncing nervously, an uncontrollable tremor betraying his inner turmoil, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his knees, each tap a beat of anticipation and apprehension. "He said ten-fifteen, no? Not later?" His voice was quick, clipped slightly at the edges, betraying the anxiety he tried to conceal beneath a veneer of confidence, the question hanging in the air, demanding reassurance. His eyes darted toward the road, scanning it every few seconds, searching for any sign of the promised arrival, the headlights that would signal the start of a new chapter, his patience wearing thin with each passing moment.
Rocco stood a few feet away, a solid, reassuring presence, shifting his weight from foot to foot, the heavy canvas of his duffel bag hanging heavy off one shoulder, a tangible representation of the dreams he carried, packed alongside his cleats and training gear, the weight a constant reminder of the opportunity that awaited him. "Yeah. He's not the kind to be late. Not with the way he talked on the phone. Clean. Precise." He said it like he was quoting someone important, someone whose words carried weight, a mentor, a guide, someone who understood the stakes. "He'll come."
They'd chosen Redwood for the meet-up because it felt right. Safe. Familiar. It wasn't just a field; it was their field. The one they'd torn up as kids, their knees perpetually scraped and grass-stained, a badge of honor earned through countless hours of play, split open with slide tackles that sent dust and shouts of joy into the air, the echoes of their youthful exuberance still lingering in the night. The one where Jackie had screamed himself hoarse when Rocco scored his third goal last Sunday, a hat trick that felt like a culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and shared ambition, where scouts had watched in silence from the sidelines as everything changed, their futures hanging in the balance, their destinies intertwined.
Now the pitch just sat still, quiet like it was holding its breath, anticipating the next chapter in their story, a story of friendship, ambition, and the pursuit of a dream.
Jackie rubbed his palms together, the cool air raising goosebumps on his skin, a physical manifestation of the nerves that threatened to overwhelm him. "You bring everything?"
"Cleats. Trial shirt. The blue one." Rocco tilted his head slightly, double-checking his mental inventory, ensuring nothing was forgotten, a meticulousness born from years of preparation. "Gloves. Toothbrush. Extra socks."
Jackie grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light, a brief moment of levity in the midst of the tension. "Extra socks. Look at you, professional already."
"My nonna would kill me if I didn't." Rocco shrugged, a gesture that belied the deep affection he held for his grandmother, the woman who had nurtured his dreams and instilled in him the values of hard work and humility. "She also gave me her rosary. Told me if I forget it, I'm cursed for ten years."
Jackie laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the emptiness, momentarily dispelling the weight of the night. "My mother wrote a verse from Psalms. Folded it in my bag like a secret. Said it'll help me score. As if I ever needed help."
"You miss open goals more than anyone I know."
"Lies."
They fell into a lull, the silence only broken by the hum of the streetlight, a constant, unwavering drone that served as a backdrop to their thoughts, and the wind nudging the trees, their leaves rustling like whispered secrets, carrying their hopes and fears into the night.
Jackie nudged a stone with his shoe, sending it skittering across the gravel, the small act a distraction from the uncertainty that loomed. "You think we'll still talk? After this?"
Rocco blinked, the question catching him off guard, forcing him to confront the possibility that their lives might soon be irrevocably changed, then looked toward the far end of the pitch like he was picturing something beyond it, a future where their paths might diverge, leading them to different corners of the world. "Of course."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Jackie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his posture suddenly serious, the playful banter replaced by a stark realism. "What if I make it and you don't?"
Rocco turned, his face calm, betraying no hint of the disappointment he might feel, his gaze unwavering. "Then I'll be the one clapping from my sofa when you score. Yelling when you miss. Sending you texts in all caps."
Jackie smiled, just a bit, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, reassured by Rocco's unwavering support. "And what if you make it and I don't?"
"Then you'll be doing the same," Rocco said, voice firmer now, laced with conviction, his words a promise of enduring friendship. "Sending me clips. Screaming at my passes."
"You dive too much."
"It's called being clever."
The sound of tires crunching gravel pulled their attention, snapping them back to the present moment, the intrusion a welcome distraction from their anxieties. Two vehicles rolled slowly into the empty lot—a sleek black SUV, its tinted windows reflecting the moonlight, obscuring the occupants within, and a grey van, both humming quietly like they didn't want to disturb the night, their presence both exciting and intimidating, a symbol of the opportunity and the unknown that awaited them.
They stood without speaking, the weight of the moment settling upon them, heavy and palpable.
The SUV door opened first. A woman stepped out, her dark coat pressed flat, accentuating her slim figure, and her posture like steel, radiating an air of efficiency, her presence commanding attention. "Jackie Terrazas?"
Jackie stepped forward, lifting his chin, meeting her gaze directly, projecting an image of confidence and determination. "Yes."
She checked something on her phone, her fingers gliding across the screen, verifying his identity and confirming the arrangements. "Everything's arranged. Hotel near the stadium. You'll train lightly Tuesday, trial's Wednesday morning."
He hesitated only a moment, his eyes flicking nervously toward Rocco, seeking reassurance, then looked back at Rocco.
Rocco nodded once, steady and sure, offering his silent support, a wordless affirmation of their shared dream.
"I'm ready," Jackie said.
From the van, a man stepped out wearing a clean black tracksuit, his movements economical and precise, conveying an air of professionalism and competence. He looked like he didn't waste time on pleasantries, a man of action.
"Rocco Accorso?"
Rocco adjusted the strap of his duffel and stepped forward. "Yeah."
"Flight's ready. You'll land early. Your agent says—don't force it. Play your game."
Rocco gave a slight nod, acknowledging the advice, understanding the importance of staying true to his own style. "Always."
For a moment, the two boys just stood there in the middle of the gravel lot, the space between them filling with everything unsaid – years of shared dreams, unspoken anxieties, and the unwavering bond of friendship, a connection forged through countless hours on the field, through victories and defeats, through laughter and tears.
"You better not bottle it, Terrazas," Rocco said, half a smile curling on his face, masking the genuine affection he felt, his words a playful challenge and a heartfelt encouragement. "I want to see your name on the highlight reels."
"You either, Accorso. Don't go quiet on me in Italy. Show them who you are."
They bumped fists, firm and fast, a brief, powerful connection that sealed their promise, a silent vow to support each other, no matter what the future held.
Then Jackie turned toward the SUV. Each step seemed heavier than the last, each one carrying him further away from the familiar, into the unknown.
Rocco turned for the van, the door already held open for him, an invitation to the next stage of his life, a journey that would test his skills and his resolve.
Two slamming doors echoed across the lot, the sound sharp and final, marking the end of an era. The engines rumbled, then pulled away, fading into the dark, leaving only the red glow of taillights in their wake, a fleeting reminder of the friends they were leaving behind.
Redwood Recreation Ground sat quiet again—just shadows, grass, and goals, a silent witness to the dreams that had just taken flight, a place that would forever hold a special place in their hearts.