The locker room smelled like sweat, turf, and testosterone.
The U-17 squad of Nova Luz didn't care that Rafael was new. Or recovering. Or sixteen.
They just wanted to see if he could survive.
A boy leaned against a locker near the center. Tall, lean, sharp-eyed—Mateus, the team's striker and golden boy. He looked Rafael up and down like a hunter sizing up fresh meat.
"You're the miracle kid?" Mateus said. "Heard you danced around everyone at tryouts."
Rafael kept his expression neutral. "That's what they say."
Mateus smirked. "They say a lot. Let's see if you're still dancing after Coach puts you on our side of the pitch."
Snickers echoed through the room.
Rafael didn't flinch. Let them talk.
He wasn't here to be liked.
He was here to climb—and destroy.
The whistle blew, and the morning scrimmage began.
Rafael played left wing. Mateus took center.
It didn't take long for the ball to find him—and neither did the foul. A bone-rattling shoulder check sent him sliding into the dirt.
"No blood, no foul!" someone shouted.
Rafael stood up, brushing dirt from his arms.
Next play, he didn't hesitate.
He baited Mateus in, feinted left, spun right, and left him lunging at air. A quick pass, a diagonal cut, and Rafael was through on goal. With a flick of his foot, he chipped the keeper and watched the ball kiss the back of the net.
Gasps. Silence.
Then, scattered applause from the assistant coach.
Mateus glared across the pitch. The mood had changed.
So had the stakes.
Later in the locker room, the tension broke.
Mateus stepped in front of Rafael, voice low. "You're good. I'll give you that. But this team already has a striker."
"I'm not here to take your spot," Rafael said.
Mateus leaned in. "Good. Because I don't give mine up."
Then, a quiet voice from behind: "You two done measuring?"
They both turned. A short, wiry midfielder with curly hair grinned from his bench. Leo, number 7. "Because I saw what you did out there, new guy. That goal? Filthy. You might actually survive."
Rafael gave him a nod. "Thanks."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Not really."
Leo looked at him strangely—curious, but not probing. "You play like someone twice your age. Like you've been through wars."
Rafael smiled faintly. "Maybe I have."
Later that night, Rafael opened his notebook again.
Jayden Mott.
Bluefield United. Regional league. Match in three weeks.
Three weeks to rise high enough in Nova Luz to catch Bluefield's attention.
Three weeks to get close to his first target.
Three weeks until revenge begins on the pitch.
Jayden Mott leaned back in his luxury apartment, scrolling lazily through match footage on his phone. The Bluefield United training center sat just a few blocks away, but he wasn't thinking about practice.
He was thinking about how far he'd come.
From a local league center-back to starting defender in Brazil's most aggressive rising club. Sponsors. Fans. Women. Money. Everything he wanted.
And no one left to outshine him.
Not Eli Ward.
Not that dead prodigy.
Jayden paused the video as the familiar face appeared—Eli in his old team colors, slicing through defenders like a ghost. For a moment, Jayden's smirk faltered.
He hadn't watched these clips in years.
Not since the day they'd "dealt" with him.
That night came back in fragments—the coldness in the locker room, the boot to Eli's ribs, Kyle whispering "He won't be a problem anymore."
And the silence afterward.
They'd all agreed. No cops. No witnesses. No guilt.
Jayden shook the memory off. "He's gone," he muttered.
But then—
A notification popped up on his feed.
Youth League: Nova Luz U-17 Newcomer Stuns at Trials
Video: "Rafael Solano embarrasses defense with solo goal"
He clicked it.
And froze.
The kid's face was different. Skin darker. Hair curlier. But the way he moved—the way he watched defenders—the curl on that shot…
Jayden's blood went cold.
"No way," he whispered.
He played the video again. And again. And again.
His phone buzzed with a text from Kyle.
Kyle Harper:
"You see this Nova Luz kid? Solano? Looks familiar…"
Jayden didn't reply.
Because suddenly, for the first time in years, he felt something he hadn't since that night.
Fear.
Meanwhile, back at Nova Luz, Rafael stood alone on the empty pitch under the moonlight, juggling a ball silently.
He didn't know Jayden had seen the footage.
Didn't know his name was already whispering through the shadows of the past.
But deep down, he could feel it:
They were starting to remember.
And that was exactly what he wanted.