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Chapter 6 – Shadow Work (600 words)
The court was different today.
Not in size or shape. Same faded rubber. Same crooked goalposts. But now, four other players waited at the center circle. Older teens. Muscled. Fast. Two wore club kits from Braga. One had a knee brace and a scar running down his shin.
João recognized none of them.
Tiago stood off to the side, arms folded, face unreadable.
"What is this?" João asked, jaw tight.
"Simulation," Tiago said. "You said you wanted to play again. This is what that costs."
João stared at the others. "Who are they?"
"Ex-academy. Local rejects. Same as you. But trained." Tiago's voice sharpened. "They know how to read space. They'll press you like professionals. There's no ball, no goals, no shots."
He stepped forward.
"Your job is simple. Move. Find space. Stay unmarked for ten seconds. That's it."
João blinked. "You want me to ghost four guys for ten seconds? Without touching a ball?"
"No." Tiago smiled thinly. "I want you to learn why you can't yet."
The whistle blew.
The four defenders exploded toward him. No hesitation.
João's lungs snapped to attention. He darted right, peeled off the first man, only to find the second already mirroring his cut. He doubled back, dipped low, and tried to vanish behind the taller one's blind spot.
Seven seconds later, Tiago blew the whistle again.
"Marked."
João's chest heaved. "They cheated. One of them—"
"No excuses," Tiago barked. "You moved like a winger. Too flashy. You telegraphed every cut. Again."
Round two.
This time João started slower, shifting his hips one way, eyes scanning over shoulders instead of forward. He dipped into space between two defenders, held his breath, and shuffled sideways, trying to stay inside their turning radius.
Nine seconds. Whistle.
"Closer," Tiago said. "Still too reactive. You're following them. They need to follow you."
João spat in the dust. His legs stung. Sweat stung his eyes.
"Again."
Again. And again. Twelve rounds. By the fifth, João's legs felt like stone. By the ninth, his head spun trying to calculate four men's steps at once.
On the eleventh, he stumbled and got shoulder-checked into the ground.
No whistle.
He rolled over, gasping. The defenders reset, not even glancing down at him. João sat up, vision hazy. Across the court, Tiago remained silent.
Then he spoke.
"You think this is unfair?" he called. "You want it easy?"
João didn't answer. Couldn't.
Tiago stepped forward, voice cutting now.
"Talent isn't enough. Tricks aren't enough. You want to disappear? Then be a ghost. Not a star. Ghosts don't get applause. They win games no one sees them win."
João forced himself up. Blood rushed to his ears. The defenders waited again, unmoved, eyes sharp.
He wiped his forearm across his mouth.
"One more," he said.
Tiago nodded. "Then make it count."
This time João didn't sprint. He walked. Drifted. Eyes low, but tracking shoulders. He let the nearest defender glance away—then slipped behind, slow and narrow like a shadow.
He didn't react to pressure. He anticipated it.
The second player lunged—João cut across him, not with pace, but angle—tight, sharp, deceptive. His hips sold one route, but his feet whispered another.
The defenders started losing sync. One shouted. Another overcorrected.
João spun through a collapsing gap and stood inside the invisible pocket between two lines of pressure.
Ten seconds passed.
Whistle.
Silence.
Tiago exhaled through his nose. Barely a smile, but his eyes shifted—approval buried behind caution.
The defenders cursed softly and walked off.
João bent forward, hands on knees, throat dry as concrete.
"That," Tiago said, "was space control."
João looked up, chest heaving. "It's… brutal."
"It's survival," Tiago replied. "Do it with a ball next time—and you'll control the match without touching it."
João nodded once, then dropped to the ground, every muscle twitching.
For the first time since Porto, he didn't feel like he'd played a game.
He felt like he'd solved one.
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