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Chapter 7 – Proof of Life (600 words)
Rain slicked the asphalt. Not enough to cancel, just enough to make every step treacherous. The court was smaller than standard. Cracked lines. Chain-link fences curling inward like broken ribs. But the players waiting inside didn't seem to care.
João tied his boots tightly. Tiago stood off to the side, speaking low to the man organizing the game — a squat ex-midfielder with a limp and a whistle too shiny for this kind of match.
Ten-a-side. Winner stays. No ref. No scouts. Just men trying to prove they still mattered.
João jogged onto the court. Heads turned. A few murmurs.
"Isn't that the Porto dropout?"
"What's he doing here?"
"Kid's too skinny for this level."
He ignored them. He could feel Tiago's eyes on his back. No instructions. No reminders. Just presence.
He lined up on the left, second striker, tucked just behind the front man. The whistle blew.
Play erupted.
The first five minutes were chaos. Long balls. Sliding tackles. Shouts in overlapping dialects. João moved quietly, not chasing the ball. He scanned. Tracked. Hunted space.
His teammates didn't notice at first. The winger to his right kept cutting inside, choking the middle. The striker barked for through balls that never came. João hovered at the edges, invisible.
Then, minute six.
The ball snapped loose in midfield. João was already gone — five meters ahead of the turnover, streaking diagonally into the half-space. No defender tracked him. He didn't call for it.
The ball came anyway.
A single touch. Not a dribble. Not a flick. Just a weightless lay-off into the path of the charging winger.
Goal.
1–0.
No celebration. João jogged back into position. Eyes scanning, already thinking two phases ahead.
Tiago, on the sidelines, said nothing.
Minutes later, João baited a fullback into overcommitting, then vanished behind his blindside. The midfielder saw it late, lobbed the pass awkwardly — João stretched, brought it down on his chest, and fed it first-time to the striker, who slotted home.
2–0.
Now they were noticing.
"Where the hell did he come from?"
"Every time I look, he's somewhere else."
"He doesn't even run fast!"
João heard it. Let it wash over him. It wasn't pace. It was a position. He wasn't beating defenders. He was never letting them find him.
The third goal came off a set piece. João didn't even touch the ball — just peeled defenders with two angled runs in four seconds, creating enough distraction for the big center-back to head home clean.
3–0.
Now the opposing team was angry.
The next ten minutes were war. Elbows in ribs. Late challenges. One guy tried to step on João's ankle during a dead ball.
Tiago still said nothing.
João adapted. Didn't fight back. Just drifted. One minute near the halfway line, the next appearing in the box like smoke. He didn't light up the scoreboard. But everything went through him.
In minute twenty-two, he intercepted a pass before it left the midfielder's boot. Sprint. Drag-back. Outside-the-foot pass around a defender's thigh. Assist.
4–0. Game over.
The opposing team muttered and cursed and walked off. João stayed quiet, breath steady. The system had held.
His teammates finally approached.
"Yo, that last pass…"
"You're some kind of ghost or what?"
"You play for someone now?"
João just shook his head.
He walked off the court without fanfare. Tiago stood waiting near the fence.
"You broke their shape in seven touches," Tiago said.
João gave a tired smile. "Eight. One was with the sole."
Tiago's mouth twitched. Almost a grin.
A slow clap echoed behind them.
João turned.
A tall man in a hooded coat leaned against the fence. Face obscured. But João saw the crest stitched into the jacket's sleeve.
Benfica.
Tiago's face went still. "You invited someone?"
João shook his head, but his chest tightened.
The man approached, hands in pockets. Nodded once at João.
"Nice match," he said.
Then turned and walked into the dark, leaving only wet footprints and the hint of something real.
Opportunity.
Or danger.
João wasn't sure yet.
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