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Chapter 9 – The Trial (600 words)
The Benfica boardroom didn't feel like football.
Air conditioning hummed overhead. The table was polished to a mirror. Bottled water lined up like soldiers. Behind the glass, the pitches of Seixal shimmered under the sun, but João couldn't hear the ball anymore.
Across the table sat Director Caldeira. Tall. Bald. Expensive watch. He didn't smile.
"You impressed," Caldeira said, steepling his fingers. "More than we expected."
João nodded. His fingers curled under the table, hidden.
Caldeira leaned back. "You're still raw. Still fragile. But your intelligence, your movement... It's unique. We believe in your ceiling."
He slid a folder across the table.
"Six-month provisional contract. Academy terms. Conditional promotion to B team."
João didn't touch it. "And after that?"
"If you perform, we talk longer-term. Loans. Maybe Braga. Maybe England."
His voice tightened.
"But only if you listen. We mold players. Not magicians. You adapt to our way—or you disappear again."
The silence stretched.
João stared down at the folder.
Benfica. The club that cut him loose without a second thought. Who taught him what it meant to vanish? And now they wanted to shape him?
He looked up.
"What if I already have my way?"
Caldeira raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"My system works. My play style creates goals before the ball even reaches me. I don't dribble for show. I don't need the spotlight."
"You're here because we watched you vanish on the pitch," Caldeira said, colder now. "But that doesn't mean you're ready to dictate terms."
João's chest tightened—but he didn't flinch.
"I'm not here to be molded," he said. "I'm here to play football. Not politics."
He pushed the folder back.
Caldeira didn't move.
"You're making a mistake," he said.
João stood. "Maybe. But it's mine to make."
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Tiago waited outside in the parking lot, leaning against his dented hatchback. When João appeared empty-handed, he didn't ask.
"Well?" Tiago said.
"They want a robot," João muttered. "One they can plug into a system. Not The System. Theirs."
Tiago nodded slowly. "And?"
"I told them no."
Tiago studied his face. "Where does that leave us?"
João pulled a crumpled paper from his jacket. A different letterhead. Green and white.
"They weren't the only ones watching the scrimmage."
Tiago blinked. "Sporting?"
João smiled. "Their scout wasn't in a coat. He was playing. Midfielder on the other team."
Tiago exhaled a short laugh.
"They want me for the U23s. Straight in. No probation. No politics. Just football."
Tiago looked out toward the horizon, the road that would wind them back up north, then loop again south to Alcochete.
"You sure?"
João nodded. "Sporting plays between the lines. I live between the lines."
Tiago looked back at him, and this time he smiled—small, tight, but real.
"Then we go green."
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The Alcochete training ground felt nothing like Seixal.
Less polished. More grit. The gates were older, the locker room buzzed with tension, not pressure. But the pitches? Real. Alive. Not staged.
João laced up in silence. A few players glanced over. One recognized him.
"Wait, you're that kid from Porto?"
Another added, "Didn't Benfica want you?"
João shrugged. "They made an offer."
"And you turned it down?"
He nodded.
"Why?"
João looked up.
"Because I'm not here to fit in."
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The session started sharp. No hand-holding. No introductions.
The coach shouted, "First-touch rondos—then possession grid. João, middle group. Let's see if your legs match your reputation."
The ball zipped. João adjusted. Adapted. Shifted tempo. Found gaps. Played like he saw ten seconds into the future.
He didn't need flash.
He made others look good.
By the end of the first hour, the Sporting players had stopped doubting.
And the coach had stopped watching.
He started writing.
João stood by the touchline, hands on hips, shirt damp with sweat.
Tiago watched from behind the fence.
João caught his eye, gave a small nod.
This time, the silence between them wasn't distance.
It was pride.
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