Four weeks later, the cast came off.
The doctors called it a miracle—Rafael's recovery had been faster than anyone expected. His knee, once thought to be torn beyond repair, was stable. Strong. He walked out of the hospital with a limp, but his mind already sprinted ahead to the field.
And now, he was here.
At the edge of a dusty, cracked concrete court in the backstreets of São Paulo, where barefoot kids played from sunrise to nightfall. There were no scouts here. No coaches. No glory.
Just the game—and that was all he needed.
Rafael tied the laces on his worn-out boots. The touch felt familiar, sacred. As he stepped onto the court, the ball rolled to his feet.
A tall boy with shaved hair and a chipped tooth grinned at him. "You sure you're okay to play, man? You look like you just got outta the hospital."
Rafael smirked. "Worried I'll embarrass you?"
The boy laughed. "You got jokes. Let's see if you've got legs."
The match began.
The concrete stung underfoot, but Rafael didn't care. His senses had sharpened. He could read movement like sheet music—every step, pass, and feint predictable before it happened.
When the ball came to him, it was like dancing with an old partner.
He weaved past two defenders, then another. A fake left, a tap behind the heel, a burst forward—and then, with no effort at all, he curled the ball into the top corner of the net.
Silence.
Then cheers.
"Who is this guy?" someone shouted.
"Yo, that was insane!"
Rafael breathed in the roar. He hadn't heard it since the day he died.
And now, he was feeding on it.
After the game, the tall boy caught up to him, panting. "You ever think about trying out for a club, man? You've got real talent."
Rafael wiped the sweat from his brow. "I'm planning on it."
The boy grinned. "They've got open trials at Clube Atlético Nova Luz next week. Youth team. Big scouts. You should come."
Nova Luz. Rafael recognized the name. They were feeder clubs to the bigger São Paulo teams—professional pipelines. And more importantly, one of their rivals, Bluefield United, was home to a rising star.
Jayden Mott.
The one who broke his ribs.
Rafael's eyes narrowed.
"I'll be there," he said.
That night, Rafael sat on the roof of his apartment, looking out over the glowing sprawl of the city.
He pulled out his notebook and drew a line through Jayden's name.
Next target locked.
But this time, it wouldn't be fists.
It would be goals, passes, plays so humiliating they'd leave scars deeper than bruises.
Because if there was one thing Rafael knew now, it was this:
Revenge is a game best played with a smile.
The sun scorched the pitch at Clube Atlético Nova Luz, but Rafael stood calm, his shadow long behind him. Around him, forty other hopefuls stretched, jogged, and mentally rehearsed. Some had real talent. Most had nothing but dreams.
He had both—and a grudge sharper than any blade.
A whistle cut through the chatter. A short, wiry man with a clipboard and a permanent scowl stepped forward. Coach Henrique Lopes—a known gatekeeper for the club's youth system.
"No messing around today," Henrique barked. "We've got two hours. Impress us, or get off my field."
The trials began.
Drills. Sprints. Ball control. One-on-ones.
Rafael didn't just shine—he burned.
Footwork that made defenders stumble. A vision that split defenses like glass. In the scrimmage match, he scored twice and assisted three, moving like the field was his personal chessboard.
By the end, even Henrique was speechless.
He scribbled something on the clipboard, then waved Rafael over. "Name?"
"Rafael Solano," he replied.
Henrique squinted at him. "You don't play like someone who's been out with an injury."
"I recover fast."
"Hmph. You'll train with the U-17s starting Monday. Don't be late. One bad day and you're out."
Rafael nodded and turned to leave, but Henrique called out again. "One more thing, Solano."
He glanced back.
"I've seen moves like yours before. Years ago. From a boy who died in a match-fixing scandal. His name was Eli Ward."
Rafael froze.
Henrique studied him for a beat, then shrugged. "Probably just a coincidence."
But Rafael didn't move. For the first time in this new life, he felt something worse than rage—a chill. The past was catching up quicker than he expected.
That night, Rafael sat in his room, staring at his notebook.
Jayden's name was still there, bold and untouched.
But now, underneath it, he wrote another:
Henrique Lopes.
Knows something.
He closed the book, heart steady.
Let the past follow him.
He'd outrun it—with goals, with skill, and when necessary, with vengeance.