Chapter 10 – Same Hunger, Different Worlds
Duke of Loulé Street, D. José Apartments
The steam clung to the bathroom mirror as Ronny stepped out of the shower, skin still tingling from the heat and muscles buzzing from the morning session. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he toweled off, staring briefly at the faint calluses on his hands—the quiet proof of work put in when nobody else was watching.
The apartment was quiet. Semedo, his ever-rowdy roommate, was nowhere to be found. Not surprising. The guy was probably out charming half of Lisbon again, flashing that Sporting CP badge like a VIP pass to every bar in the city.
Typical.
Here in Lisbon, being part of a big academy was more than a footballing credential—it was social currency. With the right crest on your jacket, you didn't wait in line, you walked past velvet ropes. Some saw it as their golden ticket to stardom. Others, a fast-track to girls, drinks, and stories to tell. Rony? He wasn't in it for either.
He could've had admirers lined up from Marquês de Pombal Square all the way to Alvalade Stadium. But there were goals to chase—ones that didn't involve nightlife or Instagram likes. Football came first. Especially now.
Two of my rivals got promoted to the first team while I was gone.
The thought stung more than he liked to admit. Still, sulking wouldn't help. He reached for his phone and called someone who always gave it straight—Leonel Pontes.
The Call
"Wait—your Chinese project's already U16 level?" Pontes asked, barely hiding his surprise.
"He's rough around the edges," Rony replied. "But he'd survive."
There was a pause. Then a low whistle on the other end.
"Wow! That's a glow-up."
No kidding. Just a few weeks ago, Su Dong couldn't even control a ball under pressure. Now? The kid was rifling in Batistuta-style rockets like he was born for it.
Pontes knew the type of transformation Ronny was describing—he'd seen it before. Years ago, when Ronny himself was a wiry teenager with a chip on his shoulder, vowing to dethrone Quaresma and Marcelino. Now, he was the gym rat outlifting full-grown pros like André Cruz.
"Just don't let him touch weights," Pontes warned. "Your Cape Verdean twitch fibers bailed you out. He doesn't have your cheat code."
Ronny laughed. He knew Pontes was right. His own training regimen had been reckless, borderline insane. Su Dong wasn't built to follow that same path. Not yet.
The Invitation
Ronny had just finished dressing when another call came through—Su Dong this time.
"My signing bonus hit. Let's celebrate. Dinner's on me. You and Semedo."
Ronny grinned. "Look at you. Hundred euros already burning a hole in your pocket?"
They agreed on a local tasca for the next evening. Cheap food, no tourists, and all the grilled sardines you could eat. After that, it was time to hit the shops—DIY gym gear, push-up handles, resistance vests. If their clubs wouldn't invest in strength, they'd build their own foundation.
No excuses anymore.
The Routine
5:00 AM. Edward VII Park.
The air still held a hint of the night's chill, but the two figures jogging laps didn't care. After a full morning of drills, they'd split. Different paths, same hunger.
Ronny hopped on the Metro, bound for Alvalade, Sporting CP's footballing fortress.
Su Dong took a two-kilometer jog to a facility that barely qualified as professional.
The contrast was almost cruel.
Ronny trained in a state-of-the-art complex, earning €300 a week, plus bonuses.
Su Dong? He made €50 a month, and his locker room reeked of mildew and broken dreams.
But in both their eyes burned the same fire. Neither was content.
First-Team Reality
Portugal Sporting's captain, Marco Mateus, met Su Dong at the gate. A rugged veteran in his 30s with a career that had peaked too early and faded too fast.
"This way," Mateus said, offering a casual nod. "We're part-timers, yeah. But don't let that fool you."
He gestured toward the others as they entered the cramped locker room.
"That guy? Benfica academy. The winger over there? Porto castoff. We've all got pasts."
The space buzzed with banter, mostly centered around the Sporting vs. Porto season opener that weekend. Names were thrown around—Pena, Jardel, Sá Pinto—legends to some, opponents to others.
"Benfica's got nothing this year," someone scoffed. "Pelé's ghost couldn't save them. But Porto's stacked. Pena's a machine."
"And Sporting?" another chimed in. "Heard they're trading three players for Jardel."
Jardel. Just the name made Su Dong's hands go clammy. That man was a monster in front of goal.
He didn't belong on the same field. Not yet.
Climbing the Ladder
As the team argued over million-euro transfers and star strikers, Su Dong quietly unpacked his gear, eyeing the chipped paint on his corner locker. It wasn't much, but it was his now.
Rony's voice echoed in his head.
"Next contract? Add a zero."
Maybe it was a joke. Maybe not. Either way, it stuck with him.
For now, this was his rung on the ladder. It didn't matter if the air smelled like mold or if the boots next to his reeked of forgotten games. He was here. And that meant something.
He wasn't trying to skip steps. He just wanted to climb.