Mornings started early at the academy.
The alarm went off at 5:30.
By 6, I was on the bus.
By 7, I was jogging laps before the coaches even arrived.
It had become routine—wake up, train, try to be seen, fail to be noticed, repeat.
---
The dorms were full of noise. Laughter, music, phones buzzing with memes and voice messages.
But none of that was for me.
Most of the boys there came from middle-class families or small-town clubs.
They already knew each other from previous tournaments or through youth agents.
I wasn't part of that world. Not even close.
When I entered a room, conversations died or shifted.
Sometimes it was subtle.
Sometimes not.
---
One afternoon, I was walking to the pitch with my boots in hand when I overheard two kids behind me.
"Who's that?" one asked.
"The kid who paid to get in," the other said. "From the villa. You know. That one."
They didn't whisper. They didn't care if I heard.
I didn't turn around.
I just tightened the grip on my laces and kept walking.
---
Training was brutal.
The assistant coach ran us like soldiers.
Drills, fitness circuits, endless tactical positioning.
Mistakes earned you extra sprints.
Questions earned you silence.
I did my job. Quiet. Efficient.
Passed clean. Pressed hard. Tracked back every time.
But they barely looked at me.
"Good pressure, Leiva."
"Nice pass, Gómez."
Silence for me.
Even when I got it right.
---
One night after dinner, I stayed on the field alone.
The sky was dark. The air cold and still.
Most of the others were inside, playing FIFA or scrolling on their phones.
I set up cones.
Ran dribbling drills in the dark.
Practiced turning under pressure—imaginary defenders chasing me in my head.
My cleats tore up the grass, my breath coming out in sharp bursts.
I thought of my parents. Of that envelope full of money.
Of how hard they had worked. How much they had risked.
This wasn't just about football anymore.
It was about proving that we weren't stupid for believing.
---
"Hard day?"
I turned. A man stood near the sideline. Older, short, with a faded San Lorenzo windbreaker and a mop in his hands.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said, smiling. "I'm Miguel. I clean the locker rooms."
"Hi," I said. "Lucas."
He nodded, looking at the cones.
"You always train this late?"
I shrugged. "Only time I get space."
Miguel didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at me like he was measuring something more than my height or my control.
"You're not like the others," he said finally. "You work different."
I didn't know what to say. No one had really noticed before.
Miguel gave me a short nod. "Keep at it. The ball sees everything. Sooner or later, someone else will too."
Then he turned and walked off toward the building.
---
The next day, I was sore from the extra session but I showed up early again.
Same drills. Same pace. Same silence.
But during one small-sided game, I made a sharp interception, turned fast, and broke the line with a diagonal pass that left two defenders behind.
The striker didn't finish the play, but I saw something—
One of the coaches paused.
He looked at his clipboard, then back at me.
Only for a second.
But it was more than I had gotten in weeks.
---
In the locker room, someone sat next to me.
It was Duarte—the same kid who had called me "the collaboration boy" on my first day.
He didn't say much. Just tied his boots, checked his phone.
Then, almost casually, he said, "Nice read today. That pass was clean."
I blinked.
"…Thanks."
He nodded once and stood up.
He didn't wait for a reply.
He didn't smile.
But he had said it.
---
That night, I didn't stay to train late.
I walked back to the dorms with sore legs and a quiet fire in my chest.
For the first time since I got there, I didn't feel invisible.
Not yet accepted. Not praised. Not lifted.
But seen.
And sometimes, that's enough to keep going.
---
[End of Chapter 5]