A goal changes things.
Sometimes a little.
Sometimes everything.
After that header, I wasn't just the kid from the villa anymore.
I was "the tall one."
"Number 21."
"Altamirano."
They started saying my name out loud.
---
In the next training session, Coach Ríos pulled me aside during drills.
"You good in the air," he said. "Next time, be more aggressive. Use that body."
That was it. No smile. No slap on the back.
But in his language, it was praise.
---
Two weeks later, I came off the bench again.
Fifteen minutes.
No goal, but a solid clearance and a decent pass that started a counter.
The next game, I played twenty-five.
The week after that, I started.
It wasn't glamorous—still playing as a center-back, still cleaning up after others—but I was on the pitch.
And that meant something.
---
The other players saw it too.
Some started warming up near me. Asking me things.
What gym I went to. How I timed my headers.
Duarte offered me a protein bar one day before training.
"Gotta feed the golden head," he joked.
It wasn't friendship. Not really.
But it wasn't silence, either.
---
Not everyone was happy.
I caught one of the older defenders—Martínez—rolling his eyes when the coach praised a pass I made.
During a scrimmage, he clipped my ankle from behind. Nothing serious. But intentional.
I looked at him. He didn't apologize.
"You think one goal makes you a starter?" he muttered as we jogged back.
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
---
After practice, Miguel—the janitor—found me in the hallway.
"Heard you're moving up," he said, pushing his mop down the corridor.
"Some of the coaches are talking."
I raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
He shrugged. "They like your attitude. Ríos too. Says you don't complain. Says you listen."
I didn't know what to say. Praise like that never made it to me directly.
Miguel chuckled. "Just don't let it get to your head. Head's good for goals, not for swelling."
---
That weekend, we played against a tough academy side—well-funded, slick uniforms, a striker with more tattoos than goals.
Coach Ríos tried something different.
He played me on the left side of a back three, gave me freedom to push higher up when we had the ball.
It felt strange at first. But then... natural.
I carried the ball forward.
Connected with the midfield.
Played one-twos with the wingers.
And at one point, without really thinking, I dribbled past a player like I used to in the potrero.
Not pretty, Not clean, But effective.
A flick, A cut, A burst forward.
The play didn't end in a goal.
But I heard it.
From the sideline.
"Did you see that?" one of the coaches asked.
And then—just for a second—I caught Ríos looking at me.
He wasn't frowning.
He was thinking.
---
Later that night, lying on my bed, still sweaty from the match, I stared at the ceiling.
In my head, I wasn't Lucas Altamirano anymore.
I was Zlatan. I was Drogba.
I was a giant with a fire in his chest and a goal waiting in every jump.
I didn't have the money, or the looks, or the agent.
But I had the work.
And now... I had a spark.
---
[End of Chapter 8]