Chapter One: The Return Home
The last rays of the season's sun gently kissed the grass of the stadium, as if bidding it farewell. Thiago stood at the center of the field, inhaling the air that once carried both his glory and his pressure. The final training session of the season with Aston Villa had come to an end, but Thiago didn't leave immediately. He stood still for a moment, watching his teammates greet him one by one—as if they all knew this wasn't just the end of a season, but the beginning of a new chapter in his life.
His teammate, the Norwegian defender "Ivar Solberg," known as "The Northern Wall," approached with a smile.
"You're going to miss us in England, won't you?" he said.
Thiago chuckled. "Maybe… but my mom is preparing a feast I just can't say no to."
Midfielder Kyle Jefferson jumped in, "Tell your mom to save me a plate. I'll visit soon!"
They all laughed, then gradually left the field, leaving Thiago to savor one last breath of this place.
On his way out of the training center, he pulled out his phone and called his mother. The moment she heard his voice, her reply was filled with warmth and longing.
"Mom… I'm coming back today. Last flight this evening."
"Thiago! Oh my God, I felt this! Should I pick you up from the airport?"
"No, no need. I'll be coming back with Inês. Just make sure your special dish is ready."
He ended the call with a wide smile. He couldn't wait to see the familiar skyline of his city from the airplane window. When he arrived at the airport, his sister "Inês" was already there waiting, waving enthusiastically.
She hugged him tightly and said, "The Golden Boot winner is finally back."
"Ah, don't exaggerate."
"How can I not? You scored over thirty goals this season. Not just the team's top scorer—but the league's."
They smiled and walked together toward the boarding gate.
On the plane, Thiago sat by the window, headphones on, lost in thought. He imagined himself lifting the golden trophy, listening to his country's anthem playing before thousands, tears of joy streaming down his face.
He opened his video app and started watching goals—Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo Nazário, then Cristiano Ronaldo. He wasn't just watching for fun. Every move, every touch was a lesson.
When the plane landed, they got into a taxi driven by a man in his fifties, slightly bald, with a Portuguese scarf around his neck. The driver looked into the mirror and smiled.
"Oh… isn't that the rising star? Thiago Ferreira?"
"The very one," Thiago replied with a laugh.
"I'm proud of you, son… but tell me, have you decided which national team you'll represent?"
Thiago gave a mysterious smile. "Soon… I'll announce it."
When they arrived, Thiago got out and walked through the narrow streets of his neighborhood. On this pavement, he'd scored his first goal with a worn-out ball. Under that broken streetlight, he once fought with his friends over who'd be the goalkeeper.
He passed every corner, every scent. And finally, at his front door, it opened before he even knocked.
His mother stood there, teary-eyed with a smile that could melt time.
"My son…"
"Mom…"
He fell into her embrace, as if he'd never left.
Inside, he entered his old room. Everything was as he left it—posters of players covering the walls, a signed ball from his childhood friends, and the narrow bed he'd outgrown. He stretched out on it, closed his eyes, and smiled.
The next morning, his sister woke him up holding an envelope.
"This just arrived—from the Spanish Football Federation!"
He sat up immediately, tore it open, and read the letter, his eyes lighting up.
"You have been officially called up to the Spanish national team. Given your dual citizenship, we are honored…"
But he didn't finish reading. He set the letter aside and said, "I won't decide just yet."
He went downstairs, had breakfast with his mother and sister, then went back to his room, grabbed the controller, and started playing FIFA. He was still one of the highest-ranked players globally, and his reflexes hadn't faded.
Later that evening, while checking his email, a new message came through.
Subject:
"Portuguese Football Federation – Official Call-Up"
His eyes widened. He smiled, looked at his sister, and said:
"The choice… might be harder than I thought."