The morning sun bled through the narrow windows of La Masia's training center, casting long shadows across the freshly-cut pitch. Cleats tapped against concrete, balls rolled from one boot to another, and coaches with clipboards watched everything with eyes like hawks.
Luca Herrera tightened the laces of his boots. His fingers trembled slightly, not from cold—but from something heavier. Nerves. Pressure. That same pressure had followed him every day since he'd stepped through the gates of La Masia. Here, you didn't just play well. You had to be exceptional.
He looked around. Teammates were already sprinting drills, some gliding across the turf like they were born on it. Quick one-twos. Fluid control. No wasted movements.
Luca joined the warm-up lines. The first touch felt off.
Coach Ortega blew his whistle sharply. "Again, faster, cleaner!"
Luca nodded and jogged back, resetting. Inside, frustration bubbled. He knew the movements, had practiced them on cracked asphalt back home. But here, every tiny mistake stood out like a beacon.
Twenty minutes into training, they moved to possession drills. Three versus three in tight space. Luca fought for the ball, won it twice—but lost it four times. One bad pass, another heavy touch.
He could feel it. The glances. The scribbles on the coaches' clipboards.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Coach Ortega lean toward one of the assistants. A shake of the head. A low word he couldn't hear.
Luca's stomach twisted.
By the time they reached shooting drills, his energy felt off. Shots were rushed, scuffed, just wide. Others bent theirs in effortlessly, earning nods and claps. His name was barely called.
"Luca, pick it up," Ortega said flatly as he walked past.
He bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, coach."
Pick it up. As if he wasn't trying with every fiber in his body.
*What am I missing?*
***
After training, Luca sat alone by the sideline. Most of the others had gone in for showers. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and his legs ached. But what hurt more was the feeling.
That he wasn't enough.
Not fast enough. Not smart enough. Not sharp enough. He could see it in the coaches' eyes: if he didn't improve soon, he wouldn't make it.
He looked down at his boots—muddy, worn from years of street football. His fingers traced the worn-out leather. They were a gift from his father two years ago. Probably saved for months to get them. "My champion's boots," he had called them.
But right now, Luca didn't feel like a champion.
Just a kid trying to catch up.
***
The streets of the barrio were buzzing when he stepped off the bus that evening. Noise, kids chasing plastic balls, the smell of food from corner stalls. Familiar, rough, alive.
He walked the short distance home. Their apartment was small—two rooms, creaky stairs, a cracked window in the kitchen—but it was home.
"Papá?" Luca called as he entered.
"In the kitchen!" came the reply.
His father stood over the stove, stirring something in a battered pot. When he turned, his face lit up. "There's my boy!"
Luca forced a smile and dropped his bag. "Training was tough."
"Of course it was. That's how you grow."
Luca sat at the table. He hesitated, then asked, "Did you ever feel like… no matter how hard you worked, you were still behind?"
His father stopped stirring.
"All the time," he said. "Especially when I came here from Mexico. But you know what I learned?"
"What?"
"That hard work doesn't guarantee anything… but *giving up guarantees everything.*"
Luca didn't answer. Just stared at the wall.
His father sat across from him. "I know it's hard, mijo. But you're at La Masia. That alone means you've got something special. Don't let today fool you."
Luca looked at his father's calloused hands. The burns, the scars—each one a story. A sacrifice.
"I just want to make you proud," he said quietly.
"You already do," his father replied without hesitation.
Luca's chest tightened.
They ate dinner in silence after that—two tired souls in a small room, chasing a dream bigger than both of them.
***
That night, Luca lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Outside, sirens echoed faintly in the distance. His muscles ached. His heart ached more.
He reached for the worn photo on his nightstand. His mother, holding him as a baby. Her smile warm, eyes full of dreams.
"Am I really good enough?" he whispered.
The room was quiet.
Then, just as his eyes began to close… a strange shimmer flickered across the wall.
He blinked. Sat up.
The shimmer pulsed again—soft blue light, like a glitch in reality.
"What the—?"
But before he could move, it vanished.
The room was normal again.
Luca sat in silence.
Something was coming.
He could feel it.
And everything was about to change.