The sun hadn't even risen fully when Mateo's phone vibrated insistently on his nightstand.
Groggy, he sat up and answered without even checking the caller.
"Hola?"
Klara's voice rushed through, laced with concern:
"Mateo! Are you okay?"
Mateo blinked, confused."Yeah... why? What's wrong?"
A pause.Then Klara's voice softened, almost apologetic:
"You're everywhere... in the news. Argentine media is full of reports about you. And... they're not good."
Mateo's heart sank.
"What are they saying?"
Klara hesitated, then listed them off:
That he arrived late to camp like a 'diva.'
That he acts like a 'European starlet' untouchable by his teammates.
That he's 'out of shape' and 'lacks chemistry' with the team.
That he shows 'no humility' in training.
Each word hit Mateo like a stone.
"But... that's not what happened," he protested quietly.
"I know," Klara said quickly. "You don't have to explain to me. But... the way they're spinning it... it looks bad, Mateo."
He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of frustration growing inside him.
He told her everything —the delayed pickup at the airport, the slow ride, the cold treatment during training.
When he finished, there was a long silence.
Then Klara's voice, sharp and suspicious:
"Mateo... this feels organized."
Before he could respond, she continued,"I'll tell my father. Maybe he can find out what's happening."
Mateo smiled weakly.
"Thanks, Klara. Just talking to you makes it easier."
"You're not alone," she whispered."And remember what you promised: rise above everything."
After ending the call, Klara immediately found her father in the kitchen.
Without hesitation, she explained everything.
The man frowned deeply as he listened.
"This smells like manipulation," he said darkly. "Give me a few hours."
He grabbed his phone and called an old friend —a German journalist stationed in Argentina.
"If there's something rotten happening around Mateo, he'll find it," he assured Klara.
Meanwhile, back at the training center, Mateo tried to steel himself for the day ahead.
He arrived early on the field, jogging, stretching, trying to look casual.
He tried interacting with some of the players — offering greetings, trying to spark small conversations.
But all he received in return were:
Cold shoulders.
Snide remarks whispered under breath.
Open insults disguised as "jokes."
"Careful," one player sneered after a harmless bump during warm-ups, "don't want to scratch the European toy."
Another chuckled, loud enough for Mateo to hear:
"Hope he plays better than he shows up late."
Mateo gritted his teeth, keeping his head down.
He couldn't fight them physically.
He couldn't argue — that would just make the headlines worse.
All he could do was endure.And wait.
Wait for his chance to speak in the only language that truly mattered:
Football.
But deep inside, cracks were forming.
Loneliness.Anger.Confusion.
All gnawing at him.
Was this what it meant to chase dreams?
Was this the price of loyalty to his father's memory?
As he tied his boots tighter, pulling the laces with more force than necessary, Mateo made a silent vow:
They could try to break him.But they would never own him.
He would survive.
He would shine.
No matter what traps were laid before him.