The dawn crept into Bajo Flores like a thief, its pale light slipping through the cracked blinds of our small house, casting jagged stripes across Papá's face. He sat at the kitchen table, still as a statue, his calloused hands wrapped around a cold mate that had long since gone bitter. The lines on his face seemed deeper today, etched by something heavier than the years of hauling bricks under the Argentine sun. I stood in the doorway, my breath catching, afraid to break the silence that hung between us like a storm cloud. Three days had passed since he'd handed me my diary and phone, their pages creased by hands I didn't know. Three days since I'd seen that shadow in his eyes, a darkness I couldn't name but felt in every quiet moment since.
I wanted to ask. The words burned in my throat—Where did you go, Papá? Who gave you my things?—but they died on my lips. His gaze was fixed on the chipped tabletop, his jaw tight, like he was wrestling ghosts I couldn't see. Mamá moved softly behind him, her hands trembling as she folded empanadas for the day's work, her eyes darting to him with a worry she tried to hide. The air was thick, heavy with things unsaid, and I felt like an intruder in my own home.
"Luca," Mamá said, her voice soft but strained, "you'll be late for training."
I nodded, my bag slung over my shoulder, but my feet wouldn't move. Papá's silence was a wall, and I was on the wrong side. I thought of the diary in my bag, its pages holding my dreams, my fears, my every thought about San Lorenzo and the pitch. It was back in my hands, but at what cost? The Huracán tattoo from that night—the night I'd been jumped, my world turned upside down—flashed in my mind. Papá had gone somewhere to get it back, somewhere he'd sworn he'd left behind. And now, he was different. Distant. Haunted.
I forced myself to step outside, the morning air of Bajo Flores sharp against my skin. The streets were waking up, the hum of scooters and the chatter of neighbors blending with the distant roar of the city. But as I walked to the bus stop, my mind stayed in that kitchen, replaying Papá's face. I'd seen him tired before, worn down by long days and short nights, but this was something else. It was like he was carrying a weight I couldn't touch, a burden he'd taken on for me.
At the training ground, the juvenile squad was already buzzing, the pitch alive with the thud of boots and the shouts of boys chasing dreams. Alexis spotted me first, his grin wide as he juggled a ball. "Flaco, you look like you've seen a ghost!" he called, tossing it my way. I trapped it, my movements automatic, but my heart wasn't in it. Ángel was there too, his touches sharp, his eyes burning with that quiet fire that had the scouts whispering his name. I wanted to lose myself in the game, to let the rhythm of the ball drown out the noise in my head, but Papá's silence followed me.
Coach Herrera's whistle cut through the chaos, pulling us into a circle. "Scrimmage today," she said, her voice sharp. "The reserve coach is watching. Show them you're worth their time."
My pulse quickened. The reserve team—the next step toward the Nuevo Gasómetro, toward the dream that had kept me going since I was a kid in Bajo Flores, kicking a deflated ball under streetlights. But as we warmed up, my eyes kept drifting to my bag, left by the bench. I hadn't told Alexis or Ángel about the note I'd found yesterday, slipped into the side pocket when I wasn't looking. Keep your eyes on the ball, Altamirano. Or someone else will pay the price. The words were jagged, scrawled in ink that felt like a threat. I hadn't shown it to anyone. Not yet. But it was there, burning a hole in my thoughts, just like Papá's silence.
The scrimmage was brutal, a ten-a-side clash that left no room for mistakes. I was up top, Alexis on the wing, Ángel on the opposing team, moving like he was born for this. I tried to focus, to lose myself in the game, but every missed pass, every heavy touch, felt like a betrayal. Ángel scored, a curling shot that left our keeper sprawling, and the scouts in the stands scribbled furiously. I pushed harder, my legs burning, but my mind was split—half on the pitch, half in that kitchen, wondering what Papá had done to save me.
After the whistle, as we slumped onto the grass, Alexis nudged me. "You're off today, Flaco," he said, his grin softer now. "Everything okay?"
I opened my mouth to lie, but the words caught. "Just… home stuff," I said, my voice low. "Papá's been… different."
Alexis nodded, his eyes serious. "He got your things back, right? That's what matters."
But it wasn't. Not when I could feel the cost in every glance Papá avoided, every tremble in Mamá's hands. I glanced at Ángel, who was grabbing his water bottle, his posture relaxed but his eyes distant, like he was already somewhere bigger. "Heard the reserve coach is talking about Ángel," Alexis whispered. "They might pull him up soon."
My stomach twisted, pride for my friend mixing with a sharp pang of envy. Ángel was soaring, and I was stuck, tangled in shadows I couldn't outrun. As we headed to the benches, I reached for my bag, my fingers brushing the note. I froze. There, tucked into the zipper, was something new—a small, folded paper, different from the first. My heart hammered as I pulled it out, my breath catching. The handwriting was the same, jagged and cruel: "The game's just starting, Altamirano. Watch your back."
I stuffed it into my pocket, my eyes scanning the emptying stands. The floodlights cast long, twisted shadows across the pitch, and for a moment, I swore I saw a figure move—just out of sight, just out of reach. The air felt colder now, the streets of Bajo Flores waiting outside, and I knew, with a chill that settled deep in my bones, that the danger Papá had faced wasn't gone. It was here, watching, and it wasn't done with us yet.
[End of Chapter 25]