The second note was heavier than the first, its words etched into my mind like a scar. The game's just starting, Altamirano. Watch your back. I hadn't shown it to anyone—not Alexis, not Ángel, not even Mamá, whose worried glances followed me out the door this morning. Papá's silence was louder than ever, his eyes avoiding mine over breakfast, as if he knew the shadows creeping closer. I stuffed the note deeper into my bag as I stepped onto the San Lorenzo training ground, the morning air sharp against my skin. The pitch was my sanctuary, but today, it felt like a battlefield.
The juvenile squad was already warming up, boots thudding against balls, voices rising in a chaotic symphony. Alexis spotted me first, his grin faltering when he saw my face. "Flaco, you look like you slept in a ditch," he teased, tossing me a ball. I trapped it with my instep, the motion automatic, but my heart wasn't in it. Ángel jogged over, his movements fluid, his eyes carrying that same quiet fire I'd seen yesterday. He was playing for something bigger now, and we all felt it.
"You hear about the reserve coach?" Alexis whispered, leaning in as we stretched. "He's coming back today. Ángel's got them eating out of his hand."
I glanced at Ángel, who was weaving through cones with a ball glued to his foot, every touch a silent challenge. Pride swelled in my chest, but it was laced with something sharper—fear, maybe, that he was leaving us behind. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the drill. I couldn't afford to lose my edge, not with those notes haunting me, not with the scouts watching.
Coach Herrera's whistle brought us to attention, her voice cutting through the morning haze. "Small-sided games!" she barked, dividing us into teams of six. "Play like your life depends on it. The reserve staff are here, and they don't care about your excuses."
My pulse quickened. This was my chance to prove I belonged, to show I could keep up with Ángel. But as we lined up, a familiar figure jogged onto my team—González, a midfielder with a chip on his shoulder and a smirk that made my blood boil. He'd been gunning for me since the tryouts, always quick with a jab about my "lucky" spot as a striker. Today, his eyes glinted with something meaner.
"Altamirano," he said, his voice low as we took our positions. "Heard you're rattled after that little street fight. Maybe you should stick to defense."
My jaw tightened, the memory of the Huracán tattoo flashing in my mind. I wanted to shove the note in his face, to tell him I wasn't scared, but I swallowed the words. "Keep talking, González," I muttered. "Let's see if your feet can back it up."
The whistle blew, and the game erupted. I was up top, Alexis feeding me from the wing, Ángel on the opposing team, his every move a reminder of why the scouts were here. The ball came to me early, a sharp pass from Alexis. I controlled it, my touch clean, but González was on me like a shadow, his shoulder slamming into mine. I stumbled, the ball rolling out of reach. A snicker rippled through his teammates.
"Focus, Altamirano!" Herrera shouted from the sidelines. My cheeks burned, but I jogged back, my fists clenched. González's smirk followed me, and I felt the note's weight in my bag, its warning clawing at my focus. Watch your back.
The game grew brutal, the small pitch forcing tight passes and quick decisions. Alexis darted down the flank, his cross curling toward me. I sprinted into the box, González breathing down my neck. "You're out of your league, Flaco," he hissed, his elbow grazing my ribs. I ignored him, my eyes locked on the ball. I leapt, my body coiling, and met it with my forehead. The ball rocketed past the keeper, thudding into the net with a satisfying crack.
The pitch erupted—Alexis whooped, my teammates clapped, and even Herrera gave a rare nod. I turned to González, his smirk gone, his eyes narrow. "That's one," I said, my voice steady. "Keep up."
But the victory was short-lived. Ángel's team struck back, and he was everywhere—slipping past defenders, threading passes like needlework, his every touch a reminder of his edge. He scored with a low drive that left our keeper sprawling, and the scouts in the stands scribbled furiously. I pushed harder, my legs burning, my passes sharper, but González was relentless, his tackles harder, his taunts louder.
"Scared, Altamirano?" he sneered after knocking me down again. "Maybe you should run home to Papá."
The mention of Papá hit like a punch. I scrambled to my feet, my vision narrowing. The ball came to me again, a long pass from the back. González charged, but this time, I was ready. I faked left, spun right, and left him grasping at air. The keeper rushed out, but I chipped the ball over him, watching it sail into the net. The pitch fell silent for a heartbeat, then exploded. Alexis tackled me in a hug, laughing. "That's my Flaco!"
Herrera's whistle ended the game, her face unreadable as she called us in. "Some of you showed up today," she said, her eyes flicking to Ángel, then to me. "Others need to decide if they want this." González scowled, but I barely noticed. My chest heaved, the thrill of the goals mixing with the ache of González's words. Papá. The note. The tattoo. It was all connected, and I was running out of time to figure out how.
As we headed to the benches, Alexis slung an arm around my shoulders. "You showed González who's boss," he said, but his voice dropped. "You sure you're okay, Flaco? You've been… off."
I opened my mouth to lie, but the words caught. Alexis deserved better. "Just… stuff at home," I said, my voice low. "And that night. It's still in my head."
He nodded, his grin softening. "We've got your back, you know that. You, me, Ángel—we're in this together."
I glanced at Ángel, who was grabbing his water bottle, his posture relaxed but his eyes distant, like he was already somewhere else. Before I could say more, I saw Coach Herrera pull him aside, her voice too low to hear. The reserve coach was with her, his clipboard in hand, his expression serious. My stomach twisted. It was happening. Ángel was slipping away, and I wasn't sure I could catch up.
As we left the pitch, I reached for my bag, my fingers brushing the folded notes. I froze. There, tucked into the side pocket, was something new—a small, crumpled photo, half-torn. I pulled it out, my breath catching. It was old, faded, showing a group of men in a smoky room. One of them, younger but unmistakable, was Papá. And beside him, with a Huracán tattoo snaking up his arm, was a face I didn't know—but one that sent a chill down my spine.
[End of Chapter 27]