Luleå, Sweden – Autumn, 2014
The air smelled of frost and fallen leaves. A breeze swept across the schoolyard of Luleå Mellanstad Skola, rustling the nets of the football goals and the banners tied to the fences.
Tito Gustov stood alone beside the field, hoodie zipped up to his chin, his fingers tightly clutched around the wire of the chain-link fence. His pale blue eyes were fixed on the team warming up. Not on the team, his team—at least, the one he dreamed of joining.
Thirteen years old. Shorter than most. Quiet. Always in the background.
Tito was invisible to most of the school, except when he wasn't. And when he wasn't, he was being laughed at.
But still… he watched. And he practiced. Every evening after school, long after the rest of the team had gone home, Tito stayed behind with a worn-out ball and rusty goalposts, trying to emulate his idols—Cristiano Ronaldo with his explosive runs, and Messi with his magical close control.
But the dream never matched reality.
An Unexpected Opening
"Team, huddle up!" Coach Samuel Lindström called, clipboard under his arm.
Just then, the assistant coach rushed over, whispering with urgency.
Coach's expression dropped. "Broke his what?!"
The players stopped stretching and turned toward him.
"Adam's out. Broken ankle," the assistant confirmed.
Mikael, the team striker, groaned. "What?! He's our left winger!"
"Oliver can sub in, right?" asked one of the defenders.
"Sick," the assistant replied grimly.
"Then Fredrik—"
"Detention."
The coach rubbed his forehead. "You've got to be kidding me. One position short five minutes before kickoff?"
The air grew tense.
And then, like a leaf caught in the wind, a voice rose.
"I... I can play."
Everyone turned.
Tito stepped forward from the sidelines, eyes down, voice barely above a whisper. "Left wing. I can do it."
There was a long pause.
"You?" Aron, the team's cocky midfielder, laughed. "Seriously? You're not even on the team."
Mikael rolled his eyes. "We need a left winger, not a waterboy."
Coach Samuel squinted. "You've trained with the team?"
"I practice. Every day. On my own," Tito said. "I know the runs. The positioning."
The coach looked at his watch. Then at Tito. He didn't have time to debate.
"…Fine. You're in."
The Match Begins
Cheers erupted from the stands. The opposing team, Boden School, was already lined up in a clean 4-3-3 formation.
Tito's heart pounded in his chest as he jogged onto the field. His legs felt heavier than ever.
He glanced at the stands. Rows of students, parents, and teachers watched. Some noticed him.
"Who's that kid?"
"Did we get a new transfer?"
"He looks terrified."
The whistle blew.
First touch. The ball rolled his way.
He stretched to control it, but his nerves betrayed him—thud. Off his shin. Out of bounds.
Groans swept through the crowd like a wave.
Tito's face flushed.
"Wake up, Gustov!" Aron shouted.
He tried again a few minutes later. Found space. The ball came. He ran—but the Boden defender reached him in two strides and knocked him to the ground like a twig in a storm.
"Move, runt," the defender grunted, already dribbling away.
Tito sat on the cold turf, dazed.
"Pass, dammit!" Mikael screamed from across the field.
"You're slower than my grandma!" Aron added.
More minutes passed. Tito missed a crucial interception. Tried to dribble—got tackled again. Boden countered with precision.
Goal. 1–0.
And again. Goal. 2–0.
By halftime, Luleå was losing—and everyone had the same name on their lips.
Tito.
Halftime – Locker Room
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was toxic.
Coach Samuel threw his clipboard against the bench. "That. Was. Embarrassing!"
Tito sat on the edge, silent, trembling.
"You told me you could play," the coach growled. "You lied, Gustov."
"I—" he whispered, but the words wouldn't come.
"You cost us this game!"
"Dude, do you even know what position you're in?" Aron spat.
"I've seen cones with better footwork," Mikael added.
Laughter. Cruel, echoing laughter.
Tito bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.
They lost 2–0.
As the rest of the team left together, Tito walked alone.
His cleats tapped the concrete like tiny betrayals. Every step felt heavier than the last. The cool Luleå air stung his skin as he gripped his backpack tighter.
The mocking chants from the locker room repeated over and over in his mind.
"Bench ghost."
"CR7? More like CR-Suck."
"Maybe just quit."
By the time he reached home, he couldn't hold it in anymore.
He pushed the front door open, eyes red and filled with shame.
"Tito?" his mother, Cherry, called from the kitchen. "How was—"
But he didn't answer.
He sprinted upstairs, shoes still on, the door slamming so hard behind him the windows shook.
Inside, Tito collapsed onto the bed.
"I'm so stupid…" he muttered, tears flooding his eyes. "Why did I even say I could play?"
"Tito?" Cherry hurried up the stairs, knocking gently. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
No response.
"Honey, please open the door." Her voice was gentle. "Talk to me."
"I don't want to talk!" Tito yelled, muffled by tears.
"I made your favorite dinner. Meatballs and—"
"Leave me alone!"
Cherry clutched her heart, tears forming in her eyes. "You're my boy, Tito… don't shut me like that honey"
Silence.
She pressed her hand against the door. "Please open the door. Just tell me what happened."
Still nothing.
She sat on the floor outside his room, hugging her knees. "You're such a good boy, Tito… please don't shut us out now."
Later that evening, John Gustov came home from work. Cherry met him with a tired expression.
"He won't talk. Locked himself in since the match."
"How bad?" he asked Cherry quietly.
"Worse than ever," she replied.
He walked up, leaned on the door.
John nodded, took off his coat, and walked upstairs.
He sat outside Tito's door, leaned his back against it.
"Hey, champ."
Nothing.
"I know that you are hurting , disappointed, and probably don't want to talk to anyone but just know that we are still there you know."
"Maybe you failed today, it doesn't matter I want you to know that every great men all failed at beginning even your idol Christiano Ronaldo and Messi did too , but no one remembers their failure right so remember it's okay to fail if it meant to grow stronger , standing up more resilient and looking up into the upcoming challenges not with fear but with faith that you will conquer them one day"
"So I want to tell you a story."
Still no sound.
"When I was your age, I ran track. I was fast—real fast. Thought I could be a national sprinter one day."
Tito sniffled quietly behind the door.
"I trained hard. Gave everything. I made it to the junior nationals. And… I tripped. In front of everyone. Lost the race. And people laughed. Just like they laughed at you .Then one day, someone told me, 'The greatest performers fail hardest before they rise the highest.'"."
The voice inside the room wavered. "…You fell?"
"I did. Hard. For two years, I couldn't look at a track without crying. But you know what?" He smiled. "I got back up. Not because I was strong—but because I wasn't alone."
There was a pause.
Then a click.
The door creaked open.
Tito stood there, face puffy and eyes swollen, his lips trembling.
"I... I messed everything up," he said.
John knelt and hugged him tightly. "You were brave. That matters more than winning."
A New Plan
At dinner, the family sat quietly. John and Cherry looking at each other then at Tito was mindlessly playing with his food depressed.
Then John spoke.
"Hey champ what you say about getting some formal training"
Tito " Training dad"
"I called an old friend today , he owns me some favours from our school days. He coaches youth at Bodens BK. I told him about you. He agreed to meet us tomorrow."
Tito looked up. "You mean... that's a real club, right?"
"One of the best in Norrland for young players," John said. "They'll give you real training. But only if you want it."
Tito hesitated. Then nodded.
"I want it."
That Night - Tito's room
The house was quiet.
Tito lay in bed, eyes staring at the ceiling. The cruel voices still echoed in his mind. Their mocking voice shouting at him. Every time he closes his eyes he is transferred to the stadium everyone shouting at him , he could see anger in the players eyes , mockery in opponent and pure disappoint in the coach.
He sat up, hands folded, and whispered:
"Please… I don't want to be laughed at anymore. I love football. I want to play. I want to be someone. If someone out there is listening… tell me what to do."
He waited.
No reply.
He sighed and turned off his lamp.
Just as his eyelids grew heavy—
A brilliant blue glow lit the room.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
[WELCOME, USER: TITO GUSTOV]
[YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED BY THE PERFORMER SYSTEM]
[YOUR JOURNEY TO BECOME THE GREATEST PERFORMER IN FOOTBALL BEGINS NOW]
[BEGINNER GIFT UNLOCKED: _______]
Tito's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the glowing panel floating before him.
"…What is this?"
To Be Continued…