Name's Alejandro Vega Ruiz.
Seventeen years old. Madrid-born. Right foot dominant.
Attacking midfielder with a touch like silk — or so I've been told.
First time I kicked a ball, I was two.
Didn't walk till I was one and a half. Didn't talk till I was nearly three.
But pass me a ball? I was fluent.
My abuelo used to say I had the spirit of Iniesta in my feet and the chaos of Ronaldinho in my smile.
Mama just said I needed to do my homework.
Football ran in the blood — not professionally, but religiously.
Dad worked long shifts in a hover-train depot, came home dead tired, but never missed a match. Not mine. Not Barça vs. Atlético. Not even the fourth-tier youth streams from Europa Luna.
We lived in a tiny flat in Sector 9, Madrid Orbit District. Cracked walls, flickering lights, and a rooftop pitch where legends were born and knees were scraped raw.
I trained every damn day.
Rain, dust storms, drone police patrols — didn't matter.
I had a dream. A simple one:
Put Earth back on the map.
Not just as a player.
As the player.
---
Atlético Solar wasn't supposed to take me.
They scout players across all Earth zones, but let's be real — most of us don't make the cut. By "us," I mean: humans.
The top academies now? Mostly alien-owned.
Zyrixians with six arms. Gralkos with anti-gravity boots.
Martian kids trained in zero-G chambers since they were toddlers.
Earth? We're the punchline of the League.
So when I got the acceptance holo-letter from Atlético Solar's academy, I stared at it for ten minutes, then sprinted down six flights of stairs screaming my lungs out.
---
Day One.
The academy's located in New Catalonia — a climate-regulated dome built after the Flood Wars. Artificial blue skies, real grass imported from pre-Fusion Earth, and a stadium with 50,000 empty seats just waiting for fans again.
I arrived with a duffel bag, a chipped pair of boots, and way too much heart.
My new roommates were already inside.
"Room 42B," I said to the scanner.
Ping.
Door slid open.
The first thing I saw was a pile of socks on the floor. Second thing? A half-eaten protein bar floating in zero-G — someone forgot to turn off the artificial gravity stabilizer.
Third thing?
A grin.
"Rookie alert," said a voice. Deep. Mocking. Playful.
A tall guy with dreads, dark skin, and a build like a striker walked over and clapped me on the back. "Name's Musa. Nigeria Zone. Forward. Goalscorer. Pretty boy. You?"
"Alejandro. Midfield. Madrid."
"Ah, Spaniard! You guys love your triangles, huh?"
He mimed a tiki-taka pass routine, then fake-fell dramatically. "And diving. Gotta watch out for that!"
I chuckled. He was annoying. But in a friendly way.
Another guy sat on the top bunk, reading something off a floating holo-page. Quiet. Sharp eyes.
"That's Kenji," Musa said. "Japan Sector. Defender. Doesn't talk much, but he'll outsmart you on and off the pitch."
Kenji nodded at me. That was it.
Room 42B: The start of something. I could feel it.
---
Training sucked.
The pitch was perfect. The tech? Insane.
Motion-capture sensors. Tactical drones. Smart cones that moved mid-dribble.
But the level?
Ruthless.
In my first scrimmage, I got nutmegged by a kid from Titan — literal Titan, Saturn's moon. His skin shimmered silver. Moved like he was skating on ice. I couldn't touch him.
Coach called him "Zyx." No last name. Just Zyx.
"Vega!" Coach barked after I lost the ball for the third time.
"Sí, coach."
> "You think you've made it just because you're here?"
"No, coach."
> "Good. Because this ain't football anymore. It's Galactic football. Get used to being the underdog."
I gritted my teeth. Took the hit. Kept going.
---
Nights were quieter.
After training, I'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as Musa snored and Kenji silently stretched for half an hour.
My body ached. My pride too.
But there was something else, something I couldn't name.
Like the air around me was… waiting.
Like the universe knew what was coming.
---
Then came the match.
A friendly. Earth Youth Select vs. Martian Club U-18.
Just a trial game — no stakes. But for me? It was everything.
My first real match in an Earth kit. My first time under proper stadium lights.
My first chance to prove I wasn't a mistake.
Coach gave me the nod in the second half.
> "Midfield engine. Link up with Musa. Don't overthink."
I nodded.
Crowd noise hummed in my ears. The Martians were massive — bio-enhanced, gene-tweaked. We were faster on the ball, maybe. But physically?
We were dust.
Ball came to me. First touch — smooth. Turned. Laid it off to Kenji. Movement felt sharp, right and natural.
Then — space.
I sprinted forward, cut inside the first defender, then the second. My pulse pounded. I heard the crowd — actually heard them. Like they believed.
Then—
CRACK.
A leg came flying in. Metal-plated boots. Martian number 6.
I never saw his face. Just the studs, the impact and the fall.
My skull hit the turf hard.
And everything went black.