The academy grounds were already buzzing by the time Adrian returned for the official morning session. The sun had climbed high enough to warm the frost off the grass, and the air carried the familiar mix of cut turf, sweat, and anticipation. Players jogged across the field in small groups, laughing, stretching, complaining about homework or the cold.
Adrian walked past them without slowing. He wasn't unfriendly — just focused. Too focused for most people to understand.
He dropped his bag by the bench and began his warm‑up routine. Controlled breathing. Slow stretches. Light touches on the ball. His body moved with the same precision he'd honed in boxing gyms and wrestling rooms, every motion deliberate, every muscle engaged.
He didn't need noise.
He didn't need company.
He needed work.
Coach Mendes blew his whistle. "Circle up!"
The players gathered around him. Adrian stood near the front, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
"Today's session is about possession and decision‑making," Mendes said. "Quick touches, smart movement, communication. Let's get to it."
The group split into smaller teams for rondos. Adrian stepped into one of the circles, rolling his shoulders as the drill began. The ball zipped between players, each touch sharp and clean.
Then Lucas Andrade joined the circle.
Lucas was eighteen — older, taller, already built like a professional midfielder. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd been praised his whole life. The academy's golden boy. The one everyone expected to rise.
He stepped into the circle with a grin. "Morning, Vale."
Adrian nodded once. "Morning."
Lucas smirked. "You were here early again, weren't you?"
Adrian didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Lucas chuckled. "You know, normal people sleep."
"I'm not normal."
"That," Lucas said, "is the first thing we agree on."
The drill resumed. The ball moved quickly, players calling for passes, adjusting their positions. Adrian's touches were crisp, his awareness sharp. He intercepted passes before they fully formed, reading the play like a second language.
Lucas noticed.
"Show‑off," he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. Not yet.
Adrian ignored him and kept moving.
The drill intensified. The pace quickened. Adrian thrived in the chaos, slipping between defenders, redirecting passes with the smallest flicks of his foot. His body remembered the rhythm of combat — the timing, the angles, the anticipation.
But Lucas kept drifting closer. Testing him. Nudging him. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to disrupt the flow.
During a tight sequence, Lucas stepped into Adrian's lane just as the ball arrived. Adrian adjusted, but the touch came off his foot a fraction too heavy.
The ball escaped the circle.
A rare mistake.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Didn't think you made those."
Adrian reset his stance. "I don't."
"You just did."
"It won't happen again."
Lucas smirked. "We'll see."
The drill continued, but the mistake lingered in Adrian's mind like a bruise. He hated slipping. He hated reacting. He hated that Lucas had noticed.
Coach Mendes blew the whistle. "Switch drills!"
The players moved to a possession game — small‑sided, high tempo. Adrian took his position, scanning the field, calculating angles. The ball rolled toward him, and he controlled it instantly, turning past a defender with a smooth pivot.
Lucas closed in again.
"Relax, Vale," he said. "It's just training."
Adrian didn't respond. He pushed forward, threading a pass between two defenders. The play continued, but Lucas stayed close, shadowing him, testing him.
During a contested ball, Lucas bumped him — not hard, but enough to throw off his balance.
Adrian recovered, but the shove sparked something in his chest. A flicker of heat. A reminder of the ring. Of opponents who tried to break him. Of the instinct to respond.
He forced it down.
Coach Mendes noticed the tension. "Play clean!"
Lucas raised his hands innocently. "Just competing, coach."
Adrian said nothing. He didn't trust his voice to stay steady.
The drill ended with a final whistle. Players dispersed, grabbing water bottles, stretching, joking around. Adrian stayed on the field, rolling the ball under his foot, trying to settle the tightness in his chest.
Lucas approached him again, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You know," he said, "the coaches talk about you a lot."
Adrian didn't look up. "I know."
"They say you're talented. Focused. Driven."
Adrian waited.
Lucas's tone shifted — not hostile, but curious. "They also say you push too hard. That you don't know when to stop."
Adrian finally met his eyes. "I stop when I'm done."
"And who decides that?"
"I do."
Lucas studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Not jealousy. Not yet. More like… evaluation. As if he was trying to understand what made Adrian different.
"Just don't burn out," Lucas said. "Would be a waste."
Adrian didn't respond. He didn't know how to. Compliments — even backhanded ones — weren't something he knew how to process.
Lucas walked off, leaving Adrian alone on the field.
Coach Mendes approached a moment later. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're pushing too hard."
"I'm preparing."
"For what?"
Adrian looked at the empty goal. "Three weeks."
Mendes sighed. "You can't train like this forever."
"I don't need forever."
Mendes opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. There was no point. Adrian wasn't being dramatic — he was simply stating a fact.
"Alright," Mendes said. "Cool down. Then head home."
Adrian nodded and began his routine — slow jog, controlled breathing, light touches. His body moved automatically, but his mind was restless.
The mistake.
The shove.
The tension.
The way Lucas watched him.
He hated that it affected him.
He hated that he cared.
He hated that he wasn't as unshakeable as he pretended to be.
When he finished cooling down, he grabbed his bag and left the field. The sun was high now, warming the pavement as he walked toward the exit. The academy buzzed behind him — laughter, shouts, the thump of balls against walls.
He didn't look back.
Three weeks.
That was all that mattered.
But as he headed home, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted — small, subtle, but real.
A crack in the armor.
A warning.
A beginning.
And he wasn't sure whether it made him stronger…
or exposed.