Chapter 7: No Worse Than Messi
"Relax, Ken."
Head Coach Ramalho smiled gently at the young man standing in front of him.
"You joined late. The State Championship and the Copa Libertadores have already started, so you won't be registered for those competitions."
Ken nodded calmly.
"But the national league begins next month," Ramalho continued. "That's where your opportunity will be. Until then, your priority is simple—integrate into the team as quickly as possible. Do you understand?"
"I understand, sir," Ken replied without hesitation. "I'll adapt as fast as I can and stay in match condition. I won't let you or the club down."
Ramalho's smile widened.
"Good. Go warm up with Milton."
He paused, then shouted toward the pitch.
"Quick! Short passes!"
"Control the tempo!"
"Move! Keep moving!"
"Open the space!"
His voice echoed across the training ground, sharp and relentless.
---
Thwack.
Ken leaned back into the defender as the ball rolled toward his feet. With a sudden step forward, he flicked the ball with his heel while spinning—
The ball slipped cleanly through the defender's legs.
Ken turned, collected it effortlessly, and just as he prepared to release the pass, a massive presence closed in.
Lúcio.
Ken reacted instantly. He dragged the ball back with his right foot and sent a rabona pass curling toward the overlapping winger.
"Ugh—!"
A sharp pain shot through his ribs.
Ken tumbled onto the grass.
He looked up to see Lúcio standing over him, expression innocent.
"Are you doing this on purpose?" Ken asked through clenched teeth.
Lúcio shrugged.
"Kid, this is nothing. In a real match, the referee wouldn't even blink."
If anyone had replayed the moment, they would've seen it clearly—after Ken released the ball and tried to move again, Lúcio had subtly lifted his arm and driven it into his ribs.
Ken spat out a blade of grass and rose without another word.
His eyes burned.
---
"Keep it moving!"
"Good! Again!"
"Ken, watch your spacing!"
Ramalho's voice never stopped.
Ken had already been knocked down several times, yet no one intervened.
Some of the contacts were borderline fouls.
Others were outright fouls.
Still, the coaches watched calmly.
From the sideline, Assistant Coach Milton leaned closer to Ramalho.
"Ken's starting to hate Lúcio," he said quietly. "Is this really okay?"
"If he can't handle this," Ramalho replied flatly, "he'll never survive professional football."
Milton chuckled.
"I'm not worried about Ken. I'm worried Lúcio might get ambushed walking home one night."
Ramalho glanced back at the pitch, where Ken had just been shoved to the ground again.
"…He's a good kid," he muttered. "He won't do that."
---
The five-a-side scrimmage had been arranged deliberately.
It wasn't about tactics.
It was about reality.
Professional football wasn't just technique and positioning—it was pressure, deception, and physical intimidation.
And Lúcio was the lesson.
At first, Ken relied on speed and skill to avoid the contact.
Then he started fighting back.
Moments earlier, while spinning away with the ball, Ken had driven his shoulder into Lúcio's abdomen, knocking the breath out of him.
Still, when it came to dirty tricks, Ken was no match for a veteran who had fought the best attackers in the world.
---
Thwack.
The ball rolled to Ken again.
Lúcio stood directly in front of him this time.
Ken took a step forward, probing.
Then came a flurry of step-overs—fast, tight, hypnotic.
Lúcio didn't bite.
Suddenly, Ken nudged the ball outward with his right foot, shifting his weight.
Lúcio moved.
Now.
A flash of calculation crossed Ken's eyes.
His ankle snapped back.
The ball reversed direction.
An elastico.
Lúcio cursed internally, but his experience saved him—he forced his weight back just in time.
That's when he saw Ken smile.
Ken pivoted on his right foot and spun sharply, dragging the ball behind him with his left.
One smooth motion.
Lúcio's body reacted too late.
He lost balance and dropped hard onto the grass.
"Whoa—!"
Applause erupted from the pitch.
This was Lúcio—the former Brazilian captain.
And he'd just been sent to the ground.
Ken stepped forward, pretending to be concerned.
"You okay?" he asked politely.
There wasn't a hint of sincerity in his eyes.
Lúcio snorted and stood up.
"Relax. You'll need another two or three years before you can hurt me."
Ken grinned but said nothing.
---
Later, inside the head coach's office, Ramalho leaned back in his chair.
"Well?" he asked.
Across from him, Lúcio sat calmly, towel draped around his neck.
"That kid," Lúcio said seriously, "is dangerous."
Ramalho raised an eyebrow.
"With his current ability," Lúcio continued, "he could already start in a top European league. If he strengthens his core, there won't be a defender alive who wants to face him one-on-one."
Ramalho smiled.
He knew how proud Lúcio was.
This was the same man who had lifted the Champions League trophy after knocking out Messi's Barcelona.
"So," Ramalho asked casually, "how does Ken compare to Messi?"
Lúcio fell silent.
After a long moment, he shook his head.
"Right now? He's still behind. Experience matters."
Then he looked up, eyes serious.
"But give him two years. As long as his mindset doesn't change…"
Lúcio paused.
"…he won't be any worse than Messi."