The flyer crumpled slightly in my sweaty hands as I ran home.
Open Trials — San Lorenzo Youth Academy. Ages 13–19. No Cost to Enter.
I must have read it a hundred times before I burst through the door.
"¡Mamá!" I shouted. "Mamá, look at this!"
She was at the sink, scrubbing plates. Her hands were covered in suds, but she wiped them on her apron and took the flyer carefully, like it might break.
She smiled. A real smile—rare these days.
"You should go, Skinny," she said. "You have to go."
I turned to my dad, who sat by the window, cigarette dangling from his lips.He glanced up, squinted at the paper, and grunted something that might have been approval.
That night, I could barely sleep.
I lay on the thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, my heart racing.In my mind, I was already there: dribbling past defenders, scoring the winning goal, hearing the crowd chant my name.
Lucas! Lucas! Lucas!
I slept maybe two hours. By sunrise, I was already dressed.
We took two buses across the city.The morning air was cold, biting through my thin jacket.My mom sat next to me, clutching her purse like it might get stolen at any second. Her hand never left mine.
When we finally reached the training ground, my stomach twisted.
There werehundreds of boys.
They stretched and jogged, showing off to the coaches with sharp turns and powerful kicks. Some wore real academy jerseys. Some had boots so clean they still sparkled.
I looked down at my second-hand cleats—tight, with a rip near the toe—and swallowed hard.
The head coach, a heavy man with a whistle around his neck, blew a sharp blast.
"Form groups of ten!" he barked. "Two-minute drills! No mistakes!"
Boys scrambled into lines.Mothers shouted last-minute advice from the sidelines.Fathers crossed their arms, faces stone-cold serious.
My mom gave me a tight hug.
"Go," she whispered. "Show them who you are."
I nodded, though my legs felt like jelly.
The drills started fast.
Passing drills, sprints, one-on-one challenges.
I ran harder than I ever had. I slid for balls, fought for possession, passed with everything I had.
But it didn't seem to matter.
The coaches barely looked at me.
They were too busy pointing at the bigger boys—broad shoulders, sharp jawlines, muscles already forming under their training kits.
I was too skinny.Too quiet.Too easy to overlook.
I felt invisible.
Panic rose in my chest. My dream was slipping away before it even started.
We broke into teams for scrimmage games.
This was my shot. No drills. No measurements. Just football.
I played like a demon possessed.
Intercepted passes. Quick one-twos. Daring runs through gaps no one else saw.
I wasn't the biggest.I wasn't the fastest.But the ball stuck to my feet like it belonged there.
For a moment, just a moment, I thought I saw a coach glance my way.
Hope sparked inside me.
Maybe. Maybe...
The whistle blew.The trials were over.
The boys gathered around as a coach pulled out a clipboard.
"Listen up!" he shouted. "If I call your name, stay behind. You're moving on to Phase Two. If I don't call you—thanks for coming."
He started reading names.
Each one stabbed like a knife.
Not me.Not me.Not me.
The list ended. My name wasn't on it.
I stood there, frozen, while the other boys celebrated or slumped away.
My mom rushed to my side, wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
"You did great," she whispered. "Maybe next time."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
I had given everything. And it still wasn't enough.
We walked toward the bus stop, the crowd thinning behind us.
I kept my eyes down, the flyer still crumpled in my pocket, as if it could somehow change the outcome if I held it tight enough.
"Hey, you! Wait up!"
I stopped.
An assistant coach jogged toward us—young, with slicked-back hair and expensive sneakers.
He looked me up and down, then glanced at my mom.
"You played well," he said. "Raw. Unpolished. But there's something there."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Was this it?
Was this my second chance?
The man lowered his voice.
"The head coach might be willing to give you a real shot," he said. "But... you'd need to show a little extra commitment."
My mom's voice was wary. "What kind of commitment?"
The man smiled, too wide.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars. Cash."
It hit like a punch to the gut.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.We didn't have twenty-five hundred.We barely had twenty-five.
I opened my mouth to protest, but no sound came out.
The assistant coach patted my shoulder.
"Think about it," he said. "Opportunities like this don't come around every day."
Then he turned and walked away, whistling.
I stood there, frozen.
My dream—the dream I had lived and breathed and bled for—was dangling in front of me.
But it wasn't about talent.It wasn't about hard work.It was about money.
And money was the one thing we didn't have.
[End of Chapter 2]