The sky still held the last traces of night when Adrian Vale stepped onto the pitch. A thin layer of frost clung to the grass, crunching softly under his boots as he crossed the field with quiet purpose. The floodlights hummed overhead, casting long shadows that stretched across the empty turf like silent spectators.
He set his bag down on the bench and tied his laces with quick, efficient movements. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Years of early‑morning boxing runs and wrestling drills had carved discipline into him long before football ever entered his life. The cold didn't bother him. The silence didn't bother him. Nothing did, except the fear of becoming average again.
He walked to the center circle, placed a ball at his feet, and began weaving through the cones he'd set up the night before. His footwork was sharp and controlled, each touch flowing into the next with the precision he once used in the ring. He had the balance of a wrestler, the explosiveness of a boxer, and the focus of someone who had learned to fight before he learned to dream.
Three weeks until the Sporting Clube Europa scouts arrived.
Three weeks to prove he wasn't the wasted potential he'd been in his past life.
He didn't hear Coach Mendes approach until the man's footsteps crunched across the frost.
"You're out here again," Mendes said, voice thick with sleep. "It's not even six."
Adrian didn't slow down. "I know."
"You ever sleep?"
"When I need to."
Mendes let out a tired laugh. "You sound like a machine."
"Machines break."
"And you don't?"
Adrian paused, trapping the ball under his foot. His eyes — a strange mix of gray, gold, and green — lifted toward the coach with a calm that bordered on unsettling.
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right."
Mendes shook his head, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Talking to you is like arguing with a brick wall."
"Walls don't argue."
"That's exactly my point."
Adrian resumed the drill, his movements smooth and rhythmic. Mendes watched him for a moment, arms crossed, the early morning light catching the faint steam rising from Adrian's shoulders.
"Your aunt told me to check on you," Mendes said. "She thinks you're pushing too hard."
A small crack appeared in Adrian's expression — barely there, but real. "She doesn't need to worry."
"She's your only family here. Let her care a little."
"I do."
Mendes blinked. "That was… surprisingly human of you."
Adrian didn't respond. He lined up a shot and sent the ball curling into the top corner with effortless precision. It was the kind of shot that made people stop and stare. The kind that made scouts lean forward. The kind that made cameras love him even when he didn't notice them.
Mendes whistled. "You keep this up, those scouts won't be able to ignore you."
"That's the plan."
"You ever think about hanging out with the other kids? Making friends?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Doesn't help me get better."
Mendes sighed. "You're sixteen. You're supposed to have a life."
"I do."
"Football doesn't count."
"It's the only part that matters."
The coach opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. There was no point. Adrian wasn't being dramatic — he was simply stating a fact.
"Alright," Mendes said, turning away. "Try not to die."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"And I always mean it."
When the coach left, the field fell silent again. Adrian checked his phone briefly — another small profit from his investments. Enough to help his aunt with bills without her noticing. Enough to keep him moving forward.
He set up another drill, letting his body fall into the familiar pattern of touches, turns, and sprints. His legs burned, but he didn't slow down. Pain was just another reminder that he was alive, that he was working, and that he was moving toward something bigger than the life he had wasted before.
The sun began to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and pink. The frost melted beneath his feet as the world slowly woke around him. Cars started in the distance. Doors opened. Voices drifted faintly from nearby houses.
But the field remained his.
He trained until the sun was fully up, until his breath came out in controlled bursts and sweat mixed with the cold air. Only then did he allow himself to stop. Not because he was tired — he was always tired — but because he'd done enough for the morning.
For now.
He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked off the pitch with the same quiet determination he'd arrived with. The day was beginning, but for Adrian, it already felt half over.
Three weeks.
That was all that mattered.
And he wasn't slowing down for anyone.