Two weeks in Milan flew by in a blur of morning humidity, heavy tactical chalkboards, and the sweet, lingering scent of pistachio and berry gelato.
During that time, the pre-season friendly matches had come and gone. It was in those quiet, physical exhibition games against local youth sides that Raphael had earned the full, unreserved respect of his squad.
He didn't just command the pitch with his footwork; he made his teammates look better every time he touched the ball. The initial skepticism from the academy regulars had completely vanished, replaced by an eager willingness to feed him the ball whenever space opened up.
Outside of training, Raphael's schedule was packed tight with Coach Matteo's tactical lectures and language lessons. Across the city, Elizabeth's itinerary was equally chaotic, stuffed with family museum tours, historic cathedral walks, and the occasional vocal warm-up session her mother insisted on keeping in her summer routine.
Yet, whenever their free hours managed to line up, the two of them converged back on that same shaded bench near Corso Magenta like clockwork.
They had become fast, easy friends. Where most kids Raphael's age babbled about video games or morning cartoons, Liz matched his quiet intensity with a dramatic, theatrical flair of her own. She was quick-witted, loud, and entirely unbothered by his calm demeanor, treating his obsession with football with a playful skepticism that Raphael found surprisingly refreshing.
"I'm just saying," Liz insisted, swinging her legs over the side of the stone bench as she balanced a cup of lemon granita, "you talk about this game like you're going into battle. 'Spatial awareness, tactical tempo, scanning.' Raphael, you're kicking a leather ball into a giant net."
"It's a chess match played at full sprint," Raphael replied smoothly, leaning back against the cool brick wall. "And the net isn't giant when you've got a goalkeeper who's spent six years training to block every single inch of it."
"Uh-huh. Sure." Liz took a tiny spoon of granita, giving him an exaggerated side-eye. "And I suppose you're the almighty grandmaster of this chess match?"
"Obviously," Raphael grinned. "Ask my coach. He practically threw a contract at my dad after thirty minutes."
Liz gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. "The ego on you! My goodness, Raphael, if I bragged like that before an audition, my vocal coach would slap a piece of duct tape over my mouth!"
"It's not bragging if it's accurate," Raphael said with a shrug, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Besides, you're one to talk. Who spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining how her monologues leave full audiences in tears?"
"Because they do!" Liz declared passionately, pointing her spoon at him. "That is raw, artistic emotion! It's a delicate craft!"
"And the pitch is my canvas," Raphael countered instantly, reusing the exact phrase Marco had muttered during his first session. "You perform on a stage with lights. I perform on seventy yards of grass with eight defenders trying to kick my shins."
Liz stared at him for a second, then let out a sharp, genuine laugh. "Okay, fine. You win that point. But if you're really as ridiculously good as you claim, when do I actually get to see this 'masterpiece'?"
Raphael paused, his posture straightening slightly. "Actually... our first official game of the regular season is tomorrow morning. Under-9s opening match against Napoli."
"Napoli?" Liz blinked. "Is that a big deal?"
"Very big," Raphael said. "Their academy is aggressive, fast, and organized. Pre-season is over, this is where the points actually count." He looked at her, his expression relaxing into a casual smile. "My dad has extra pass tickets for the parents' stand. You and your family should come. You can see if my 'ego' is backed up by anything real."
Liz narrowed her eyes playfully, considering it. "Hmm. A morning of watching you run around in short shorts, or another three-hour tour of ancient churches with my parents?" She pretended to ponder deeply before throwing her hands up. "Deal. I'll come. But if you play poorly, I am never letting you live it down."
"Bring your notebook," Raphael teased, standing up and tossing his empty cup into the bin. "You might learn something about stage presence."
The next morning arrived with a crisp, blue sky hanging over Lombardy.
At seven in the morning, the kitchen in the dos Santos apartment was quiet. Oscar moved with practiced efficiency, placing a light, precise pre-game meal in front of Raphael: a single poached egg on a slice of dry whole-wheat toast, half a sliced banana, and a small glass of water.
"Light and simple," Oscar said softly. "Nothing heavy before the opening whistle."
Raphael ate calmly, chewing slowly. His mind was already locked in, visualizing the pitch, the passing lines, and the defensive shifts.
Twenty minutes later, they stepped out into the morning air and boarded the team transport heading south toward the academy ground at Centro Sportivo Peppino Vismara.
The ride was quiet. In the passenger seat, Oscar kept his eyes on the road, offering advice only in measured, deliberate bursts.
"Napoli's U9s play a narrow system," Oscar said, his voice low and analytical. "They like to trap the middle of the pitch and force young players out wide where the touchline acts as an extra defender. When you receive the ball between their lines, don't just look for the immediate pass forward. Look at their central defensive midfielder. The moment he steps toward you, that space behind him belongs to you."
Raphael listened intently, nodding. "If I drop deep, I drag their pivot with me. If I stay high, I pin their center-backs."
"Exactly," Oscar smiled faintly, glancing at his son in the rearview mirror. "Be the anchor when they press, but be decisive when they sit back."
Arriving at the complex, the atmosphere was electric for the season opener. The venue was filled with manicured pitch grass, pristine white touchlines, and small bleachers filling up with parents, regional scouts, and senior academy directors.
In the locker room, Coach Matteo kept his pre-match talk remarkably concise. He pulled out the magnetic tactics board, slapping red and blue markers across the green metal surface.
"We run a 4-3-3 today," Matteo barked, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. "Compact defense, quick transitions. Raphael, you are the apex of the midfield triangle, sitting right behind the striker as our number ten. You have positional freedom in the final third, but when we lose the ball, you immediately lead the high press. Clear?"
"Clear, Coach," Raphael answered, pulling his pristine red and black AC Milan jersey over his head. The iconic stripes felt crisp and light against his skin.
Out on the pitch, the warm-up was short and explosive: short dynamic stretches, quick ladder footwork drills, and five minutes of rapid one-touch passing circles.
As both squads set up in their positions, waiting for the referee's whistle, Raphael cast a quick glance toward the small main stand.
Sitting right near the front rail was Oscar, his hands resting on his knees with his usual stoic intensity. Sitting right beside him were Elizabeth and her parents.
Liz's parents were polite and supportive, sitting attentively in their seats, though her father was currently leaning toward his wife with a slightly furrowed brow, whispering in a comically exasperated tone, "Is it just me, or has she mentioned this eight-year-old kid more times this week than her own theater auditions?" Her mother simply offered a helpless, amused sigh, patting her husband's knee.
Liz, completely ignoring her parents' hushed banter, leaned over the railing. Her eyes swept across the pitch until they locked onto Raphael.
Raphael caught her eye, lifted his chin slightly, and let a small, confident smirk play on his lips.
Liz rolled her eyes, pointing two fingers at her own eyes and then back at him in a silent, comical 'I'm watching you' gesture.
Tweet!
The referee's whistle cut through the morning air. Napoli kicked off the season.
05'
Napoli came out like a pack of hunting dogs. True to Oscar's prediction, their four midfielders flooded the central channel, pressing AC Milan's deep-lying playmaker the second he touched the ball. Within three minutes, Milan was pushed back into their own half, forced into two rushed clearances.
In the stands, Liz leaned forward, resting her elbows on the rail. "Why are they running so fast? Is Milan supposed to be losing the ball that much?"
Oscar, sitting beside her with his arms crossed, didn't break his gaze from the pitch. "It's a trap," Oscar explained smoothly to Liz and her parents. "Napoli is using a significant percentage of their energy in the first few moments of the game, trying to score an early goal while our defense is still settling. They're trying to get an early advantage in this game. Watch Raphael. He isn't rushing."
Down on the field, the ball bounced awkwardly off a Milan defender's shin toward the center circle. A Napoli midfielder charged forward to claim the turn-over.
Raphael moved like a shadow.
Without making a sound, he burst across six yards of turf, sliding his foot into the exact pocket of space between the ball and the oncoming midfielder. Instead of kicking it away, Raphael used a gentle, cushioned touch with his outer foot, rolling the ball away in a crisp, effortless turn that left the Napoli boy lunging at thin air.
"Whoa," Liz muttered, her eyes widening slightly. "Okay... that was pretty smooth."
Beside her, her father narrowed his eyes playfully. "Great, now we're going to hear about 'the foot move' for the next three days," he muttered dryly to his wife, though he couldn't help but look mildly impressed himself.
His head snapped up immediately, scanning the field like a radar. He saw Napoli's defensive shape shifted too far to the right. With a flick of his right ankle, he launched a thirty-yard ground pass that sliced diagonally across the grass, landing perfectly into the stride of Milan's left winger.
The entire momentum of the match flipped in a single second. Milan pushed up ten yards.
12'
Raphael had completely taken control of the game's tempo.
When Napoli tried to drop into a compact middle block, Raphael refused to stand still. He backed away from his assigned number ten position, dropping almost twenty yards deep into his own midfield to pick up the ball directly from his center-backs.
"Why is he going backward?" Liz's father asked, curious despite himself. "Isn't he supposed to be the attacker?"
"He's drawing their defensive line out," Oscar murmured, a small smile appearing on his face. "Watch their central defender."
As Raphael received the ball deep, Napoli's primary center-back instinctively stepped up six paces to close the gap, terrified of giving Raphael space to turn.
That six-pace gap was all Raphael needed.
Receiving a soft pass from his backline, Raphael didn't even look at the ball. He let it roll across his body toward his left foot.
In the same motion, without taking a setup touch, he struck a devastating through ball, a crisp, disguised pass that cut straight through the narrow gap to Milan's left winger who already started his run.
The winger immediately laid a crisp, one-touch pass off to the striker, who sliced into the box and slotted a low finish into the bottom corner before the defenders could regain their bearings.
GOAL!
The Milan bench erupted into cheers. The winger spun around, but pointed directly past the midfielder straight back at Raphael, acknowledging the brilliant pre-assist that had unlocked the entire defensive structure from deep.
In the stands, Liz blinked, trying to track what just happened. "Wait... so Raphael passed it to the guy who passed it to the guy who scored?"
"That's a pre-assist," Oscar nodded, his tone deeply approving. "Raphael created the gap three seconds before the final pass was even thought of."
"He didn't even get the score, and he's still acting like he owns the field," Liz's father grumbled with a small grin, crossing his arms. "Unbelievable."
22'
Napoli was a proud team, and they responded with aggressive physical play.
During a set-piece scramble off a corner kick in the twenty-second minute, a defensive mix-up in the Milan box allowed Napoli's tall forward to pounce on a loose ball, smashing it into the top mesh from four yards out.
1–1.
The Napoli players celebrated loudly, throwing their fists in the air near the corner flag.
Raphael walked into the net, picked up the ball, and tucked it under his arm. He walked past his slightly deflated defenders, giving each of them a firm clap on the shoulder.
"Heads up!" Raphael called out in his newly acquired Italian, his voice calm and firm. "Reset! We control the ball, we control the game!"
Coach Matteo nodded vigorously from the technical area. "Listen to him! Reset your lines!"
35'
As the first half wound down into its final ten minutes, the heat on the pitch reached its peak. Napoli felt they had momentum, pressing high up the pitch to force another error before the halftime whistle.
Raphael was waiting for it.
In the thirty-eighth minute, Milan won back possession deep in their own territory. The ball was worked quickly through a sequence of three rapid short passes, eventually finding Raphael right on the edge of the center circle, his back facing the Napoli goal.
Two Napoli midfielders closed in on him instantly from both shoulders, attempting to sandwich him and force a turnover.
"Watch out!" Liz gasped unconsciously from the stands, leaning over the railing.
Raphael didn't panic. He didn't even turn around.
As the ball reached his boots, he dropped his hips low, and flicked the ball up before doing a sombrero flick over both their heads in a swift elegant arc, with such grace they could only tackle him through fouling which, they were too scared to go through with.
Raphael used his right boot to touch the ball down back into his path before performing an instantaneous roulette spin right past another lunging defender.
The crowd in the stands let out a collective, audible gasp.
"Mamma mia!" an older man, sitting behind Oscar shouted, standing up from his seat. He had a moustache and red plumber hat with an M on the front.
Raphael burst out of the spin with explosive acceleration, leaving all three oppositions trailing behind him like discarded coats. He was now driving directly at Napoli's backline with thirty yards of open green turf in front of him.
The remaining Napoli center-back panicked, backing up three paces before committing to a desperate, sliding tackle right at the edge of the eighteen yard box.
Raphael didn't simply chop the ball inside. He dropped his shoulder, sending the defender, sliding through empty air.
Running at full speed now toward the right edge of the box, he set his left plant foot firmly into the turf. His body was angled completely away from the goal, making it look as though he was about to cross the ball toward the far post for his winger.
Instead, with surgical precision, Raphael swung his right leg around the back of the ball.
Pact!
It was an absolute, flawless trivela, a strike struck exclusively with the outside of his right boot.
The ball launched off his foot with insane, side-spinning velocity. It curled wildly from right to left, bending around the outstretched leg of the sliding defender, curving completely out of reach of the diving goalkeeper, and kissing the absolute inside of the far left post before snapping into the side netting.
BANG!
The net bulged violently.
For a fraction of a second, the complex went dead silent as everyone digested the absurd curve of the strike.
Then, the stands exploded.
"GOOOOOLLLL!" Coach Matteo screamed from the sidelines, throwing his clipboard straight onto his bench in sheer disbelief.
"WHAT A STRIKE! WHAT A STRIKE!"
Raphael didn't execute a wild slide or a frantic celebration. He simply slowed his run to a comfortable trot, jogging toward the corner flag with a wide, effortless smile. He turned toward the main stands, raised his hand, and gave a crisp, theatrical bow right toward where Elizabeth and Oscar were sitting.
In the stands, Liz was on her feet, her hands slapped over her mouth in absolute shock, a massive, astonished grin breaking across her face.
"Okay!" Liz shouted over the noise of the cheering parents, pointing dramatically down at him. "Okay, fine! You're allowed to brag! You're allowed!"
Beside her, her father shook his head with an amused sigh, leaning over to his wife. "Great. Now we're never getting her out of Italy."
Beside them, Oscar sat forward in his seat, his hands gripping the rails. A deep warmth filled his eyes as he looked down at his son standing under the bright Lombardy sun.
The referee blew his whistle 7 minutes later, signaling the end of the first half.
AC Milan 2, Napoli 1.
Raphael walked off the pitch toward the tunnel, his white number 10 of his red and black jersey glowing under the midday sun, ready for whatever the second half would bring.