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Chapter 3 – Ghosted
The reporter didn't show.
João sat on the cracked concrete steps behind the municipal pitch, staring at the empty gate. The sun was high. A breeze blew dust across the track. His boots rested beside him—clean, polished, unused.
He checked his phone again. No new messages. No reply to the text he sent this morning. Just the blue checkmark and the silence.
A journalist—some regional guy from a paper in Braga—had called him three days ago, full of fake warmth. "We're doing a feature on Portugal's youth stars. Want to hear your story?"
João had cleaned his boots for the meeting.
Now? Nothing.
He tossed the phone back in his bag and exhaled hard through his nose. Behind him, a youth team was finishing warm-ups. A coach barked instructions in short, sharp commands. João didn't know any of their names anymore.
Two months ago, he couldn't walk down a touchline without someone clapping him on the back. Now, no one looked twice. A few recognized his face, but there were no smiles. No nods. Just quiet curiosity, like spotting a fallen statue in the grass.
He pulled his hood tighter. His old FC Porto training jacket still fit, even if the colors no longer meant anything. He hated how he still wore it. Like a ghost dragging chains.
His phone buzzed once.
Miguel (Agent): "Things are slow right now. Be patient."
João's jaw clenched. Patience? Easy to say when you weren't training in public parks and chasing shadows for fitness. He'd messaged Miguel three times last week—each one shorter than the last. No trials. No friendlies. Just silence. Like everyone had swallowed his name and spat out dust.
He stood up, stretching his legs. His body felt sharper than ever—leaner, lighter—but there was no one left to see it. The stadiums were shut to him now. And the game didn't chase ghosts.
Another buzz.
Luis (Ex-teammate): "Hey bro, heard what happened. Keep your head up. Hope you bounce back 💪"
João stared at the message.
No invite. No "let's train." Just digital pity.
He deleted the text without replying.
In the distance, one of the youth players dribbled toward the goal, slipped, and smacked the ball over the fence. It rolled downhill toward the lower pitch. João jogged after it. The movement steadied his breath, cleared the fog in his head. The ball hit the curb and stopped.
He picked it up. Standard academy ball—worn, slightly overinflated. Familiar.
He dropped it. Let it bounce once. Then flicked it behind his back, caught it with his heel, spun, and volleyed it high into the sky. It soared, clean and true, before crashing down into the center circle like it had been guided by radar.
A few heads turned from the far pitch.
João held their gaze for a second—long enough to let them wonder if they'd imagined what they just saw.
Then he picked up his bag and walked away.
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