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The Narrow Streets
The air smelled of roasted meat and diesel fumes as the sun dipped behind the crowded tenements of Barrio Sur, casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt. In the heart of the slum, a makeshift football pitch had been carved out of an abandoned lot, surrounded by jeering kids and grim-faced spectators. Santiago Delgado, barefoot and dressed in a faded Boca Juniors jersey, stood in the center, ball at his feet.
Across from him was a towering figure, Rafa "El Toro" Muñoz, who cracked his knuckles menacingly. Rafa wasn't here for the game. He was here to make sure Santiago lost.
"Remember, chico," Rafa growled, his voice dripping with disdain. "If you lose, your brother owes double. You win, and maybe I forget his debt. But you won't win."
Santi tightened his jaw. His brother, Javier, had gambled away every peso they had on a rigged game of cards. Now, the family's small income from their empanada cart wasn't enough to keep the loan sharks off their backs.
Santi didn't answer. Instead, he rolled the ball forward with the sole of his foot, nodding toward Rafa. "First to three goals. Let's play."
The crowd erupted into cheers and catcalls as the two took their positions. The lot's boundaries were marked with broken bricks and faded chalk lines. A rickety metal trash can served as the goal.
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The match started with a sharp whistle from a wiry old man in a stained shirt. Rafa charged forward immediately, all brute force and aggression, aiming to overwhelm Santi with sheer physicality.
But Santi was quick. He danced around Rafa's lunging tackle, a flick of his ankle sending the ball between the man's legs. The crowd howled in laughter.
"¡Olé!" someone shouted from the sidelines.
Rafa's face turned red as he spun around, now chasing Santi, who darted down the left side of the lot. Despite the uneven ground, Santi's control was flawless. The ball seemed glued to his foot as he weaved past two more defenders, leaving them stumbling in his wake.
With a sharp cut inside, Santi wound up for a shot. His right leg swung back, only for Rafa to appear out of nowhere, throwing his entire weight into a block.
Santi didn't flinch. At the last second, he used his weaker left foot to tap the ball lightly past Rafa, sending it rolling into the makeshift goal.
"One-nil," Santi said calmly, his voice cutting through the cacophony of cheers.
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Rafa wasn't one to play fair. When the ball was passed to him for the restart, he barreled into Santi without warning, sending the younger boy sprawling onto the ground.
"Stay down, kid," Rafa sneered, dribbling toward the goal.
Santi scrambled to his feet, his ribs aching. He chased Rafa, but the man's size gave him a significant advantage. Using his shoulder to fend off a desperate challenge, Rafa powered the ball into the goal, denting the trash can with the force of his shot.
The crowd erupted into a mix of applause and boos.
"One-one," Rafa called out, smirking.
Santi dusted himself off, breathing heavily. He could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of his brother's debt pressing on his shoulders. But he wasn't about to back down.
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The third goal was always the most important. Rafa, emboldened by his brute tactics, charged forward again, this time dribbling straight at Santi.
Santi anticipated the move. Instead of going for the ball, he feigned a stumble, letting Rafa overextend. The second Rafa's balance faltered, Santi struck, poking the ball free with the tip of his toes.
The ball bounced loose, and Santi pounced on it, sprinting toward the goal. He could hear Rafa's heavy footsteps thundering behind him.
"¡Mira, Santi!" someone shouted.
Santi didn't look. He relied on instinct, executing his signature move: a quick flick with the outside of his foot that sent the ball spinning unpredictably. It curved past the trash can's jagged edge and hit the back with a satisfying clang.
"Two-one!" the announcer called out, as the crowd exploded in celebration.
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Rafa's frustration boiled over. When the ball was passed to him, he ignored the rules entirely, shoving Santi into the brick wall lining the lot.
A hush fell over the crowd as Santi crumpled to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Blood dripped from a scrape on his elbow.
"That's enough!" shouted the old referee, stepping forward. But Rafa ignored him, grabbing the ball and storming toward the goal.
Santi staggered to his feet, shaking off the pain. He knew he couldn't rely on the ref to stop the game. If he wanted to win, he had to fight back.
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Rafa was winding up for a powerful shot when Santi lunged in, sliding across the asphalt. His bare foot connected with the ball, sending it flying out of bounds.
The crowd roared as Santi pushed himself up, adrenaline overriding his pain. He quickly collected the ball for the restart, dribbling it back to the center.
This was it. The final play.
Rafa charged at him like a bull, but Santi remained calm. With a sudden burst of speed, he faked right, drawing Rafa off balance, before spinning left. The ball zipped past Rafa's outstretched leg, and Santi was in the clear.
The goal was just ahead. He could feel his heart pounding as he wound up for the shot, every ounce of his strength channeled into the kick.
The ball soared through the air, striking the top edge of the trash can and ricocheting into the net.
"Three-two!" the announcer yelled, his voice drowned out by the crowd's cheers.
Santi collapsed to his knees, exhaustion and relief washing over him. Rafa stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief, before storming off without a word.
"Debt's paid," Santi muttered to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. But deep down, he knew this was just the beginning.
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