Chapter 6: Shadows of Doubt
The message lingered on Carlos' screen, its words etched into his mind: "Be careful. Herrera isn't who you think he is."
Carlos frowned, scrolling back to the sender's number—unknown. He tried to shake off the unease that crept in but couldn't ignore the knot tightening in his stomach. What could it mean? Who had sent it? And why now?
Torn between curiosity and the urgency to train, Carlos made a decision. He'd deal with the mystery later. For now, he needed to focus.
For the next week, Carlos dedicated himself to preparing for the trial. His schedule was relentless: morning drills at the park, strategy discussions with Coach Navarro, and countless hours replaying matches in his head. The trial wasn't just an opportunity; it was a test of everything he'd worked for.
Diego had noticed the change in Carlos. "You're like a machine," he remarked one day as they practiced passes. "What's gotten into you?"
Carlos hesitated but decided to keep the details vague. "Let's just say I have something big coming up."
Diego smirked. "Big enough to finally dethrone me? Good luck with that."
Carlos grinned despite the jab. Diego's confidence was infuriating, but in a strange way, it pushed him to work harder.
One evening, as Carlos was cooling down after a grueling session, Navarro approached him with a serious expression.
"Carlos," he began, "I've heard some whispers about Herrera. People say he's... connected. Not just to football, but to things that aren't exactly clean."
Carlos froze, the weight of the earlier message pressing down again. "What do you mean, Coach?"
"I mean you need to tread carefully," Navarro said, his voice low. "Herrera has powerful allies, but not all of them play by the rules. If you're getting involved with him, you're stepping into a world that's about more than just soccer."
Carlos nodded, his chest tightening. "But this trial... it's my chance, Coach. I can't just walk away."
Navarro sighed. "Then make sure you go in with your eyes open. Don't let anyone use you, Carlos. You're better than that."
The night before the trial, Carlos lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Chico rested on the floor beside him, a comforting presence in the otherwise restless room. His mamá's soft humming drifted through the apartment, a reminder of why he was doing all this.
But the message, Navarro's warning, and the weight of expectations swirled in his mind. Could he trust Herrera? Was this trial truly the start of his dream—or the beginning of something darker?
Carlos pulled out his phone, staring at the unknown number again. His fingers hovered over the keys. Should I ask who sent the message? he thought. But before he could decide, a new notification popped up.
It was from Herrera: "Rest well, Carlos. Tomorrow, your destiny begins."
Carlos set the phone down and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Whatever doubts he had would have to wait. Tomorrow was his trial. Tomorrow, he'd prove himself.
The next morning, the academy field buzzed with activity. Brightly colored cones and fresh-cut grass stretched before Carlos, a stark contrast to the worn park he'd grown up on. The other trialists eyed each other warily, their nerves palpable.
Herrera stood on the sidelines, flanked by men in suits who looked more like bodyguards than coaches. He gestured for Carlos to come closer.
"Remember," Herrera said, his voice as smooth as ever. "This isn't just about skill. I need to see your hunger, your drive. Show me why you deserve to be here."
Carlos nodded, his jaw set.
The trial began, and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The players were faster, stronger, and more skilled than anyone he'd faced before. Every pass, every shot, every tackle demanded precision and creativity.
Carlos struggled at first, his nerves getting the better of him. But as the minutes passed, he found his rhythm. He intercepted a wayward pass, dribbled past two defenders, and delivered a perfect assist that left even Herrera clapping.
By the time the whistle blew, Carlos was drenched in sweat but felt alive. He had given everything.
Herrera approached him as the players dispersed. "Impressive," he said, handing Carlos a towel. "You have what it takes. But remember, this is only the beginning."
Before Carlos could respond, he noticed a figure watching from the edge of the field—a man in a tattered jacket, blending into the shadows. Their eyes met briefly before the figure turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Carlos' unease returned. Who was that? And why did it feel like his journey had only just begun—but at a cost he couldn't yet see?