Carlos stepped onto the pristine grass of the academy's stadium, Vega Sports' logo now emblazoned on his new jersey. The cameras clicked relentlessly as a small crowd of reporters and representatives from Vega gathered around. Herrera, ever composed, stood by his side, speaking with an air of authority as he introduced Carlos as the brand's rising star.
Carlos tried to focus on Herrera's words, but the weight of the moment pressed down on him. The sponsorship deal had happened faster than he expected, and the fanfare felt surreal. This was supposed to be a dream come true, yet something about the polished smiles and endless flashbulbs made his stomach churn.
When the event ended, Carlos barely had time to breathe before Herrera ushered him into a private meeting room.
"Congratulations, Carlos," Herrera said, his smile sharp. "This partnership will open doors for you. But don't forget—you're representing both the academy and Vega now. Any mistake, on or off the pitch, will reflect poorly on all of us."
Carlos nodded, his chest tightening. "I understand."
Herrera leaned forward, his tone softening. "Good. Now, your next match is crucial. Vega's representatives will be watching, and they'll want to see why you're worth their investment. Don't disappoint me."
The following days were grueling. Training sessions became even more intense, with Herrera pushing Carlos harder than ever. Every missed pass or poorly executed move earned him a sharp critique. The pressure was unrelenting, and Carlos found himself struggling to keep up.
On the rare occasions he wasn't training, Carlos was fulfilling his new obligations—photoshoots, interviews, and promotional events for Vega. Each one drained him further, leaving little time to rest or reflect.
Sofia noticed the change. After practice one evening, she caught up with Carlos as he left the field, her brow furrowed with concern.
"You look exhausted," she said.
Carlos forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just a lot on my plate."
Sofia crossed her arms. "Carlos, you've been pushing yourself nonstop. Even the best players need to recharge."
"I don't have time to slow down," Carlos replied, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Herrera's expecting results, and so is Vega. If I mess this up, everything I've worked for is gone."
Sofia's expression softened. "I get it. But don't let them burn you out before you've even started. You can't play your best if you're running on empty."
Carlos sighed, her words striking a nerve. "I'll figure it out."
The day of the big match arrived, and the stadium buzzed with anticipation. The stands were filled with scouts, sponsors, and fans, all eager to see the academy's top players in action. Vega's representatives sat in the VIP section, their sharp suits and watchful eyes a constant reminder of the stakes.
Carlos took a deep breath as he stepped onto the pitch, the roar of the crowd washing over him. He glanced toward Herrera, who stood on the sidelines, his gaze steely and unyielding.
The game started fast and aggressive. Carlos' team faced off against the academy's top-ranked squad, a group of players known for their precision and teamwork. From the first whistle, it was clear this wouldn't be an easy match.
Carlos threw himself into the game, his movements sharp and calculated. He pushed past defenders, set up plays, and fought for every ball. But the pressure gnawed at him, and mistakes began to creep in. A missed pass here, a poorly timed run there.
"Focus, Vargas!" Herrera's voice boomed from the sidelines.
Carlos gritted his teeth, forcing himself to shake off the errors. The game was tied 1-1 as it entered the final minutes, tension hanging heavy in the air.
Then it happened—a golden opportunity. Carlos intercepted a pass near midfield and found himself with a clear path to the goal. He sprinted forward, the crowd's cheers growing louder with each step.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Diego to his left, unmarked and in a perfect position to score. Carlos hesitated for a split second, torn between taking the shot himself and passing to his teammate.
He chose the shot.
The ball flew toward the top corner of the net, but the opposing goalkeeper leapt and tipped it away. The crowd gasped as the chance slipped through their fingers.
Diego stormed over, his face red with anger. "What was that? I was wide open!"
Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but the referee's whistle cut through the tension. The game had ended in a draw.
In the locker room, the atmosphere was tense. Carlos sat on the bench, his head in his hands, replaying the missed opportunity in his mind.
Herrera entered, his expression unreadable. He addressed the team briefly before turning to Carlos.
"A decent performance," Herrera said, his voice cool. "But decent isn't enough. You need to be smarter. Selfish decisions won't get you far."
Carlos nodded, shame burning in his chest.
After Herrera left, Diego approached, his anger replaced by something closer to disappointment. "You're a good player, Carlos. But if you want to lead, you have to trust your teammates."
Carlos didn't respond, the weight of Diego's words settling heavily on him.
That night, Carlos sat alone in his room, staring at his reflection in the window. The crowd's cheers, Herrera's critique, Diego's disappointment—they all swirled in his mind.
He reached for Chico and started juggling the ball, seeking solace in the familiar rhythm.
"I won't let this break me," he whispered to himself.
But deep down, Carlos knew the road ahead would only get harder.