Chapter 2: The Weight of a Name
The locker room smelled like sweat and grass, the heavy air only broken by the sound of cleats scraping against the floor. Diego Maradona Jr. sat on a wooden bench, towel draped over his shoulders, his jersey sticking to his back. The practice match was over, and the team was starting to settle down. Conversations buzzed around him, but he stayed quiet, replaying every moment of the game in his head.
"Not bad out there," Dani said, strolling by. His tone dripped with sarcasm. "But don't think one lucky pass makes you a star, Maradona."
Diego didn't look up. He focused on unlacing his boots, ignoring the jab. Dani thrived on attention, and Diego wasn't about to give it to him.
"You're wasting your breath," another voice chimed in. It was Carlos, a stocky defender with a broken tooth and a soft spot for rookies. "The kid let his pass do the talking. You should try it sometime, Dani."
The room broke into laughter, and Dani scowled, muttering something under his breath as he walked away.
Carlos plopped down beside Diego. "Don't mind him. He's always like that."
Diego nodded but didn't reply. He wasn't here to make friends or enemies. He was here to play football.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Mateo's voice cut through the chatter. The room went silent. "Good work today, especially you, Maradona. That pass? That's what I want to see more of. But don't let it get to your head. Talent means nothing without consistency."
Diego nodded again, feeling the eyes of the room on him. Praise was rare from Mateo, and it felt good, even if it came with a warning.
After the team meeting, Diego stayed behind, taking his time to pack up. The locker room emptied out, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Dark eyes, sharp features, the faintest shadow of a beard coming in. He looked like his dad. Everyone told him that. But every time he saw his face, all he could think about was how different he wanted to be.
Diego Maradona Sr. was a god to football fans—a magician with the ball, a genius who turned impossible into routine. But he was also a man with flaws, a man who struggled off the pitch. Diego had spent his whole life being compared to someone he wasn't sure he wanted to be.
"I'll be better," he muttered to himself. "I'll be different."
---
The walk home from the stadium was quiet. The streets of Tenerife were a mix of charm and grit, small shops lining the cobblestone roads, the scent of fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery. Diego liked the calm. It gave him space to think.
When he got to his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. It wasn't much—a small living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom barely big enough for his bed. The walls were bare except for one framed photo: him as a kid, holding a football, standing next to his dad.
Diego dropped his bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch. His muscles ached, but it was a good ache—the kind that reminded him he was working for something bigger.
He turned on the TV, flipping through channels until he landed on a football highlight show. La Liga highlights played on the screen, and he watched intently, studying every move, every pass, every goal. This was the level he wanted to reach. No, the level he had to reach.
His phone buzzed on the table. A text from his mom.
"Saw your match today. Proud of you. Keep working hard. Dad would've been proud too."
Diego stared at the message for a moment, then put the phone down. He loved his mom, but he hated when she brought his dad into the conversation. It wasn't her fault. Everyone did it. Coaches, teammates, fans—hell, even random strangers in the street. To them, he wasn't Diego. He was Maradona's son.
But that was going to change.
---
The next morning, Diego was up before the sun. He laced up his running shoes and hit the pavement, the cold air biting at his skin. The streets were empty, the city still asleep.
Every step, every breath, was a reminder of why he was doing this. He wasn't the fastest, the strongest, or the most skilled player. But he could be the hardest worker.
By the time he got to the stadium for training, the sun was up, and the team was gathering.
"Early, huh?" Carlos said, jogging up beside him. "Trying to make the rest of us look bad?"
Diego smirked. "Just doing what I need to do."
Coach Mateo noticed too. "Maradona! Good to see you putting in extra work. Let's see if it pays off on the pitch."
The day's training was brutal. Sprints, passing drills, tactical work. Diego threw himself into everything, ignoring the burning in his legs, the sweat pouring down his face.
"Keep it up, Diego!" Mateo shouted during a passing drill. "You're the engine in midfield. Everything flows through you!"
By the end of practice, Diego was exhausted, but he felt good. He was making progress. Slowly but surely, he was proving to himself—and everyone else—that he belonged here.
As the team walked off the pitch, Dani muttered something under his breath again. Diego didn't catch it, and he didn't care.
He wasn't playing for Dani. He wasn't even playing for his dad.
He was playing for himself.