---
The ball was too heavy.
Rodrygo knew it the moment it struck his bare foot—the familiar sting, the ache shooting through his toes.
He bit his lip, holding back the curse that pressed against his teeth.
Don't show weakness. Not here.
It was a dusty corner of Kreuzberg, Berlin—their pitch was cracked concrete, their goals two plastic bottles propped against a wall sprayed with graffiti.
No nets.
No lines.
No referee.
Just six boys chasing escape.
Rodrygo was the youngest—small for his age, lean to the point of frail—but fast.
Faster than any of them.
That was his weapon here—the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by this place.
A pass came—lazy, rolling unevenly over the concrete, like the ball itself was tired of this life.
Rodrygo darted forward—touch light, perfect control despite the uneven ground.
"Vai, garoto!" Jamal shouted—his best friend, part Turkish, part German, all heart.
Go, boy!
Rodrygo sprinted—his bare feet slapping against the ground, breath sharp in his throat.
He heard the older boys coming—heavy footsteps, curses in three languages—but he was already gone.
He cut left—the edge of the wall scraping his elbow—but he ignored the burn.
One quick flick with his toe, the ball jumped past the tallest boy's leg.
Rodrygo darted around him—body small but fast like water slipping through cracks.
The goal was there—plastic bottles lined up like a promise.
One touch.
Another.
Shot.
The ball thudded against the bottle—knocking it over, bouncing into the corner with a hollow echo.
Goal.
No cheers.
This was not that kind of place.
Just grunts of approval and a few insults masked as compliments.
Rodrygo wiped sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving—but he smiled.
Because here, this was everything.
---
Later, he and Jamal sat on the curb, eating cheap döner kebabs, their legs stretched out, toes still dirty from the game.
"You could play for Dortmund one day," Jamal said between bites.
Rodrygo laughed, shaking his head.
"I just want to play. Anywhere."
But deep inside, he knew the truth.
He wanted more than Kreuzberg.
More than this cracked concrete.
He wanted the world.