Alonso sat on the edge of the bathtub, his ankle throbbing as he pressed a bag of frozen peas against the swelling. The cold stung at first, but he welcomed it. It was easier to focus on the ache in his ankle than the heavier ache sitting in his chest.
His mother's words echoed in his ears. "Messi doesn't come home to unpaid bills and an empty refrigerator." He knew she wasn't trying to be cruel. She worked too hard to raise him and his little sister, Lucia, on her own.
His father worked long hours at the docks, and even then, money barely stretched to the end of the month.
But it still hurt.
He wanted to be someone—to be more than just another kid stuck in their crumbling neighborhood in Bilbao. Every time he watched the greats, he felt something stir inside him.
Messi, Ronaldo, even young players like Mbappe and Mane—they all started somewhere. Why not him?
He flexed his ankle gingerly, biting his lip at the sharp stab of pain. It wasn't broken.
At least, he didn't think so. He'd walk it off. He had to.
From the living room, he heard the sound of his father coming home.
The door creaked open, followed by the low murmur of his parents speaking in tense voices. Money, it was always money.
By the time Alonso finished cleaning up and made his way to the dinner table, his father was sitting with his head in his hands.
His mother placed a small bowl of lentil soup in front of him. It wasn't much, but it was hot, and Alonso ate in silence while Lucia chattered about school.
His father barely touched his food. "They cut my hours again," he said quietly, without looking up. "I'll pick up some extra shifts where I can, but—"
His mother reached over and touched his arm. "We'll manage. We always do."
Alonso clenched his spoon tighter, a surge of frustration burning beneath his ribs. He didn't want them to just manage. He wanted to change everything.
That night, lying on his mattress, Alonso made himself a promise. No matter how hard it got, no matter how many times he fell, he wouldn't stop chasing the dream. One day, he'd walk onto a pitch not as some kid from a broken neighborhood, but as someone the world would remember.
The next morning, Alonso woke up early. His ankle still ached, but the swelling had gone down. He tested his weight on it carefully. It hurt, but it held.
He stuffed his worn football into his backpack before heading to school. The cold morning wind cut through his thin jacket, but Alonso barely felt it. He spent most of the day counting down the minutes until he could get back to the pitch.
At lunchtime, instead of sitting in the crowded cafeteria, he made his way to the schoolyard. A small, uneven patch of grass near the fence was where the older kids played. Most of them didn't give him a second glance, but one boy did. Javi.
Javi was taller, faster, and already playing for one of the local academy teams. He had the kind of talent scouts noticed, and he knew it.
"What are you doing here, Alonso?" Javi smirked, bouncing the ball between his feet. "You want to watch how real players do it?"
Alonso ignored the jab. "Let me play."
Javi laughed under his breath but kicked the ball toward him.
"Alright. Let's see if you can keep up."
Alonso's heart hammered in his chest as he joined the game. The ball moved fast, too fast at times, but he didn't back down. Every touch, every pass—he focused on moving with purpose. And when the ball came to him, he remembered Messi.
He feinted left, then cut right, weaving past the first defender. His ankle burned, but he pushed through the pain. Another boy came charging in, but Alonso shifted his weight and slipped the ball between his legs.
Javi narrowed his eyes as Alonso approached. This was it. His chance.
Alonso dipped his shoulder, just like he'd practiced, and swept the ball to the side. Javi lunged—but Alonso was already past him, driving toward the makeshift goal. With a quick flick of his foot, he sent the ball flying into the back of the net.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then one of the other boys whistled. "Damn, Alonso. Where did that come from?"
Javi scowled but didn't say anything. Alonso tried to play it cool, but inside, he felt like he was soaring.
By the time Alonso got home that evening, his body ached from head to toe, but his heart felt lighter. He dropped his bag by the door and headed to the kitchen. His mother stood by the stove, stirring a pot of rice.
"I saw you limping," she said without turning around. "You didn't rest like I told you."
Alonso hesitated. "I had to practice, Mama."
She sighed and shook her head. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
"Papa always says that, too," he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
This time, she smiled too. Just a little. "Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon."
As Alonso limped to the bathroom, he knew his journey was just beginning. But that day on the pitch had shown him something important—something no amount of pain could erase.
He belonged on the field. And one day, he'd prove it to the world.