Her name was Elena Dumitru, and she was twenty-three years old, ambitious, and tired of being treated like a mascot in the press room.
Elena had graduated top of her journalism class at the University of Bucharest, spoke four languages fluently, and had published investigative pieces on corruption in Romanian football that had actually led to reforms. But when she walked into press conferences, male journalists twice her age still asked if she was lost or offered to "explain the offside rule."
She'd learned to smile tightly and let her work speak for itself.
Today, she was at FCSB's training ground working on a feature about youth development in Romanian football. The piece would explore why Romania, a country of 19 million that had produced Gheorghe Hagi , Adrian Mutu , Cristian Chivu and has the 3rd in the world In its golden era, was now struggling to produce world-class talent.
She'd been filming reserve team training when she noticed him—the kid with number 37 on his training jersey, moving with a hunger that reminded her why she'd fallen in love with football in the first place.
Elena checked her notes. Andrei Luca, eighteen, from FC Poli Iași's academy. Nothing spectacular in his youth stats, but there was something about the way he played. An intelligence in his movement, a willingness to try things even when they might fail.
After training, she waited by the player exit, camera slung over her shoulder.
Andrei emerged forty minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, carrying a backpack that had seen better days.
He looked younger out of his kit, more uncertain. When he saw her waiting, confusion crossed his face.
"Andrei Luca?" Elena asked in Romanian.
"Yes?"
"Elena Dumitru, Gazeta Sporturilor. Can I ask you a few questions?"
He glanced around as if checking whether this was some kind of prank. "About what?"
"About you.
Your journey from Iași, what it's like joining FCSB, your ambitions." She smiled. "Unless you're too tired?"
"No, no. I can talk." He shifted his weight nervously. "But I'm nobody. Shouldn't you interview the first-team players?"
"I interview people with interesting stories," Elena said. "And trust me, another puff piece about how Budescu practices free kicks isn't interesting. A kid from Moldova trying to make it in Bucharest? That's a story."
They walked to a small café near the training ground. Elena ordered espresso; Andrei got hot chocolate, which made her smile. Still a kid in some ways.
She pulled out her recorder. "Tell me about Iași. What was it like growing up there?"
Andrei talked, slowly at first, then with growing confidence. He told her about his father, who'd worked in a factory and played amateur football on weekends. About learning the game on concrete pitches where you came home with scraped knees and bloody elbows.
About the Poli Iași academy, where they trained in freezing rain because the indoor facility was always "under renovation."
Elena found herself genuinely engaged. Most young players gave rehearsed answers about "working hard" and "taking it game by game." Andrei spoke honestly, even about his fears.
"I know I'm not the most talented," he admitted, stirring his chocolate. "There are players here with better technique, more experience. But I'll outwork them. I have to."
"Why?" Elena asked. "Why does this matter so much to you?"
Andrei was quiet for a moment. "My father died when I was fifteen. Heart attack at work. The last thing he said to me was 'make something of yourself.' Not 'be a footballer' or 'be rich.' Just... be something." He looked up at her. "Football is the only thing I'm good at. So I have to be great at it."
Elena stopped writing. In three years of sports journalism, she'd interviewed dozens of athletes.
Most chased fame or money or glory. This kid was chasing something else entirely—purpose.
"That's a good answer," she said quietly.
"Is it?" Andrei smiled, embarrassed. "I thought it sounded dramatic."
"It sounded honest." Elena closed her notebook. "Look, I'm going to write this feature, and I'll include you. But let me give you some advice—journalist to person, off the record."
"Okay."
"Half the players here will be gone in two years. Bad attitudes, bad luck, bad decisions. The ones who make it aren't always the most talented. They're the ones who stay hungry, stay humble, and remember why they started." She held his gaze. "Don't lose that."
Andrei nodded slowly. "I'll try."
They talked for another hour—about football, about Bucharest, about everything and nothing.
Elena found herself laughing at his stories, charmed by his earnestness.
When they finally left the café, the winter sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink.
"Can I ask you something?" Andrei said as they reached the metro station.
"Sure."
"Why journalism? You could have done anything."
Elena considered the question. "Because stories matter. People think sports journalism is just scores and statistics, but it's not. It's about dreams, sacrifice, the human cost of chasing greatness. I want to tell those stories."
"That's a good answer too," Andrei said, echoing her words back at her.
She laughed. "Okay, now you're mocking me."
"Maybe a little."
They exchanged phone numbers—"for follow-up questions," Elena said, though they both knew it was more than that. As Andrei descended into the metro, Elena watched him go, feeling something she hadn't expected.
Interest. Not just professional curiosity, but genuine interest in who this kid might become.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her editor: Where's the draft? Deadline's tomorrow.
Elena sighed and headed home. She had a story to write.