Chapter 1: Forgotten Player
The community gym in North London always smelled the same in late November, like damp rubber mixed with cleaning spray and sweat.
There was a man leaning against the chipped brick wall, the cold going right through his thin shirt. His name was Lucas Rafael Costa. He was wrapping white tape around his left ankle, moving his fingers almost without thinking.
He was already 25 years old, born in 1994 the same year Romário won the World Cup for Brazil.
For a professional player, 25 was supposed to be the peak age as it was time for big transfers, national team call-ups, and winning trophies.
But for Lucas, twenty-five was just the age when his joints ached before the game even started.
"Lucas! You in or what?"
Big Mike stood in the center circle, his chest broad like a beer keg, spinning a scuffed ball under his foot. His breath came out in thick plumes of grey mist.
"Of course, I'm in." Lucas said, pushing off the wall.
He stepped onto the court, his worn-out Nikes squeaking against the linoleum.
Outside, the 2019 season was in full swing. After so many years of Manchester City dominating the league, Liverpool finally seemed to have a real shot at winning it.
Every sports bar in the city was buzzing about the team's streak, and about some kid in Dortmund named Haaland who looked unstoppable.
But for Lucas, it all felt far away. While others cheered and chased trophies on the big stage, he was still here playing futsal games and wrapping his sore ankle, feeling every joint ache.
The big transfers, the national team call-ups, the glory, they weren't for him. He had felt that way since he was a kid. He had tried out for many academies, only to be turned down for his speed, his endurance, or some other reason.
He let out a long sigh and pushed himself off the wall, moving toward the futsal pitch.
The other players were already warming up, passing the ball back and forth, shouting and laughing. Lucas bent down, bounced the ball a few times on the floor and adjusted his tape.
After a moment, the whistle blew, and the chaos began.
Futsal in the city wasn't about pretty passes nor a systematic gameplay, it was a brawl in a cage.
But as the first few minutes passed, the noise in Lucas's head began to settle into a steady, familiar rhythm. The world didn't slow down, it just became clear.
He didn't see the players anymore. He saw patterns and different angles. He saw the way Big Mike shifted his weight onto his heels, leaving a small opening to his left. He saw the defender's lunging shadow before the kid even made a move.
A nineteen-year-old from a local academy with good speed charged at him.
Lucas didn't move.
He waited.
He waited until he could hear the kid's frantic breathing, then used the sole of his shoe to nudge the ball just six inches to the side.
It was such a small movement it almost felt like an insult. The kid's own momentum did the rest, sending him stumbling into the chain-link fence with a dull clang.
Lucas didn't look back. His eyes were already fixed on a patch of empty floor near the far post.
There was no one there. To the others, it was dead space. To Lucas, it was a vacuum waiting to be filled. He flicked the ball with the outside of his foot a sharp no-look pass that seemed to go nowhere.
A split second later, his teammate sprinted into the gap, and the ball met his stride with perfect precision.
Goal...
"Great pass, Lucas!" the man panted, slapping his shoulder on the way back.
Lucas just nodded, his face calm and unreadable. He wasn't that happy as he was thinking.
All his life, he'd been told that "vision" didn't count if you weren't tall or fast. The English academies he'd tried between cared only about pace, strength, and measurable stats.
Skills like reading the game or spotting space rarely mattered they wanted sprinters and body types that fit their ideal, not players like him.
Up in the shadows above the court, a man in a navy jacket leaned on a rusty railing. Peter Hirst had come to watch the tall kid from the academy.
Instead, he'd spent twenty minutes staring at the skinny guy in the black shirt who moved like he was on another level.
Peter pulled out his iPhone, the screen glowing in the dim light, and hit record.
"Not the kind we usually pick…, and no background in the big academies," he muttered. "Would probably get destroyed in League Two."
But on the screen, Lucas did it again. Cornered by two defenders, he stayed calm. With a quick, ghost-like body swerve, a move more in his head than his feet he slipped the ball through a tiny gap.
It was a language the professional game had stopped speaking. It was instinct, honed on the streets of São Paulo and the courts of London.
When the game ended at 10:00 PM, the adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
Lucas zipped his bag, thinking about the 6:00 AM alarm for his shift at the distribution center.
"Hello, Number seven."
Lucas paused at the exit door. The man from the balcony was walking down the stairs, his boots clattering on the metal.
"I'm Peter," the man said, holding out a business card. "I'm a scout from an EFL League Two club. You ever thought about giving proper football another shot?"
Lucas glanced at the card. The EFL logo caught the overhead lights.
"I'm already twenty-five," Lucas said, his voice flat, trying to hide the hope rising inside him.
Peter stepped closer. "You're still young enough for football. I actually came tonight to watch the tall kid from the academy, but you impressed me.
The club's a mess right now with injuries, no budget, a manager desperate enough to take a chance. One-year deal if you can handle the trial."
Lucas hesitated, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. He hadn't expected this. It didn't feel real.
"When's the trial?" he asked, his voice careful, like he was testing if Peter was serious.
Peter nodded. "Monday. 9:00 a.m., club training ground. Wear whatever you can play in. Don't expect anyone to go easy on you."
Lucas stared at the card in his hand.
Monday.
Less than three days away.
His chest tightened with hope, fear and disbelief.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'll be there."
Peter gave a quick nod and turned toward the stairs. "Good. Don't be late."
Lucas watched him go and let out a long breath. For the first time in years, playing football on grass didn't feel impossible.
That night, Lucas lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
'Monday. A trial at a real club'.
His mind kept replaying every touch, every pass from the futsal game.
Could he really do the same against professional players? Could he survive the tackles, the pace, the pressure?
The warehouse shift loomed in the back of his mind, the early alarms, the endless crates but for the first time in years, something else felt possible.
A real chance.
A chance after all that rejections.
He rolled onto his side, trying to calm down.
Sleep wouldn't come easy, but for the first time, he didn't completely dread tomorrow.