Chapter Two: Between Decision and Rain
The sky was pouring mercilessly, as if trying to wash the city clean of its ancient sins. The streets were empty, save for the flickering streetlights and the soft murmur of water gliding over the asphalt. Amidst it all, he walked.
With sharp features and a silent gaze, the rain streamed down his forehead, blending with tears betrayed only by eyes burning with tension. It wasn't pain he carried, but the weight of a moment recently lived—a moment that would change everything.
He had no umbrella, as if the rain didn't bother him. A small bag rested on his back, his steps steady—not hesitant nor hurried—as though his feet knew a path he had walked a thousand times in a dream.
...
A Few Days Earlier
His sister entered the room, holding a white envelope with an official seal in her hand.
Waving it, she said:
— "Tiago, a letter arrived for you!"
He lifted his head from the TV screen, took the envelope silently, and read the address:
Portuguese Football Federation.
With trembling hands, he opened it. His voice fell inside him before he even read the first line:
"Official call-up to the Portugal national team for the preparatory camp for the upcoming World Cup…"
He read it again in a whisper, then louder, then stood up, eyes fixed on a point in the void.
His mother entered, wiping her hands from cooking. She looked at him.
His sister said joyfully:
— "Mom! He got called up!"
His mother hugged him and smiled:
— "Are you happy or... This is the result of your effort and my upbringing."
Tiago replied quietly:
— "You're right, Mom… but your food helped too."
— "You'll do what you believe is right, not what pleases people."
He nodded in agreement, then looked at the letter one last time… before placing it on the table and laughing with the rest of his family.
...
Back to the Present
He arrived at the bus stop in the middle of the Portuguese national team's training center. The rain was still falling, but more gently now. He wore a black coat and a cap that covered part of his face.
He stood there, alone, watching the bus parked a few meters away—emblazoned with the national team's crest, designated to transport the players to the camp. One by one, the players began to arrive—one with headphones on, another laughing at his phone screen, another speaking with a staff member. None of them knew he was coming.
When he climbed aboard, the chatter stopped. Eyes turned to him, as if his arrival had been unexpected. Some exchanged glances, others were surprised, and a few murmured among themselves. A player in the back seat whispered:
— "Is that the new striker?"
Another replied:
— "Yeah, I heard he chose us over Spain."
As he walked down the aisle between the seats, he said nothing. He searched for a place to sit, but every seat was taken. Suddenly, a young player near the window gestured to him with a warm smile:
— "Here, sit next to me."
He sat down, and a brief silence passed before the player said:
— "I recognized you right away… Tiago Ferreira, Premier League top scorer, the guy with the hat-trick against City."
Tiago replied calmly:
— "I thought no one noticed… my rise."
The other laughed and said:
— "I keep an eye on talent… especially those who might be my partner in attack."
Tiago looked at him, surprised:
— "You're also… on the list?"
— "Of course, it's my first time with the national team too."
Then, with a wider smile, he added:
— "I'm..."