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Chapter 1: Rain Over Chaves
The first drop hit just as Carlos Riviero Da Silva lined up his strike. It splashed against his forehead, then another ran down the side of his nose. He didn't blink. The ball was coming to him fast, skipping over the dry, cracked dirt like a stone skimming a pond, and he had to time this right.
No grass on this patch of land behind Escola Básica de Chaves, just clay and loose gravel. It had been a playground once, maybe. Or a parking lot. Now it was their pitch. Goals made from plastic crates, sidelines marked with half-buried sticks. The kind of field you only found in towns like Chaves—too small for glory, too proud for pity.
Carlos took one touch with the outside of his right foot and then another to set himself. The ball wobbled in the air, soaked already from the sudden, summer-shattering rain. His bare foot connected with a dull thud, and the ball soared.
Straight into the post.
It ricocheted with a cruel clang and rolled back toward the center of the field.
"Porra!" shouted Duarte, the oldest of the boys—seventeen, muscular, already working at his uncle's garage. "You never pass, Carlos! Always playing for yourself."
Carlos didn't respond. He stood still, raindrops now drenching his T-shirt and clinging to his dark curls. The other boys groaned and walked off in twos and threes. Someone muttered something about wasting time. Another boy gave him a half-hearted shrug.
The game was over. The storm had come. And Carlos had missed.
Again.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the streets of Chaves were nearly empty. The town always went quiet when the weather turned. Shops closed early. Families huddled indoors. Only the bakery near the corner of Rua dos Combatentes still had lights on, its windows fogged with steam and the smell of sweet bread leaking into the street.
Carlos walked past it without looking. His stomach growled.
He turned right onto Rua do Sol. His mother's apartment was near the end, on the third floor of an old, crumbling building painted pale blue. The paint peeled in sheets near the roof, and the hallway always smelled like dust and boiled cabbage.
He climbed the stairs slowly, footfalls echoing.
Each step gave him more time to think—about the miss, about Duarte's yelling, about the look on Miguel's face when he didn't pass. But mostly, he thought about the dream.
The one he didn't talk about.
---
Inside, the apartment was warm. Humid, like always. His mother had left a small pot of caldo verde on the stove, the scent of garlic and chorizo greeting him as he entered. She wasn't home yet. Her shift at the hospital wouldn't end for another hour.
He grabbed a chipped bowl, filled it halfway, and sat at the wobbly kitchen table. One leg was shorter than the others, so he kept a folded napkin under it. The soup was too salty. She always over-seasoned when she was tired.
His eyes drifted to the wall above the sink. There it was—his favorite photo: Gareth Bale, arms spread wide in the air after scoring in the 2014 Champions League Final. His Real Madrid kit soaked in sweat, face half-crazed with joy. It was printed from a cheap color printer and curled slightly at the corners from the heat and moisture of the kitchen.
Carlos stared at it for a long time.
Gareth Bale. A left-back who became a legend. A kid who had been laughed at for being too skinny, too quiet, too weak. Now a name whispered in stadiums across the world. Carlos had read every article, memorized every stat. Bale was his hero. His blueprint.
He glanced at his own reflection in the microwave door. Pale skin. High cheekbones. Narrow shoulders. Thirteen years old. Not much to look at. Just a Portuguese kid with worn soles and fast feet.
A nobody.
For now.
---
The door opened just past eight. His mother, Luísa, stepped in with her back bent slightly, keys jangling in her hand. Her scrubs were damp at the sleeves and her shoes squeaked against the tiles.
"Olá, meu amor," she said, managing a tired smile.
Carlos stood up and helped her with her bag. "Hi, Mãe."
"Did you eat?"
"A little."
"Go warm some more. It's not enough for a growing boy."
He hesitated but nodded. She was right. She always was. She worked too hard, too long, for him to skip meals.
As he reheated the soup, she poured herself tea and sat down with a sigh.
"How was school?"
"Fine."
"Homework?"
"Finished it during lunch."
"Football?"
He shrugged. "Okay."
She gave him a look. That soft, knowing look that only mothers could master. "Duarte yelled again?"
Carlos nodded.
Luísa sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of the mug. "You can't do everything alone, Carlos."
"I wasn't. I just… saw the space. Thought I could finish it."
"You've got talent. But even Bale had teammates."
Carlos didn't respond. He brought his bowl to the table and sat across from her. The kitchen light buzzed softly. Outside, thunder rolled over the hills.
Luísa set her mug down carefully. "I have to tell you something."
He looked up.
"I didn't want to say anything until it was final, but… we got the visa."
Carlos froze. "Visa?"
She nodded. "The nursing agency in England. Near Leeds. They offered me a position. Full-time. Housing included. We leave next week."
His spoon stopped midair.
"What?"
"It's official. I signed the contract this morning."
His stomach churned. "You didn't tell me."
"I didn't want to get your hopes up. Or your fears. Until it was certain."
Carlos put his spoon down.
Leeds.
England.
A new country. A new language. A new school. He could hardly make friends in Chaves. How would he survive there?
"You'll like it," she said gently. "A real flat. Good heating. A proper football team. Maybe even a scout's academy."
"I don't want a new flat."
"I know."
"I don't want to leave."
"I know."
They sat in silence. The soup cooled. The storm passed.
"I'm not like Bale," Carlos said at last. "I'm not special."
Luísa reached across the table and took his hand. Her fingers were calloused from years of washing bedsheets and lifting patients, but warm. Steady.
"No one is special at the beginning," she said softly. "Not even Bale."
---
That night, Carlos lay awake in his room. The ceiling was cracked above his bed, and a spider had spun a web in the corner near the lamp. His bag sat by the door, schoolbooks still inside. He hadn't opened them in days.
He stared at the poster of Bale again.
England.
The word echoed in his head. It felt like a wave rising, about to crash over everything he knew.
In some distant part of his heart, he knew it might be an opportunity. Better schools. Better clubs. Better chances. But in every other part, it felt like a betrayal. Like leaving the last familiar piece of his father behind.
He turned to the window.
Chaves was still. The town lay curled beneath the hills like a sleeping dog, quiet and damp and old. He had played on every alley corner. Had memorized the uneven cracks on every pavement stone. He had scored goals on the church steps. Chased pigeons past the fish market. Dreamed in these streets.
Was he really going to leave it all behind?
---
At midnight, he got up.
He didn't put on shoes.
He crept past the kitchen, careful not to wake his mother, and stepped outside. The stone stairs were cold underfoot. The streetlight flickered. The bakery had closed. The wind brushed his cheeks like a ghost.
He ran.
Not fast at first. Just a jog. Through the alleys, past the café where old men smoked during Benfica matches, past the faded mural of the Revolution of '74, past the fountain that hadn't worked since he was a toddler.
Then he sped up.
His feet slapped the pavement in rhythm. His chest burned. He tore down Rua Direita like a shadow. Past the stone bridge, toward the broken football pitch behind the school.
He stopped in the middle of it, panting, soaked in sweat.
The crates were still there.
He took a step back, imagined the ball at his feet, and ran.
He struck the invisible ball with his left foot.
Thunk.
He imagined it flying into the corner. A crowd roaring. A coach nodding. A scout scribbling in his notebook.
He breathed hard.
Then he ran again. Again. Again. Until his lungs ached and his shirt clung to him like wet paper. Until his doubts faded into the darkness. Until only one thought remained:
You can't stay small forever.
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END OF CHAPTER 1
(Word count: ~2,950)
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