Training under Ricardo Silva.
It’s been a week since we started training under Ricardo Silva. He’s the most ruthless man you’ll ever meet. But if I want to win the finals, I have no choice—I have to train under him.
To Ricardo, there’s no such thing as a female team or a male team. He sees us all as soccer players, nothing more. And for your information, he’s Marco Silva’s father. Honestly, I don’t understand how a man like Ricardo ended up with a son like Marco. No sense of humor, no discipline, and the most humorless human being I’ve ever met.
Anyway, the match starts in twenty minutes, and Marco isn’t here.
“Elena—sorry, Captain,” Sabrina, my teammate, called out. “Yes, what is it?” I asked.
“Coach is here. He wants to see you.” “Oh, okay,” I said.
When I walked over, Marco was already there. He gave me a strange look, then turned away. As if I care, you idiot.
“Yes, Coach, I’m here,” I said. “Ah, Captain, good. Now listen. This past week I’ve trained you twice as hard as usual. Today’s match will show how dedicated you really are. Captains, are you both ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Marco and I answered together, loud and clear.
The whistle blew, sharp enough to cut through the noise of the crowd. My legs moved before I even thought about it. Ricardo Silva had drilled us harder than ever this past week, and I wasn’t about to let that training go to waste.
I sprinted straight for the ball, every muscle screaming but refusing to give in. Just as I got control, Marco was there—of course he was. Blocking my path like he owned the field.
“Move,” he snapped. “Make me,” I shot back, pushing past him with the ball.
The sidelines erupted. I could hear my teammates shouting encouragement, but honestly, all I could focus on was him. Every play between us felt personal, like the match was just another excuse to prove who was better.
Ricardo stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, watching us like a hawk. He didn’t say a word, but I knew this was a test. Not just of skill, but of discipline.
Marco stole the ball back with a sharp tackle, smirking as he sprinted toward the goal. I chased him down, refusing to let him get the upper hand. This wasn’t just soccer anymore—it was war. And I wasn’t about to lose.
