The sound of the fans still echoed in Lucas's ears long after the match had ended. That final run, the curling shot, the eruption of the crowd—it replayed in his mind like a dream he never wanted to wake up from. But even as the euphoria lingered, Lucas knew the journey was far from over. The match against Getafe had been more than just a victory—it was a test of character, a mirror held up to his soul. And what it revealed was something raw, powerful, and deeply human.
He wasn't just playing football anymore.
He was writing his legacy.
In the quiet dawn the morning after, the sun barely cresting over the rooftops of Seville, Lucas was already awake. The city lay still, but within him, there was movement—ripples of ambition, of hunger. The kind of hunger that couldn't be fed with just a goal or a win. He needed more. Not for fame. Not even for his career.
He needed it for himself.
After a light jog and a solitary breakfast, Lucas made his way to the training ground, hours before the rest of the squad would arrive. As he ran drills alone under the watchful eye of one of the assistant coaches, a feeling gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.
It wasn't doubt.
It was urgency.
Carlos's words echoed in his memory: "Trust your instincts. Play with joy."
But joy, Lucas knew now, wasn't always about smiles or celebration. Sometimes, it was found in the grit of determination, in the sting of failure, in the burn of pushing yourself just beyond your limits. That joy, the bittersweet kind, had shaped him from the cracked pavements of his Brazilian neighborhood to this foreign stadium filled with roaring strangers who had come to believe in him.
And yet, he missed home.
Not just the warm air and the smell of street food, but the simple, grounding voices of his family. That call with his mother, father, and Sofia had left a mark. For years, he had chased their approval from afar. Now, he could hear the pride in their voices, even through the static of a shaky international line.
Still… a part of him wondered.
Did they really know what he went through each day? The pressure? The isolation? The constant fear of slipping, of being forgotten?
The days that followed were brutal—not just physically, but emotionally. The media was ablaze with praise after his match-winning goal. Spanish outlets hailed him as El Milagro Brasileño—"The Brazilian Miracle." Pundits speculated about future call-ups, bigger clubs, and million-euro transfer rumors.
Lucas read none of it.
Because praise, like criticism, could become a prison if you weren't careful.
Instead, he threw himself into the work. Training. Studying opponents. Building chemistry with teammates. The next match was against Osasuna—another mid-table team hungry for points. But Lucas wasn't thinking about league position anymore. He was thinking about how far he could stretch himself—mentally, technically, emotionally.
Coach Álvaro noticed the change.
"Lucas," he said one evening after practice, resting a firm hand on his shoulder, "you're playing with fire in your heart. That's good. But make sure it doesn't burn you from the inside out."
Lucas nodded. "I understand."
But he wasn't sure he did.
The night before the Osasuna match, rain fell over Seville like a curtain. Lucas stood by the window of his small apartment, watching the drops streak down the glass. He thought of the match. The rain might still fall tomorrow. The pitch would be heavy. Conditions tough.
Good.
He didn't want it easy.
His thoughts drifted again to Brazil. To a younger version of himself, kicking a torn ball barefoot on a dusty field, pretending it was the Maracanã. He had dreamed of playing in Europe, of wearing a real kit, of fans chanting his name.
But none of those fantasies had prepared him for the loneliness. The constant expectation. The knowledge that one bad game could see you benched… or worse, forgotten.
He picked up his phone and called Sofia.
She answered on the first ring.
"Oi, campeão!" she greeted cheerfully. "Practicing your goal celebration again?"
Lucas chuckled. "You saw it?"
"Saw it? It's all over Instagram. You're a legend at my school now."
"Glad I can finally do something cool," he joked.
There was a pause.
"You okay, Lucas?"
That simple question, so casual and yet so piercing, caught him off guard.
"I… yeah. Just thinking."
"You always do that before a big game. I can tell. You go quiet, serious. Like you're trying to carry the whole world."
Lucas exhaled. "Maybe I am."
"You don't have to. You're enough as you are. Just… play."
Those words sat with him as he went to bed. As he dreamed of rain-slick fields, of defenders diving in, of a crowd rising to its feet.
Match day.
The rain had not stopped. The stadium lights shimmered off the wet grass, creating an eerie, almost dreamlike atmosphere. The locker room was tense. Focused. Lucas sat in silence, his headphones in but no music playing. He needed the silence.
Then came the call.
Time to step out.
From the tunnel to the pitch, the world narrowed to heartbeats and rain. The crowd, huddled beneath ponchos and umbrellas, still roared their support.
Sevilla needed a win.
Lucas needed something more.
The whistle blew.
Osasuna came out aggressive. Their tackles were sharp, their midfield compact. Lucas was targeted early—fouled twice within the first ten minutes. But he got up each time, brushing mud from his sleeves, eyes burning with defiance.
At the twenty-fifth minute, he saw the chance.
A turnover. A loose ball in midfield. Lucas darted forward, stole it, and surged ahead. A defender closed in—he faked left, cut right, slipped. The ground was slick. He fell. The ball rolled away.
The crowd groaned.
Lucas punched the turf in frustration.
He had failed.
But then, a voice—Carlos's voice—echoed in his head.
"Freedom and joy."
He stood. Nodded to himself.
The second half began, and Lucas changed. He stopped overthinking. He moved freely. Passed with flair. Created chances. The rhythm returned.
In the 70th minute, he saw the gap again—just like in the Getafe match. This time, from the edge of the box, he chipped it delicately over the keeper.
The net bulged.
1–0.
The roar was deafening.
Lucas didn't celebrate. He just looked to the sky, arms outstretched, letting the rain wash over him.
By the final whistle, the score was still 1–0.