"How long are you going to stay like this?" Coach Goya asked.He stood with his arms crossed in front of Leonel, who was sitting on one of the plain metal benches, looking at his foot, which was wrapped in a black plastic splint that prevented any movement.

"They'll take it off at the end of the month. I don't even need crutches to walk anymore..."

"That's not the point, Leo."

The man sighed and ran a hand over his face, looking exhausted. Somehow, that made Leonel feel ashamed and guilty for actions that weren't his own. He hadn't asked for his leg to be broken. Maybe, from a twisted perspective, someone could accuse him of provoking it, but that accusation was unfair, heartless, and quite disgusting. He had only done what he thought was best at the time; that didn't justify what had happened. Still, Leonel didn't hold a grudge, unlike those around him who seemed more affected than he was.

"Will you be able to run again?" asked the coach.

"It was a minor fracture..." He remembered the look his mother had exchanged with the doctor, the woman's eyes filled with tears as she silently begged for a solution. Leonel rubbed his hands. "They took the cast off quite quickly, so it's going well. The doctors said that as long as I follow the recovery exercises to the letter, there shouldn't be any problems."

Coach Goya sighed again. He sat down next to Leonel on the bench and placed a hand on his shoulder, where it remained for a few seconds as they sat in silence.

Guilt washed over him again.

"I'm sorry."

The coach looked at him with surprise, which quickly turned into that look of remorse that people couldn't seem to stop giving him. He hated that the coach had joined the list.

"Are you kidding, son? I should be the one to apologize. I wasn't there when you needed me and I'll regret it forever."

No, this was definitely worse than pitying looks, much worse. He didn't want to listen to any speeches, he'd had enough of them from his mother. However, he didn't dare interrupt. Goya had always been on his side, and not allowing him to speak seemed like an unforgivable lack of respect. So Leonel stared at the floor and took a deep breath to bear the rest of the words the man undoubtedly needed to say.

"I still don't understand how this could happen. When did this sport become so... corrosive? I never thought this kind of behavior would spread among you; I always thought you were a great team. Hell, you were supposed to be a great team. United, you know..." He clenched his fists in the air, as if trying to join two invisible fragments.

"I guess I was so focused on winning that I didn't notice what was going on between you guys."

"It wasn't your fault."

Leonel wondered if he should remind him that he wasn't the head coach, if perhaps guilt had made him forget that his position was that of an assistant coach, and that he wasn't the one to blame for that disaster.

"But it feels like it was," the man admitted.

There was a long pause. Goya sighed again; it seemed to be all he could do at the moment.

"Look, Leo, I want you to understand that what happened was out of envy, OK? It has nothing to do with you as a person. The truth is, it's been years since a boy as talented as you appeared in this club."

"Esteban..." he started to answer, but the man cut him off with a raised hand.

His jaw twitched slightly, a sign that he didn't want to hear that name just yet.

"Esteban has talent, and until recently, he seemed like a promising player. But you're a natural, son. The truth is, most of these boys see football as nothing more than a pastime, but it's different for you, isn't it? You have passion too. Don't lose it."

He looked at him with that enthusiastic gaze that had convinced Leonel to join the team last year. It conveyed pride, confidence, and optimism, a mixture that captivated the boy. He felt he was worth something and that at least someone believed in him.

"I won't," he promised. "I love playing."

And it was true. Even if the doctors said he would never be able to run with the same intensity as before once the cast was removed, Leonel was confident that he would continue to play.

"That's what I wanted to hear. I really believe that this is your future."

Coach Goya placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, exuding a fatherly warmth. Just then, Coach Lorenzo entered the locker room, his toad-like face flushed from the effort of walking briskly. He smiled broadly at Leonel, who felt a knot in his stomach at the gesture. Lorenzo's small, barely visible eyes always had a disquieting effect on the boy.

"Leo, my star player!" he exclaimed as he approached. "I'm glad you're still here, I wanted to have a chat with you."

Leonel shifted in his seat, though he tried to conceal his discomfort. Lorenzo, whom he had refused to address as a coach since the day they met, pretended not to notice.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you're back; it means a lot to all of us, you know?" He let out a deep laugh and patted him on the shoulder, a painful gesture in contrast to the one Goya had given him moments before. "You've had some tough days, but I trust you won't let that stop you, right? I may not show it as often as I should, but I appreciate your commitment to the team. What you did in December..." He paused, and as he continued to smile, Leonel heard him inhale through his teeth. "It was spectacular," he said in one breath.

Leonel was grateful for Coach Goya's presence at his side, reassuring him that whatever the other man was holding back wouldn't surface to attack him.

"I just reminded him how talented he is," commented Goya.

"Yes, yes," Lorenzo agreed.

His cheeks must have hurt from the effort he put into his shark-like smile. After a pause, he continued:

"Indeed, my boy, you're the best. Look." Lorenzo walked over to the trophy case and picked up the latest addition to the collection, a beautiful golden cup that gleamed under the LED lights. "Look what you have achieved after a few months of training with us."

"I used to go to the sports center..." Leonel tried to justify.

"Forget the sports center! You only went there once a week. You need more than that to show the talent you've always displayed. Just because I didn't say it before doesn't mean I didn't notice."

Leonel glanced sideways at Coach Goya, who nodded, oblivious to the falsity of the words. Lorenzo stood in front of Leonel to emphasize what he was about to say:

"You're a star now, boy. Just do everything the doctors tell you, get well and come back to us." He patted the trophy as if the metal would go unnoticed. "This is your future."

When coach Goya said those words, they felt like the promise of a secure life and an achievable goal. When Lorenzo said them, they felt like a threat.

Leonel nodded, intimidated. Both men mimicked the gesture in response, satisfied with the silent agreement. Lorenzo returned to the display case to place the trophy back in its spot. Next to it stood two other trophies of the same golden hue that mockingly reflected the lights, taunting him in silence. The name of the author of those victories was not engraved on the metal plaques, but it was etched in the boy's mind.

"You can go now, Leo. Sorry, we didn't mean to keep you here for so long," Goya said as he picked up the scattered gym equipment in the changing room.

Leonel's gaze returned to Lorenzo; when he noticed the man watching him, he quickly looked away. He nodded and walked toward the door, but something was nagging at the back of his mind, a kind of mental itch that was annoying and rapidly becoming unbearable. He paused at the door and turned around. The men no longer paid any attention to him, perhaps not even realizing that the boy was still there.

Plucking up courage, Leonel spoke:

"I didn't fill the trophy case," his voice gained unexpected strength in the silence of the room, causing him some embarrassment. The two men looked at him curiously. "When I'm on the field, I'm not alone. I thought... I thought that was the point."

Though the words were meant for both of them, his gaze was fixed on Coach Goya, pleading for something the man couldn't grasp.

"You're absolutely right, Leo," he said.

"Of course," Lorenzo added, "we're all a team. You're our new star, but we value you for much more than that."

He flashed that nauseating smile once again. Leonel felt small, stupid, and hollow. Yes, he knew that Lorenzo appreciated something more than just his skill with the ball: he appreciated the fact that he was the kind of kid who kept his damn mouth shut and didn't say anything.

He left feeling useless. The truth was, the sooner he left that building, the better he would feel. And he was right, for as he left the Tigres Salvajes club, he spotted a familiar figure standing at the entrance.

María was waiting at the end of the corridor, leaning against the column that led to the glass doors, so the light from outside gave her a heavenly glow. 

"What are you doing here?" Leonel asked curiously.

The girl tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"We've known each other for a while, I know you leave around this hour."

In reality, she knew it was the time her ex used to leave when the whole team finished training, but Leonel didn't think it was a good idea to mention it.

"So I was wondering if you'd like to go for an ice cream with me."

"Just the two of us?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, I have to ask... Is this a friend thing?"

"Well..."

Maria tucked the same strand of hair back behind her ear. She flashed that flirtatious smile she had used on the first day of class.

"Let's find out."