The smell of Deep Heat muscle rub and damp wool permeated the Blackburn Rovers U-18 locker room.
Rio sat alone on a wooden bench, a bag of crushed ice taped to his right thigh where Davies had kneed him. His boots were caked in thick, black mud. The rest of the academy players had already showered and left, giving him a wide berth. After that thunderous volley, nobody had dared to tackle him again. But nobody had spoken to him, either.
The heavy metal door swung open. Coach Harrison walked in, his heavy coat dripping rainwater onto the tiled floor. He didn't look happy. Then again, Rio suspected the man hadn't smiled since 1998.
Harrison tossed a thin manila folder onto the bench next to Rio.
"You're arrogant, selfish, and your positional awareness off the ball is an absolute joke," Harrison barked, his voice echoing in the empty room. "When we didn't have possession, you jogged. You left your midfield exposed."
Rio peeled the ice pack off his leg, his face deadpan. "I'm a striker. My job is to put the ball in the net. I did."
"This is England, lad. Strikers defend from the front, or they sit on the bench." Harrison leaned against the lockers, crossing his arms. "But... you have a vertical leap like a salmon, and a right foot like a cannon. You don't fold when you get hit. I can teach tactics. I can't teach whatever kind of rage you've got burning in your chest."
Rio looked down at the folder. He opened it. It was a standard Youth Academy Scholar contract.
"Three hundred quid a week," Harrison said flatly. "You'll be living in a club-approved host family's spare room. You clean your own boots. You clean the first team's boots if they ask. It's the bottom rung of the ladder. You want it, or do you want a flight back to Kolkata?"
Rio didn't hesitate. He didn't read the clauses or the fine print. He grabbed a pen out of his bag and signed his name violently across the dotted line.
"I'll take it," Rio said, standing up, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg. "And I won't be on the bottom rung for long."
Harrison took the folder back, the faintest ghost of a smirk appearing under his wet mustache. "We'll see, Machine. Training is at 6:00 AM. Don't be late."
A thousand miles away, the air conditioning in the CD Castellón tactical room was running at full blast, but Leo was sweating.
He wasn't on the pitch anymore. He was sitting in a leather chair across from Coach Silva, the manager of the B-team. Between them was a magnetic whiteboard showing a football pitch with red and blue magnets scattered across it.
"Your physical stats are terrible," Coach Silva said in rapid Spanish, tapping a pen against the desk. "Your top speed is below average. Your stamina is questionable. Physically, you are a boy playing a man's game."
Leo remained quiet, staring at the whiteboard. He knew his weaknesses better than anyone.
"But," Silva continued, leaning forward, "football is played with the mind first, the feet second. What you did to Mateo in the rondo today... you read his hips before his brain had even sent the signal to his foot. Let's see if it was a fluke."
Silva spun the whiteboard around. The magnets were arranged in a complex defensive block.
"You have the ball here, top of the box," Silva challenged, pointing to a blue magnet. "The defense is parked. Two massive center-backs. No space. You have three seconds to tell me the winning pass, or your trial is over."
Leo didn't panic. His eyes darted across the board, drawing invisible geometric lines connecting the players. He saw the trap. Passing out wide to the wingers was exactly what the defense wanted. Shooting was impossible through the bodies.
Leo reached out and moved a red magnet—an opposing defensive midfielder—half an inch to the left.
"If I drop my shoulder and fake a shot, this midfielder will instinctively step left to block the angle," Leo said calmly. "That opens a passing lane exactly one foot wide. My striker makes a diagonal run behind the center-back. I don't play the ball to the striker's feet. I play it to the empty space a second before he arrives."
He drew the line with his finger. The perfect, deadly through-ball.
Coach Silva stared at the board for a long, silent moment. He slowly put his pen down.
"You have glass ankles, chico," Silva murmured, a look of genuine disbelief in his eyes. "But you have a diamond mind."
Silva opened his drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
"Youth development contract. Minimum wage. You start with the B-team reserves. If you get injured because you are too slow to avoid a tackle, the club will drop you immediately. Understand?"
"I won't get caught," Leo said, signing the paper with a steady hand.
That night, in a cramped, drafty bedroom in Lancashire, Rio lay on a thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the rain was still pounding against the glass.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He grabbed it. It was a message from Leo.
Leo: Contract signed. CD Castellón B-Team. I hope you didn't cry when the English defenders tackled you.
Rio snorted, a genuine grin breaking across his face. His thumb flew across the cracked screen of his phone.
Rio: Signed with Blackburn Rovers. Left their best defender face-down in the mud. Start packing on some muscle, Architect, or you're going to get blown away by the wind before we meet in the Champions League.
Leo: I don't need muscle to outsmart you. See you at the top.
Rio locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed. He was battered, he was bruised, and he was making almost no money. He was at the absolute bottom of English football.
But he was in. The countdown had started.