The drills continued for days.
Relentless. Repetitive. Quiet.
Each morning and evening, Theo returned to the same narrow space, the same cracked wall, the same unforgiving ground. With every passing day, his touch softened, his control tightened. The ball began to obey him in ways it never had before.
One afternoon, he tried something new.
Theo flicked the ball up, stepped into it, and volleyed it hard against the wall. The impact echoed through the alley. The ball came back fast, spinning toward him. He cushioned it with his foot and kept it alive, refusing to let it touch the ground.
Again.
Again.
Then he struck it too hard.
The ball bounced high, sailing over his head. Theo sighed, shoulders dropping, and turned to chase it. Before he could reach it, a studded boot stopped the ball dead.
Theo froze.
He looked up.
Luke.
Dressed in a bright green Palmeiras kit, boots clean, socks pulled high. He was grinning from ear to ear.
"Well?" Luke said, rolling the ball under his foot. "Come get it."
Theo didn't smile — but his eyes lit up.
He rushed forward, determination flooding his body. Luke shifted his shoulder to the right.
Theo smirked.
Too easy.
He lunged.
The next second, Luke was gone.
A clean body feint. A sharp cut to the left. Theo slipped, landing in the dirt as Luke calmly pushed the ball into the empty goal.
Luke laughed.
Theo sat up, panting, staring at him in disbelief.
"How?" Theo asked. "That was… clean. You completely got me."
Luke shrugged, still smiling. "Coach taught me. He says attackers don't just beat feet — they beat minds. Flashy skills are useless if defenders can read you. You have to lie to them first."
Theo stood up slowly.
"Can you teach me?" he asked.
Luke nodded. "Of course."
They played until the sky darkened. Theo tried the feint again and again, failing most times, getting closer each time. Luke corrected him, showed him angles, timing, patience.
When they finally stopped, both were exhausted.
"Come over tonight," Luke said. "We'll eat."
Theo hesitated, then nodded. "Let me tell my mom first."
Luke's house felt different now.
Posters of footballers lined the walls, but so did training schedules, academy notices, neatly folded kits. It smelled like detergent and freshly cooked food.
They sat on Luke's bed, plates balanced on their knees.
"So," Luke said between bites, "what have you been doing all this time?"
Theo stared at his food.
"Training," he said. "Alone."
Luke glanced at him. "I figured."
Theo exhaled. "It's been quiet. Too quiet. After you left… it felt like everyone moved on. Like the street forgot me."
Luke didn't say anything at first.
Then he laughed softly. "You think I'm living the dream?"
Theo looked up.
Luke leaned back against the wall. "It's hard. Everyone's fast. Everyone's trained. They pass without looking. I don't fit yet."
Theo frowned. "But you're there. You're playing."
Luke shook his head. "Barely. I get benched most matches. Coach says I don't have chemistry. Says I need to learn the system."
He clenched his fists. "Some days, I touch the ball less than I did on the street."
Theo absorbed that quietly.
"I thought you'd be happy," he said.
Luke smiled weakly. "I am. Sometimes. But it's lonely in a different way."
They sat in silence, the noise of the street faint outside the window.
"You know," Luke said finally, "you've changed."
Theo looked at him.
"You're tighter on the ball. Sharper. Harder to read."
Theo didn't answer. He didn't need to.
That night, lying awake in a room that wasn't his own, Theo realized something important.
The street had taught him how to survive.
The academy was teaching Luke how to belong.
And somewhere between those two worlds, a different kind of football was forming.