When last time Davi called Theo for a Real Madrid vs Juventus CL second leg watchalong to his house. Theo couldn't refuse .
The room fell quiet the moment the Champions League anthem faded.
Not silent — just focused.
On the screen, Casillas stood under the Bernabéu lights, gloves tucked under his arms like he'd done this a thousand times before. Across from him, Buffon, unmoving, eyes sharp, a man who looked like time itself had decided not to touch him.
Theo leaned forward instinctively.
"Look at the midfield," he muttered.
Davi nodded, already locked in. "That triangle… Pirlo, Marchisio, Pogba. That's control."
The ball rolled.
Madrid started fast. Ramos stepped up early, aggressive, winning the first duel like it was a statement. Kroos dropped deep, spraying passes left and right, slowing the game just enough to make Juventus uncomfortable.
Then — Cristiano.
First touch. Crowd rises. Second touch. Defender backs off.
"He's going to shoot," someone said.
He did.
Blocked.
Groans filled the room.
Theo exhaled slowly. "Too crowded. He waited half a second too long."
Davi shot him a look. "You say that like you wouldn't try."
Theo smiled. "I would. That's the problem."
Juventus didn't panic.
They never did.
Pirlo took the ball under pressure, turned away like gravity didn't apply to him, and suddenly the entire pitch looked wider. One pass — perfectly weighted — split Madrid's press.
"Did you see that?" Theo whispered.
"He didn't even look," Davi replied. "He knew."
Then it happened.
A loose clearance. A second ball. Morata — former Madrid — ghosting between Varane and Ramos.
Goal.
For half a second, no one spoke.
Then chaos.
"NO WAY."
"Of course it's him."
"Celebrates like that here?!"
Theo didn't say anything.
He watched Morata's face — not the celebration, but the hesitation before it. The respect. The conflict.
"He didn't rush that run," Theo said quietly. "He waited until Ramos stepped."
Davi nodded. "Striker's instinct."
Madrid pushed harder after that.
Wave after wave.
Benzema dropped deep, pulling defenders with him. Isco danced between lines. Bale missed a header he usually buried.
Theo clenched his fists.
"That chance," he said. "That was it."
The clock ticked.
Then — chaos again.
A cross swung in. Bodies everywhere. The ball broke loose.
The final minutes were torture.
Madrid pressed. Juventus suffered.
Pogba tracked back, tackling, then surging forward like a man built for two different games at once. Tevez fought for every loose ball, barking at teammates, refusing to slow.
A last chance fell to Cristiano.
Angle tight.
Shot low.
Buffon saved it.
The whistle blew.
1–1.
Aggregate decided.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Davi leaned back, hands behind his head.
"That," he said slowly, "is what pressure looks like."
Theo nodded.
Not the goals.
Not the stars.
The choices.
Who waits.
Who rushes.
Who trusts the moment.
As Theo stood to leave later, the echoes of the match stayed with him — not the noise, but the weight. Every touch mattered. Every decision left a trace.
He stepped out into the night thinking about Pirlo's calm… Ronaldo's hunger… Ramos' timing… Pogba's power.
Different players.
Different shapes.
All finding space in their own way.
And somewhere between those thoughts, Theo realized something unsettling:
No one had told them who to be.
They chose.
Next Morning..
Theo arrived to a pitch already in motion.
Cones set neatly. Bibs folded in stacks. Balls lined along the touchline like they belonged there. The academy felt organized in a way that made nothing stand out.
Even him.
"Morning," Paulo said, tying his boots.
Theo nodded. "Morning."
No jokes. No rush.
It felt like the kind of day where nothing would go wrong.
Coach Vale didn't gather them immediately.
He let training begin on its own.
Positional rondos. Two-touch limits. Strict zones.
Theo stayed wide on the right.
And he did it well.
He opened his body early. Released the ball before pressure arrived. Didn't drift. Didn't hesitate. Didn't improvise.
Everything was efficient.
Paulo overlapped cleanly. Lucas dictated tempo. Renan recycled possession without flair.
Theo noticed something strange.
No one corrected him.
No whistle followed his movements.
That had never happened before.
They ran a pre-match pattern drill.
Same shape they'd likely use in the tournament.
Theo received, crossed early.
Davi met it.
Goal.
Vale nodded once.
Next rep.
Theo received the ball wide, right side, just outside the box.
The defender squared up in front of him.
For a moment, everything lined up the way it always had.
Space behind the fullback.
The defender's weight slightly wrong.
The kind of situation Theo used to enjoy — a drop of the shoulder, a burst, a question only the defender had to answer.
His body remembered before his mind did.
The first step came naturally.
Then he stopped.
Instead of driving forward, Theo softened his touch. Turned his hips. Rolled the ball back inside.
Clean.
Safe.
The midfielder arrived. One touch. Shot.
Goal.
Shouts went up. Someone clapped.
Theo jogged back into position, breathing steady.
It should've felt right.
He'd made the correct decision.
The textbook one.
But as the drill reset, Theo realized something unsettling —
the goal hadn't felt like his.
Not because he hadn't scored.
But because he hadn't asked the question first.
Theo received, recycled inside instead of forcing the cross.
Lucas switched play.
Vale wrote something down.
Next rep.
Theo tracked back fully. Won the ball. Played the safe option.
Applause from a teammate.
It all felt… right.
And somehow, hollow.
Theo couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled during a touch.
During water break, Vale finally spoke.
"In two days," he said, "we start pre-match games."
The boys leaned in.
"Short matches. Rotations limited. Roles fixed."
That last word landed quietly.
"Tomorrow," Vale continued, "I'll announce responsibilities for the tournament phase."
No excitement in his tone.
No threat.
Just information.
Theo felt a flicker of relief.
He was doing well.
He had to be.
As they walked toward the sideline, Paulo nudged him.
"You're playing clean today."
Theo nodded. "Yeah."
Lucas joined them. "Efficient."
Theo smiled faintly. "That's good, right?"
Paulo hesitated. "Yeah. Just… different."
"Different how?"
Paulo shrugged. "Hard to explain."
They didn't push it.
But Theo felt the space where the explanation should've been.
Yesterday, he'd watched men choose who they wanted to be.
Today, he was choosing not to choose.
The final drill ended.
No mistakes.
No arguments.
No drama.
Vale dismissed them with a nod.
As Theo packed his bag, he realized something unsettling.
He couldn't remember a single moment from training that felt his.
Not a touch.
Not a decision.
Not a risk.
Just correct answers.
On the whiteboard near the exit, a rough tournament schedule had been sketched.
Opponents unnamed.
Times undecided.
Roles still blank.
Theo stood there longer than necessary.
He could see where he fit.
That scared him more than not knowing.
Theo walked home slower than usual.
Not because he was tired.
Because his thoughts kept arriving before his steps.
Training had gone well.
Too well.
Everything had worked. Every instruction followed. Every movement clean.
And yet—
He stopped.
Across the street, just ahead, someone laughed.
Theo looked up.
Luke.
Standing beside a boy Theo didn't recognize — taller, leaner, academy posture already carved into him. They were talking animatedly, a ball tucked under one arm, boots dangling from fingers.
For a moment, the world narrowed.
Noise faded.
Traffic blurred.
Time stalled.
Luke saw him.
Their eyes met.
A second passed.
Then another.
Both waited.
For a step.
A wave.
A word.
Neither moved.
The stranger nudged Luke lightly with his elbow.
"Oi," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
Luke hesitated.
"We still have to train," the boy continued. "Tournament's close. You know how hard we've worked for our spots."
Luke swallowed.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Coming."
He adjusted the ball under his arm.
Then, just before turning away, Luke looked back once more.
At Theo.
Not smiling.
Not apologetic.
Just… aware.
Theo nodded.
Luke nodded back.
And that was it.
Luke walked on.
Theo stood there alone, the street stretching forward again, ordinary and loud and unforgiving.
Everything was fine.
And somehow, something had already been lost.