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Chapter 4 – The Stranger
The man had been watching him for twenty minutes.
João noticed him after the third sprint.
He was sitting alone in the top row of the rusted stands, half-hidden behind a column, arms folded across a faded windbreaker. No notepad. No phone. Just stillness. That kind of stillness João had learned to mistrust—quiet, focused, calculating.
The ball rolled back to him from the fence. João trapped it under his boot and let the seconds pass.
Another glance. The man was still there.
João exhaled hard, fired the ball into the side netting, and walked to his bag. Sweat itched down his back. He kept his eyes forward, didn't look up again until the zip clicked shut.
Then a voice, low, calm, behind him.
"You disappear too early."
João froze. Turned. The man was standing now. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Hair buzzed short. A jaw that had taken hits. His jacket had no logo. No club.
"What?" João said.
The man walked closer, slow and deliberate. "You vanish after the first touch. When the defender shifts. You're already five meters away by the time the ball comes back."
João narrowed his eyes. "You were watching me?"
"I was studying you." The man nodded at the pitch. "You play like someone who's hiding. It's smart. But it's not enough."
João grabbed his bag. "I'm not looking for a coach."
"I'm not offering to be one."
The man pulled something from his pocket and tossed it. João caught it by reflex.
A notebook. Plain black cover. Corners frayed. João opened it.
Diagrams.
Hundreds of them—tiny arrows, heat maps, time-stamped freeze frames of moments João recognized. Training drills. Scrimmage rotations. Even a sketch of that backheel nutmeg he pulled off three months ago at Vila Nova.
João looked up, expression tight. "You were at Porto?"
"Analyst. Youth sector. Fired two years ago." The man smirked. "Wrong ideas."
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you're better than they know. But not yet good enough to prove it."
João bristled. "I don't need some random scout telling me—"
"I'm not a scout." The man's voice sharpened. "I don't care who signs you. I care if you survive when they do."
João stared at him.
"What's your name?"
"Tiago," he said. "I study players who don't get seen. And I train the ones who want to stay that way."
João blinked. "That's nonsense."
"It is," Tiago said. "Until it works."
The silence stretched. João's heart pounded for reasons he couldn't explain.
"What are you offering?"
"Not a team," Tiago said. "Not a shortcut. A system."
João said nothing.
"You want clubs to notice you again?" Tiago asked. "Fine. Play louder. Do tricks. Wait for a scout to offer you a trial. Maybe you get one more shot."
João didn't flinch.
"Or," Tiago said, "you learn how to control the game without touching the ball. You learn the things they don't teach at academies. The things that make you unmarkable."
João zipped his bag slowly.
"I'm not desperate."
Tiago nodded. "Good. Desperate players chase spotlights. You'll be chasing space."
He turned to leave.
João spoke before he could stop himself.
"When do we start?"
Tiago didn't turn around. Just raised a hand as he walked.
"Tomorrow. Six. No ball."
Then he was gone.
João looked down at the notebook in his hand.
It felt heavier than it should.
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