The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 18 – The Meeting

Sporting CP Academy, October 2014. Two days after the Showcase Match.

João Félix sat in the waiting chair outside the academy director's office.

Clean shirt. Hair combed back. Legs bouncing.

Not nerves.

Just controlled energy. The kind you carry when you know something's coming but not what it is.

Tiago stood beside him, arms folded, jaw tight.

The door opened. A secretary stepped out and nodded.

"João. Alone."

Tiago started to speak, but João was already up. "It's fine."

He stepped inside.

The door shut behind him with a click.

---

The office was quiet. Wood-paneled. Trophies in glass cases. Photographs of academy graduates lined the wall — Ronaldo, Figo, Nani, Moutinho.

João didn't look at them.

He looked at the man behind the desk: Carlos Gouveia, Sporting CP's Youth Technical Director.

Gouveia motioned toward the chair. "Sit."

João did. Straight back. Hands folded.

No slouching. No fidgeting.

"Let me start by saying," Gouveia began, "your performance in the last match did not go unnoticed."

João said nothing.

"You see the game differently. That's not common. You command space. You process patterns in real time. That pass in the 34th minute—"

"With the reverse angle?" João asked.

"Yes. That pass."

Pause.

"You've made things... complicated."

João tilted his head. "Complicated how?"

Gouveia leaned forward.

"You're not in the club's plan. Not officially. Your profile is light. Your frame doesn't match the projections. But on the pitch, you break our metrics. You beat the models."

João's heart thudded once. Not from fear — but recognition.

They didn't want him.

But they couldn't ignore him.

"What are you saying?" João asked.

"I'm saying," Gouveia said, "you've forced our hand. We're moving you up. Straight to U17. Immediate integration."

João blinked.

He expected more resistance.

"But—" Gouveia held up a hand.

"—This isn't a promotion. It's a test. You'll be training with boys two years older, stronger, and smarter. You'll be isolated. The staff won't protect you. You'll have to survive."

João smiled, barely.

"Good."

Gouveia narrowed his eyes. "And one more thing."

He opened a drawer. Pulled out a dossier. Thick. João saw the Benfica logo on the tab.

"They reached out."

João's blood went cold.

"Benfica?"

"They've been monitoring you. They saw your game. They want a meeting. They're willing to make space in the U19 program. Fast track. Contract by sixteen."

João's jaw clenched.

He thought he was done with them.

"They cut me," he said. "Didn't even call. Didn't even explain."

"They made a mistake," Gouveia replied. "They know that now."

João stared at the file.

Memories rushed in. Sitting on the cold curb. No phone call. No coach is shaking his hand. Just silence.

Ghosted.

Now they wanted him back.

Gouveia leaned back.

"So, what do you want?"

João looked at the window. Rain tapped against it. Just like two days ago.

"What I want," João said, "is to make them regret it."

Gouveia said nothing.

João stood.

"Give me the U17s."

---

He left the office without waiting for permission.

Tiago met him in the corridor.

"Well?"

"They're moving me up."

Tiago smirked. "They had to."

"They said Benfica reached out."

Tiago's smile vanished.

"They'll keep trying."

"I said no."

Tiago nodded. "Good."

They walked in silence down the hallway. Past the trophy case. Past the photos.

João paused briefly at one.

Cristiano Ronaldo. Age 16. Green and white kit. Holding a trophy, eyes blazing.

Tiago stopped beside him.

"You're not him," he said.

João turned, eyebrow raised.

"You see the game differently. You don't just play it fast. You play it early. That's rarer."

João looked back at the photo.

"Then I'll make them remember my name."

---