The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 29 – The Injury Scare

Rain hammered the pitch like tiny bullets.

João stood near the sidelines, pulling at his sleeves. His cleats were soaked, the leather squishing with every step. The Sporting U16s were in the middle of a full-contact training match, and no one was holding back.

Coach Martins shouted from the touchline.

"Keep the tempo! Think faster!"

João squinted through the rain. His team was two goals down. He wasn't having it.

"Tiago!" he yelled, pointing at the gap between the center backs.

Tiago spotted it, nodded, and whipped the ball in fast—low, slick, skipping like a stone on water.

João pounced.

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His first touch was perfect. The second? A sharp feint to the left, sending Miguel Luís sliding the wrong way.

But the third step…

His right foot stuck.

The stud got caught in the grass. His knee twisted. The world spun sideways.

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CRACK.

A sound only he could hear.

João hit the ground hard, clutching his leg.

"Ahhh—!"

Players froze. Tiago sprinted over, face pale.

"João! Hey! You okay?!"

João gritted his teeth, eyes wide. His knee burned, sharp and hot, like someone had stabbed him.

"Don't touch it!" he hissed.

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Coach Martins and the physio rushed in.

"Let me see," the physio said, already peeling João's sock down.

João wanted to slap his hands away, but his vision blurred. The world felt heavy.

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"Relax, relax," the physio muttered. "Let me check."

João's heart hammered. All he could think was:

Is this it? Is this how it ends?

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They helped him to the bench.

Tiago sat beside him, quiet for once.

"You're not crying, are you?" Tiago asked, trying to joke, his voice soft.

João wiped his face, rain mixing with sweat. "Shut up."

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After fifteen minutes of testing, the physio gave him the verdict.

"Looks like a sprain. Not a tear."

João exhaled so hard he almost laughed.

"So, I'm not broken?"

"No. But you're sitting out for two weeks."

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Two weeks.

In football time, that felt like two months. Two weeks of someone else taking your spot. Someone else is getting minutes.

Someone else is shining.

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That night, João lay in the dorm common room, ice strapped to his knee, PlayStation controller in hand. Rafa Leão was next to him, playing FIFA.

"You're limping in the game too," Rafa joked, scoring a goal.

João grinned, flipping him off. "If I was in the game, you'd be benched."

"Yeah, yeah. Say that again when your knee stops crying."

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Tiago sat on the armrest, stealing chips from João's bag.

"You gonna be alright?" he asked, mouth full.

João stared at the ice pack. "I have to be."

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Later, alone in his room, João texted his dad again.

João:

Injured. Two weeks.

Carlos Sequeira:

Better two weeks than two years. Rest smart.

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João rolled onto his side, staring at the wall.

Two weeks off meant two weeks to think. And that scared him more than any defender.

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