The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 35 – First Session with Portugal

February 18, 2015

The locker room smelled like new kits and nervous sweat.

João Félix sat on the bench, staring at the red Portugal jersey in his hands. His fingers traced the stitched crest. Above it, a small white number gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

7.

Same number as Ronaldo.

Brilliant.

No pressure.

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Assistant coach Joaquim Milheiro walked up and down the room, clipboard in hand, reading off numbers like he was handing out lottery tickets.

"Leão, you're 9," Milheiro said, jotting it down.

Rafa grinned. "Of course."

"Miguel Luís, you're 11."

Miguel blinked. "Eleven? Isn't that for wingers?"

Milheiro shrugged. "Today it's for you."

João looked over at Miguel. "Well, congrats. You're fast now."

Miguel groaned. "I'll die by halftime."

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Milheiro turned to João.

"Félix, you're 7."

João held up the shirt like it might explode in his face.

"You sure about that?" he asked.

Milheiro smirked. "It's not a cursed number, João. Just a big one."

"Yeah," João muttered. "Big like the ocean."

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Across the room, Diogo Costa punched his gloves together. "Come on, girls, it's just a number."

Easy for him to say. He only had to pick balls out of the net—or stop them, hopefully.

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On the way to the pitch, Rafa nudged João.

"Number 9 and number 7," Rafa said, grinning. "Sounds like a combo meal."

"Yeah," João whispered. "Hope we don't get fried."

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The field at Jamor stretched out wide, perfectly cut, grass sharp under their cleats.

Coach Filipe Ramos blew his whistle. The group circled up.

"This is not club football," Filipe said. "It's not about style. It's about winning."

João glanced at Miguel, who whispered, "So… no backheels, then?"

João smirked. "Backheels are essential."

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They warmed up fast—passing drills, quick touches, moving in tight triangles.

João's heart hammered in his chest, not from the running but from watching the others.

Diogo Dalot was sharp, cutting off passes like a veteran.

Diogo Costa barked instructions from the back, directing defenders like he owned the penalty box.

Even Rafa, usually so laid-back, moved with an extra edge.

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When the possession game started, the intensity flipped.

João got stuck in fast, intercepting a pass and flicking it first-time to Miguel Luís.

Miguel fired it back.

João caught the ball on his instep, scanned the space, and threaded it through a gap to Leandro Tipote, who didn't even look up—just turned and switched play.

The ball hummed around the square like it had a mind of its own.

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After a few minutes, Filipe blew the whistle.

"Stop."

The boys froze.

"Good tempo," Filipe said, pacing the group. "But remember—this is Portugal. We don't play scared. We play smart."

His eyes locked onto João.

"Félix. Next time you see that gap? Take it faster. Don't wait."

João swallowed, nodding.

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Rafa leaned over, whispering. "Hey, don't worry. He tells me that every session."

"Yeah?" João asked.

"Yep. Then I usually do the same thing again anyway."

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They laughed, but João felt his pulse steady.

This was football. Same game. Different shirt.

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After the session, back in the locker room, Diogo Costa threw his gloves into his bag.

"You see that save?" he asked Dalot.

Dalot rolled his eyes. "Bro, the ball hit you."

"That's called good positioning."

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João sat quietly, peeling off his shin pads, the number 7 still fresh on his back.

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For the first time, it didn't feel like he was out of place.

It felt like he belonged here. Like maybe, just maybe, this could work.

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