The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 37 – The Return to Sporting

February 20, 2015

The bus ride back to Lisbon was quieter than the one going to Jamor.

Rafa Leão had his hood up, snoring against the window. Miguel Luís tapped on his phone, probably texting his parents. Diogo Costa and Dalot were arguing over who made more saves in training.

João Félix sat by himself, head against the cold window, watching the highway lights blur past.

His phone buzzed.

Dad:

Parabéns, filho. Orgulho enorme. Agora foco no Sporting.

João smiled. Typical of his father—proud, but straight back to business. No time for champagne when the next match was always waiting.

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When they rolled into Academia Sporting, João shouldered his bag and hopped off the bus.

The air at Alcochete smelled like cut grass and saltwater, the wind from the nearby river biting at his ears. Same place, same pitch—but João felt different.

It wasn't ego. It was... awareness. Like someone had peeled a layer off his eyes.

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Inside the Sporting locker room, the mood was looser.

Hugo Félix, now in the U12 squad, waved at him from across the hall.

"Hey, João! Did you score?"

João smirked. "Nope. Rafa did. Twice."

Hugo shrugged. "Typical."

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In the U16 room, the other Sporting boys crowded around him.

Bruno Paz grinned, arms crossed. "So, Mr. Portugal, how was it?"

"Big deal, huh?" Bernardo Sousa teased. "Did they give you a crown?"

João dropped his bag and sat down, grinning. "Yeah. But I lost it on the bus."

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Tiago Djaló threw a rolled-up sock at him. "Come on, man. Tell us! How's Dalot? Is he really that fast?"

"Fast? Nah," João said. "He just looks fast because you're all so slow."

The room burst out laughing.

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Coach José Lima walked in, clapping his hands.

"Enough chatting! João, Rafa, Miguel—congrats on the national team. But today, it's Sporting time."

João laced up his boots, the weight of the Portugal kit still fresh in his muscles, but now it was back to green and white.

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Out on the pitch, the ball zipped between cones.

João settled into the passing drill next to Rafael Leão, who still had sleep lines on his face.

"Bro, I'm dead," Rafa whispered. "Two games in two days? My legs feel like pasta."

"Fresh pasta or leftover pasta?"

"Leftover," Rafa groaned. "From last week."

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Coach Lima barked from the sidelines.

"Focus! Passing speed! João, stop daydreaming!"

João snapped out of it, punching the next pass a little harder, planting his feet.

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After training, he sat in the cafeteria with Miguel Luís and Leandro Tipote, plates full of chicken and rice.

Miguel stabbed at his broccoli. "So, João, you're famous now?"

"Yeah right," João said, mouth full. "I'm still getting benched if I don't defend."

Tipote laughed. "Facts."

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Later that night, João walked back to his dorm room.

He passed Hugo's U12 group doing ball mastery in the hallway. Hugo saw him and tried a nutmeg as he walked by.

João stepped over the ball, smirking.

"Nice try, miúdo."

Hugo stuck out his tongue.

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Inside his room, João tossed his boots in the corner and collapsed onto his bed.

His legs were tired. His back ached.

But his mind buzzed.

Portugal U16.

Sporting U16.

Same João—but maybe not the same kid anymore.

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Tomorrow? Another day of training.

But for tonight, he closed his eyes, a small grin pulling at his lips.

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End of Chapter 37