The fire in my chest burned hotter than ever as I stepped onto the plane to Spain. My hands were clammy, my stomach twisted into knots. It wasn't fear exactly—it was something else. A mix of nerves, excitement, and that quiet voice inside that kept asking what if this is it? What if this is where it all begins again?
I had scraped together the last of my savings to buy a one-way ticket to Málaga. No return flight. No safety net. Just a bag, a dream, and a second chance I refused to let slip away.
Málaga wasn't just a pretty place on the map. It was a city that breathed football. The kind of place where people talked about the game like it was part of the family. And Málaga CF had been making noise lately—climbing, building, believing. I wanted to be part of that.
The plane landed late in the afternoon. As I stepped out, the warm Mediterranean air hit me like a welcome I hadn't expected. The breeze carried a hint of salt, the smell of the sea close by. It felt alive here. Like something was waiting.
But I wasn't here for sun or beaches. I was here for football. And I wasn't wasting time.
After I got the system and barely recovered from the fallout of everything that had happened, I dove back into training. My body had taken a hit, but the system helped rebuild it. Still, raw strength and speed meant nothing without control. I had power, sure, but no polish. It felt like being handed a Ferrari without knowing how to drive.
So I started small. I hit the local parks and training grounds. I practiced until my legs felt like lead, then practiced some more. Some days I played with local kids, sometimes older amateurs who treated the game like life. It wasn't glamorous, but it was honest. The ball didn't lie. If I made a mistake, it let me know. And little by little, the rust began to fall away.
My parents had been hesitant when I told them. Understandably so. After everything—the injury, the system, the risk—they wanted me to rest. But I couldn't. I knew that if I waited too long, the world would move on without me.
"I'll be fine," I told them before I left. "I just need a chance. One shot. That's all."
I didn't fully believe it at the time. But I said it enough that it started to feel real.
When I touched down in Málaga, I didn't head straight for the club. I needed to test the waters elsewhere first—to see if I was truly ready. My first stop was Sevilla FC. It was a club with real history and a solid youth system. I figured if I could get a foot in there, maybe the rest would follow.
I arrived early the next morning, wearing a plain track suit and carrying nothing but my gear in a duffel bag. Their training facility stood behind high fences, clean and quiet. The sun was just rising, casting a golden light across the neatly kept fields.
I walked up to the security checkpoint, trying to look confident even as my heart pounded in my chest.
The guard was an older man, solid build, eyes sharp. He looked me over as I stopped in front of the gate.
"Morning," I said. "I'm Adriano Riveiro. I used to play at La Masia before my injury. I've recovered, and I'm looking for a shot. A tryout, anything."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "La Masia, huh?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I know this is unusual. But I've come a long way. I just want to show someone what I can do."
He paused, then sighed and picked up the phone. He spoke in low tones for a minute, then hung up. His expression hadn't changed.
"Sorry, kid," he said. "No open trials. You need to come in through the proper channels—agent, recommendation, something. They're not taking walk-ins."
I swallowed hard. "Is there anyone I can talk to? A coach, scout—anyone who'll just watch me for five minutes?"
He shook his head. "Youth squad's full. They don't make exceptions. Not even for La Masia."
I stepped back, the rejection landing harder than I'd expected. I stared through the fence at the distant players warming up on the pitch. I could be one of them. I should be one of them.
But none of that mattered. Football didn't care about your story. It didn't care about how hard you'd worked or what you'd come back from. It only cared about what you could do right now, on the field, in front of the right eyes.
I turned and walked away slowly, each step heavier than the last.
I could've let it crush me. A few years ago, it might have. But not now. I had one more shot, and I wasn't going to waste it.
Málaga CF.
That was where I'd go next.
I wasn't asking for handouts. I wasn't begging for sympathy. I just needed someone to watch. To see what I could really do.
And I was going to make damn sure that when they did—They wouldn't forget me.
The early morning sun hung low as I made my way down the quiet streets toward Málaga CF's training facility. My duffel strap dug into my shoulder, but I didn't care. Every step I took brought me closer—not just to a pitch, but to possibility. My nerves buzzed beneath the surface, but I tried to bury them. This was it. My best shot.
As I walked, I couldn't help but think about the wider picture—the fierce landscape of La Liga in the 2013-14 season. Spain was a battlefield for footballing giants, and it was only getting more intense.
FC Barcelona still stood tall as the kings of the hill. Lionel Messi remained the standard by which all attackers were measured. Under their new coach Tata Martino, they'd started to shift slightly—more direct in attack, quicker transitions—but the DNA of tiki-taka still pulsed through the veins of that squad. Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets—they were still there, orchestrating games like maestros. Everyone in the league measured themselves against them. Beating Barça wasn't just a win—it was a statement.
Then there was Real Madrid. After years of internal chaos and short-lived managerial tenures, they'd brought in Carlo Ancelotti. The Italian's calm, methodical approach was the opposite of Mourinho's fire, but it suited a team that needed balance. They had Cristiano Ronaldo—who was becoming more unstoppable with each passing game—and had just pulled off the biggest signing in history by bringing in Gareth Bale. Alongside Luka Modrić pulling strings in midfield and Sergio Ramos commanding the backline, Madrid had the firepower. What they didn't have yet was consistency. Ancelotti was still piecing things together.
And then came Atlético Madrid—the real disruptors.
Under Diego Simeone, Atlético wasn't just scrappy—they were deadly. Disciplined, tactical, relentless. Their press was suffocating, their counters lightning fast. Diego Costa was playing like a man possessed, scoring for fun and fighting for every inch. Koke had emerged as one of Spain's best young midfielders. They weren't trying to survive against Barça and Madrid anymore. They were trying to win.
Below the giants, Valencia CF was quietly regrouping. Their squad had talent, and their fans demanded results. They wanted to return to the Champions League, to be feared again. Across the coast, Villarreal CF had clawed their way back from relegation and were rebuilding with a sharp eye for tactical cohesion and youth development. Both teams were dangerous—maybe not league winners, but good enough to ruin someone else's season.
That was the state of things at the top.
And then there was Málaga CF—my destination.
Two years ago, they were the talk of Europe. Under Manuel Pellegrini, they'd punched far above their weight, qualifying for the Champions League and even reaching the quarter-finals. That dream run had raised eyebrows. People had started paying attention. But the club had problems behind the scenes—financial issues, ownership uncertainty. Slowly, their stars began to leave.
Most notably, their creative jewel—Isco.
He'd blossomed in Málaga. A homegrown sparkplug with vision and flair. Now, every paper in Spain said the same thing: Isco was heading to Madrid. Another star joining the galáctico machine. That left a gap. A need.
And that's where I saw my chance.
Málaga needed fresh legs. Someone hungry. Someone cheap. Someone willing.
I wasn't naïve. I knew I wasn't just going to walk into the first team. But the club was in a position where taking chances on new talent wasn't out of the question. If I could show something—just a spark—I might earn a training slot, maybe a reserve role. And from there, who knew?
The gates to the facility came into view.
Málaga's training center wasn't massive, but it was clean, modern, and tucked away in a quiet part of the city. I paused at the fencing, watching youth players jogging laps while coaches stood nearby, clipboards in hand and voices sharp as they gave directions.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped toward the entrance. A younger man in a security jacket looked up from his booth as I approached.
"Hola," I said in fluent Spanish. "I'm here to speak with someone from the coaching staff. My name is Adriano Riveiro. I played at La Masia before my injury. I've recovered, and I'm looking for an opportunity."
The guard squinted at me. "No appointment?"
"No, sir," I replied steadily. "I just want a chance. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking for."
He hesitated before reaching for his walkie-talkie. After a brief conversation, he barely looked at me and said, "No open trials today, kid."
I started to protest, "But—"
"Listen, if you're not on this list, you're wasting your time."
I clenched my fists, frustration rising. Was I really going to be turned away like that? I wasn't about to let it end here. I had other options, weaker clubs even—but then I overheard the whispers among the coaching staff.
"Did you hear? Isco's transfer is almost confirmed. We need another creative midfielder."
That was my moment. I stepped forward and said clearly, "I can replace Isco."
The older coach with the clipboard looked at me sharply. "What did you say?"
I repeated, this time louder, "I said I can replace Isco. Give me ten minutes on the pitch, and if I don't impress you, I'll leave."
The coaches exchanged looks. A younger coach with a sharp gaze studied me carefully, then turned to the older man. "Let him play, Luis. What's the harm?"
After a long pause, Luis sighed and waved me toward the field. "Fine. Ten minutes. If you waste our time, you're out."
A surge of relief mixed with renewed determination rushed through me. I jogged onto the pitch, joining a group of trialists and youth players in a five-a-side match. The moment my boots touched the ball, everything inside me realigned. I felt the combination of precise passing and creative drive, as if the skills of past mentors were guiding my every move.
The game started quickly. The opposing team pressed hard, trying to disrupt our flow before we could settle. In the opening minutes, one of our midfielders received the ball but, with two defenders closing in, he panicked and lost possession. A quick counter by the opposition led to their forward firing a shot into the bottom corner. The score was 1-0 against us—a rough start.
Once the game restarted, I settled into my position in midfield. My body moved lightly as the ball rolled toward me. I controlled it with a clean first touch, cushioning it perfectly as I scanned the field. Years of training and instinct guided me; I anticipated plays before they unfolded.
As a defender lunged at me, I shifted my weight and rolled the ball between his legs before accelerating past him. A murmur of surprise escaped from the sidelines. I found myself with space. Another opponent rushed in, trying to close me down, but I feinted to the left and instead flicked the ball to the right with the outside of my boot. The pass slipped through a narrow gap between defenders.
My teammate received the ball with a burst of speed. I heard him whisper, "¡Joder, qué pase!" before he sprinted forward. I didn't pause; instead, I darted into the space behind the midfield line, signaling for the ball to be returned. The defender marking me couldn't keep up, and soon the ball was back in my possession.
Spotting our forward making a run toward goal, I noted that the defenders had shifted their attention to me, leaving his path open. I quickly glanced at the goalkeeper's position and sent a no-look through ball between the defenders. The ball curved perfectly, landing at my teammate's feet without breaking his stride. He controlled it and, with one touch, sent it into the top corner. The score was now 1-1.
The murmurs from the coaches grew. But there was no time to dwell on it. The game restarted immediately, and I repositioned myself, my mind already calculating the next move.
Another attack began from our backline. This time, I slowed the game's pace by dropping deep to collect the ball. I distributed it with quick, accurate passes, controlling the rhythm and making it difficult for the opposition to press. Every time they tried to block a passing lane, I found a new one. My confidence grew with every successful pass.
As the clock neared ten minutes, I sensed the final opportunity to seal my statement. I intercepted a sloppy pass from the opposing midfielder and surged forward. A defender closed in quickly, but channeling all my drive, I managed to knock the ball past him, using strength and balance as I cut inside toward the penalty area.
Another defender rushed at me, but he was too slow. I planted my left foot firmly and struck the ball with my right. The shot sailed toward the top corner with a sharp swerve and powerful precision. The goalkeeper barely had time to react before the net rippled.
The score stood at 2-1.
Every sound on the pitch seemed to slow for a moment—the breathless silence of anticipation followed by the sudden clamor of whistles, footsteps, and murmuring voices from the sideline. I turned and jogged back, my breathing heavy but controlled. My heart pounded not from exhaustion but from the rush of adrenaline and a sense of purpose finally recognized.
Luis, the older coach, had lowered his clipboard and now watched me intently. Carlos, the younger coach who had supported my chance, smiled and nodded in approval. The atmosphere on the field had shifted; the doubt had been replaced, if only slightly, with cautious intrigue.
I knew that this was just a start—a chance to show that I was ready, that the drive and skill honed over years of hard work were still within me. As the game ended and the whistle blew for the final time, I stood on that pitch knowing I had made my case. It was one moment, one session, but it could be the beginning of a new chapter in my journey.
Then, a slow clap echoed through the field.
I turned my head to see a tall, composed figure standing at the sideline. His sharp eyes studied me with an intensity that made me nervous. Manuel Pellegrini, Málaga's head coach was standing there.
He had come down from his office to watch.
I swallowed hard as Pellegrini walked onto the pitch, stopping right in front of me. His presence was intimidating, but I held my ground.
"You're not Isco,your styles are quite different " he said simply. "But you see things before they happen. That passing…" He shook his head slightly, as if he still couldn't believe it. "I haven't seen vision like that in a while . it's almost like that guy from Germany named Kroos."
I remained silent, my heart still pounding from the game.
Pellegrini studied me for another moment before nodding. "You're quite green kid, but you have something special. You can both create chances and also push forward to attacking mid as well.
I'll be honest with you—you're not walking into the first team immediately. But if you're serious about proving yourself, I'll give you a spot in the reserves. As long as you prove yourself, you'll move to first team."
The words hit like thunder. This was a real chance.
"I won't disappoint you, coach," I said, my voice steady.
Pellegrini smirked. "We'll see about that. Welcome to Málaga CF."
The contract was signed immediately . I got the Jersey number 8 and a 2 year contract with a salary of 2,000 euro weekly. It's the basic amount any new recruit gets as Malaga wasn't a rich club. But I didn't complain, my performance will show how much salary I deserve. And Malaga will be just the start.
As I stepped off the stadium , a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration washed over me.
I went out and found a small place to rent near the training grounds. A humble beginning I guess. The place looked nice and well maintained. As I lied down in the bed, a smile came on my face. I have done it. A contract with a la liga team and a chance to prove myself.
Only future can tell what I will achieve next.