The echoes of cheers from Lucas's last triumph had barely faded before reality came crashing down like a cruel wave. Just one week after his breathtaking return against Villarreal, fate conspired to place Sevilla back on the same battlefield—only this time, the stakes were bloodier, and the pressure suffocating.
The rematch was a crucial league encounter, with Sevilla's future teetering on a blade's edge. Lucas tried to suppress the dread rising in his chest, the kind that curled around his ribs and whispered fears he dared not name. Their win had been a spark of hope, but hope was a fragile thing—and football, an unforgiving master.
As match day approached, the city of Seville buzzed with nervous anticipation. Headlines screamed tension, fans whispered prayers. In the locker room, silence replaced laughter. Each player bore the burden of expectation like a yoke. Lucas sat alone, headphones in, staring at his boots as if they held answers. They didn't.
When the whistle blew, Villarreal exploded into action like a beast awakened. From the first minute, they played not for points—but for revenge. Every tackle bit. Every pass sliced through Sevilla's defenses. Lucas, marked tightly, felt the noose tighten with every breath.
Then came the first crack—one careless misstep by a defender, and Villarreal capitalized with a cold, clinical strike. The stadium deflated. The scoreboard read 0–1, but it felt like more. The rhythm of Sevilla's play fractured. Confidence bled from them like water through cupped hands.
But hope briefly flickered near the end of the first half. En-Nesyri threaded a perfect pass to Lucas, who slipped past his marker like poetry in motion. One-on-one with the keeper. A moment suspended in time.
He shot.
And missed.
The ball soared over the crossbar, into the void, into the silence of disbelief. The crowd groaned as one, a symphony of shattered hopes. Lucas stood frozen, eyes wide, heart sinking into his boots. That one moment—that single second—echoed louder than any cheer he had ever heard.
In the second half, Villarreal came to kill the game. Two more goals followed, swift and merciless. Sevilla crumbled. Lucas danced past defenders, desperate to make amends, but every touch, every shot, lacked bite. Confidence had left him. Doubt had replaced it.
When the final whistle came, it wasn't a signal—it was a funeral bell.
3–0.
Sixteenth place.
So close to relegation you could smell its breath.
In the locker room, silence clung to the walls like a heavy fog. The coach's words, though well-meant, barely registered. Lucas sat motionless, sweat drying on his brow, the missed chances playing on a cruel loop in his mind.
That night, in his apartment, the loneliness was louder than ever. The lights were dim. The air, still. He didn't turn on the TV. He didn't want to hear the pundits dissect him like a specimen.
His phone buzzed.
"Lucas, I know you're hurting," his father João's voice came, warm but strained. "But listen to me—this doesn't define you. We're proud of you. Always."
Then Maria, his mother, joined in. "Every legend has scars, son. These are yours. Wear them with pride."
And finally Sofia. "Lucas," she said softly, "you're still my hero. This pain? It'll pass. What won't pass is your heart. Your fight. I believe in you."
Their words were a balm to his bleeding spirit—but even so, the ache lingered. Later, Carlos's call came.
"You forgot something important out there," he said.
"What?" Lucas murmured.
"The joy," Carlos answered. "You've been playing not to fail. That's not you. You play with love. Find that again, and the game will love you back."
Lucas didn't sleep much that night.
The next morning, he was the first to arrive at training. Alone, under the grey dawn sky, he struck ball after ball into the net. Over and over. Left foot. Right foot. Near post. Far corner. Until sweat poured down his back and the ache in his legs dulled the ache in his heart.
The following weeks were unforgiving. Benched. Substituted. Invisible in games that needed fire. The table didn't lie—Sevilla was in freefall.
Then came the match against Celta Vigo. Another do-or-die moment. Another grim page in their crumbling season.
Lucas sat on the bench, wrapped in a jacket, fingers clenched tight. By halftime, they were 0–2 down. Fans booed. Players argued. Coaches paced like trapped animals.
In the 80th minute, the coach turned. His eyes locked on Lucas. "Get in. Save us if you can."
Lucas didn't hesitate. He stripped off his jacket and sprinted down the touchline.
Minutes later, with the world watching, he received a pass just outside the box. One sharp turn. One drop of the shoulder. Two defenders left grasping at air.
Then—release.
The ball curled into the top corner like destiny had painted it there.
The roar of the stadium lifted the sky.
Lucas didn't celebrate. He grabbed the ball, ran back to the center circle, and shouted, "Again!"
In the 89th minute, a corner. Lucas rose like a phoenix, his header saved—but he didn't stop. He pounced on the rebound like a lion, smashing it into the net.
3–2.
A heartbeat away from a miracle.
But miracles are cruel.
The clock ran out. The whistle blew.
No equalizer.
No points.
Just heartbreak.
In the locker room, the coach tried to console. "We fought. But fighting at the end isn't enough. We need to rise earlier."
Lucas nodded. But inside, a storm brewed.
That night, as he stared out his apartment window, he whispered to the stars, "I won't let this be the end. I've come too far."
His phone buzzed once more.
Carlos.
"I am proud of you, Lucas. You are the genius i know in football. You have the world at your feet. Hold your head high and keep pushing. The world is at your feet to loose it—and never forget to love the game."
Lucas brushed as his face tweaked with a humbling smile. Not because he was content—but because he wasn't done.