From Reject to Legend

The fire in my chest burned brighter than ever as I boarded the plane to Spain, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The little savings Adriano had left were enough for a one-way ticket to Málaga, a coastal city known for its vibrant football culture and the rising star of Málaga CF.

My parents had been reluctant to let me go so soon after everything that had happened, but I had reassured them with a confidence I didn't fully feel. If I was going to prove myself, I had to start now. There was no time to waste.

As the plane touched down in Málaga, the warm Mediterranean air filled my lungs, carrying with it the scent of salt and the promise of new beginnings. The city was alive with energy, its streets bustling with people and its beaches glistening under the sun. But I wasn't here for the scenery. I was here for football.

Before heading to Málaga CF, I had tried reaching out to other La Liga teams, hoping to secure a trial. My first stop was Sevilla FC, a club with a rich history and a reputation for nurturing young talent. I arrived at their training facility early in the morning, my heart racing as I approached the gates. The security guard eyed me skeptically as I explained my situation.

"I'm Adriano Riveiro. I played at La Masia before my injury. I've recovered, and I want a chance to prove myself," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

The guard shook his head. "No open trials today, kid. You need an invitation or an agent to get in."

I felt a pang of disappointment but refused to give up. "Please, just let me talk to someone. I can show you what I can do."

He sighed and picked up the phone, speaking briefly to someone on the other end. After a moment, he hung up and looked at me with a sympathetic expression. "Sorry, kid. They're not interested. The youth squad is full, and they don't entertain walk-ins."

I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling inside me. Football was ruthless, and no one cared about past injuries or stories of redemption. All that mattered was performance. But I wasn't here to give up. I had one last shot—Málaga CF.

As I made my way to Málaga's training facility, I couldn't help but think about the broader landscape of La Liga. The 2013-14 season was shaping up to be an exciting one, with several teams vying for dominance.

FC Barcelona was still the team to beat, led by the incomparable Lionel Messi. Under the guidance of Tata Martino, they were playing a more direct style of football, but their tiki-taka roots were still evident. They were the reigning champions, and everyone was gunning for them.

Real Madrid, on the other hand, was in a transitional phase. Carlo Ancelotti had taken over as manager, and the team was adjusting to his tactics. With stars like Cristiano Ronaldo, Gareth Bale, and Luka Modrić, they were a formidable force, but consistency had been an issue.

Atlético Madrid, under the brilliant Diego Simeone, was the dark horse of the league. Simeone had transformed the team into a defensive powerhouse, with players like Diego Costa and Koke leading the charge. They were proving that they could compete with the giants of Spanish football.

Valencia CF and Villarreal CF were also strong contenders, with talented squads and ambitious managers. Valencia, in particular, was looking to reclaim its place among the elite, while Villarreal was focused on building a team that could challenge for European spots.

And then there was Málaga CF. The team had been impressive in recent seasons, even making waves in the La liga top ranks under Manuel Pellegrini. But this season, their star midfielder, Isco, was heavily rumored to be moving to Real Madrid. That meant they were looking for talent. That meant I had a shot.

I arrived at Málaga's training facility early in the morning, blending in with the hopefuls trying out for the academy and reserve team. I had no official invitation, no agent backing me, and no impressive CV to boast. Just a seventeen-year-old kid desperate to play.

I approached a club staff member, an older man with a clipboard, and tried to plead my case. "Excuse me, sir. I'm Adriano Riveiro. I played at La Masia before my injury. I've recovered, and I want a chance to prove myself."

He barely looked at me. "No open trials today, kid."

"But—"

"Listen, if you're not on this list, you're wasting your time."

I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling inside. Was I really going to get shut out just like that?

Then, just as I was about to turn away in disappointment, I heard whispers among the coaching staff. "Did you hear? Isco's transfer is almost confirmed. We need another creative midfielder."

That was my moment. I had to force them to see me. "I can replace Isco," I said, loud enough for them to hear.

The older man with the clipboard scoffed. "What did you say?"

"I said," I stepped forward, confidence in my voice, "I can replace Isco. Give me ten minutes on the pitch, and if I don't impress you, I'll leave."

The staff exchanged looks. A younger coach, one with sharp features and an intense gaze, studied me more carefully. He turned to the older man. "Let him play, Luis. What's the harm?"

Luis sighed and waved me toward the field. "Fine. Ten minutes. If you waste our time, you're out."

Relief flooded me, but I knew this was just the beginning.

I jogged onto the pitch, joining a group of trialists and youth players in a five-a-side match. The instant my boots touched the ball, something inside me clicked. The fusion of Toni Kroos and Pavel Nedvěd's skills was fully active. It was as if I had been playing at an elite level my whole life.

The game started fast, the opposing team pressing high, trying to suffocate us before we could settle. A midfielder from my team received the ball and immediately had two defenders closing in on him. He panicked, tried to dribble out, and lost possession. A quick pass later, the opposing forward rifled a shot into the bottom corner of the net.

1-0. Not the best start.

As the game restarted, I positioned myself in midfield, my body feeling unnaturally light. The ball came rolling toward me. My first touch was immaculate, cushioning it perfectly as I scanned the field in an instant. Years of instincts honed from Kroos' tactical awareness and Nedvěd's attacking sharpness allowed me to see the entire game unfold before it even happened.

A defender lunged at me, but I reacted without thinking, shifting my weight and rolling the ball between his legs before accelerating past him. Gasps erupted from the sideline.

I had space now. Another opponent rushed at me, trying to cut off my options, but I already knew what to do. I shaped my body as if to pass to my left, causing him to bite on the fake. The moment his balance shifted, I used the outside of my boot to flick the ball to the right, threading it perfectly through a narrow gap.

My teammate received the pass in stride, wide-eyed at the precision. "¡Joder, qué pase!" he muttered under his breath before sprinting forward.

I didn't stop moving. As soon as I made the pass, I darted into the open space behind the midfield line, demanding the return ball with a quick wave of my hand. The defender marking me was too slow to react.

The ball came back to me, and just as I controlled it, I spotted our forward making a run toward goal. The defenders were out of position, caught between pressing me and tracking his movement.

This was my chance to show them something special.

With a quick glance at the goalkeeper's position, I took a step forward and sent a no-look through ball between the defenders. The pass was hit with laser-guided precision, curling just beyond their reach and landing perfectly at my teammate's feet. He didn't even have to break stride.

He took one touch and buried the ball into the top corner.

1-1.

The coaches erupted into murmurs, but I didn't have time to process it. The game had restarted, and I was already positioning myself again, my mind calculating the next move before the ball even came.

Another attack started from the back, but this time, I dictated the tempo. I moved with the confidence of a seasoned playmaker, dropping deep to collect the ball, distributing it with quick, precise passes, controlling the rhythm. The opposing team couldn't keep up. Every time they tried to press, I found an escape route. Every time they tried to block a passing lane, I created a new one.

Then came the final moment.

The game was nearing the ten-minute mark, and I wanted to end it with a statement. I intercepted a sloppy pass from the opposing midfielder and immediately surged forward. A defender closed in, but I had Nedvěd's relentless drive in me. I knocked the ball past him, using my strength and balance to hold him off before cutting inside toward the penalty box.

Another defender rushed at me, but he was too late. I planted my left foot and struck the ball with my right.

The shot rocketed toward the top corner with vicious swerve and power. The goalkeeper barely moved before the net rippled.

2-1.

Silence.

Then, a slow clap.

I turned my head to see a tall, composed figure standing at the sideline. His sharp eyes studied me with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine. Manuel Pellegrini. Málaga's head coach.

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.