⚽ Chapter 1: The Weight of a Promise (Continued) ⚽

Ronaldo attacked the pile of truck tires with the disciplined intensity of a man attempting a personal best. The rubber was heavy, oily, and awkward, forcing him to engage muscles he hadn’t truly relied upon since his rigorous training days. He adopted a rhythm: lift, pivot, step, drop. Lift, pivot, step, drop.

The first few tires were a shock to his system. His back protested, and the grease stained his palms immediately, digging under his fingernails. He realized quickly that brute strength was not enough; he needed efficiency. He adjusted his stance, using his powerful legs as the primary engine, mimicking the core stability required for a perfect free kick.

García watched for a moment, resting his hands on his substantial belly. “See, Dolores? He moves like he’s trying to win a cup. Not bad for a clean man.”

Dolores leaned against the doorframe, still clutching the wrench. Her gaze was analytical, not admiring. “He’s wasting energy on the rotation. Too much show, not enough direct line. He needs to conserve his movement. This isn’t a performance, Ronaldo! This is logistics.”

Ronaldo grunted as he heaved the fifth tire, the sheer weight pulling his shoulders forward. He caught Dolores’s critique. She was right. He was over-rotating, trying to be too quick when conservation was key. He slowed his pivot, moving only what was necessary to clear the stack.

“Better,” Dolores acknowledged, a curt nod accompanying the assessment. “But you’re still thinking about a crowd. Nobody is applauding this, son. This is just getting the job done.”

The work became a monotonous, painful meditation. Ronaldo’s breath grew ragged, his once-immaculate clothes were now streaked with black grime, and the rough tread of the tires had chafed his arms. He focused on the end goal: the image of Junior’s delighted face, not the snooker table itself, but the comfort and pride it represented.

He lifted the final tire. It felt heavier than all the others combined, a symbolic weight of their entire situation. With a final surge of power, he nudged it into the storage room and leaned against the frame, wiping sweat and grease from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

“Done,” he gasped, his chest heaving.

García whistled softly. “Fifteen tires in ten minutes. I hire people who take half an hour.” He chuckled. “You got the job, Ronaldo. For today, at least. Ten euros an hour, plus lunch. Dolores’s perfect breakfast is now your lunch.”

Dolores walked towards him, her expression softening only slightly. She handed him a greasy rag. “Not bad for a rookie. Now, come inside. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

The interior of the garage was a cavern of noise and shadow, filled with the loud CLANG of metal on metal and the electric whine of power tools. Dolores led him to a small, cluttered break area near a hoist. She set down a metal plate holding two perfectly fried eggs, a slice of fresh bread, and three salted anchovies.

“Eat,” she commanded. “García is a menace, but his coffee is hot and his bread is fresh.”

Ronaldo ate ravenously, the simple, salty food tasting better than any high-end restaurant meal.

“So, the snooker table,” Dolores said, leaning on the counter, observing him. “Why that, specifically? A football is cheaper.”

Ronaldo finished the last of the anchovies. “A football… he already has a desire for that. The snooker table, it was mentioned in a dream. And it represents a promise. That I can provide. That I can still build something better for him.”

Dolores nodded slowly. “Dreams are just subplots, Ronaldo. The action is here, lifting the rubber. But I respect a man who keeps his word to his son.” She paused. “After you eat, I need you to take these brake pads over to Tiago down at the docks. He’s my cousin’s nephew, and a pain, but he pays well for errands. He’s out on the pier by the old fishing boat, The Golden Goal.”

“Tiago,” Ronaldo repeated. “The fisherman Mr. Silva mentioned.”

“The very one,” Dolores confirmed, a sly look in her eye. “He thinks he’s the main character of the sea. Always talking about ‘the plot of the tides.’ Don’t fall for his philosophical nonsense. Just give him the pads and collect the fifteen euros he owes me.” She pushed a small, heavy box toward him. “And tell him I said his latest boat paint job looks like a failed children’s art project.”

Ronaldo stood up, feeling a fresh surge of energy from the food. “Understood. No philosophy. Just payment and a critique of his aesthetic choices.”

Dolores smiled, a rare, genuine flash of warmth. “Good. Go now. The longer you wait, the longer the main plot of your day is delayed.”

Ronaldo took the box, heading back out into the bright sun, his body aching but his pocket slightly heavier, ready for the next unavoidable subplot of his new life.

🎣 Chapter 2: The Plot of the Tides 🎣

The docks smelled of salt, diesel, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh fish. This scent was immediately more tolerable to Ronaldo than the thick, acrid oil fumes of García’s Garage. He walked quickly, the small box of brake pads feeling surprisingly heavy in his hands, a stark reminder of his new, demanding reality.

The waterfront was a tapestry of weathered wood and brightly painted boats. He passed small shops selling bait and nets, and groups of grizzled men mending their lines, their conversations a low, guttural murmur.

He finally located the pier. Docked near the end was a vessel that immediately stood out. It wasn’t large, but it was conspicuously vibrant—painted a lurid, almost neon shade of gold that seemed to fight the natural light. This had to be The Golden Goal. The paint job, indeed, looked like a desperate attempt to stand out, lacking any real artistry.

Ronaldo spotted a man near the stern, meticulously scrubbing the deck with a high-pressure hose. This man was thin and wiry, with skin deeply tanned by years of sun and sea. He wore a patched denim vest over a bright yellow t-shirt. This must be Tiago, the self-proclaimed ‘main character of the sea.’

Ronaldo approached cautiously, stepping around coils of rope and a stack of empty crates. “Excuse me. Are you Tiago?”

Tiago turned off the hose, giving Ronaldo his full attention. His eyes were a startling, clear blue, and he held himself with an exaggerated, theatrical posture. “I am Tiago. But to the sea, I am merely an actor playing the part of the devoted provider. And who, may I ask, are you? Your clothes suggest labor, but your posture speaks of past glory. Which subplot do you represent in the narrative of this pier?”

Ronaldo held up the box of brake pads. “I represent the delivery service. Dolores sent me. These are the brake pads you needed for the old winch. She also asked me to collect the fifteen euros you owe her.”

Tiago accepted the box with a dramatic sigh, cradling it like a fragile relic. “Ah, the props arrive! Dolores, bless her heart. She insists on introducing technical elements into my organic drama. But tell me, what does she say about my Golden Goal? Does she appreciate the bold color choice, the symbolic representation of ambition against the bleak, blue canvas of indifference?”

Ronaldo remembered his secondary instruction. “She said the paint job looks like a failed children’s art project.”

Tiago blinked, but instead of offense, a slow, amused grin spread across his face. “Ah! Dolores! Always the brutally honest critic! That’s excellent! It forces me to lean into the absurdity, doesn’t it? She understands the importance of conflict.” He tossed the box onto a nearby stool. “So, delivery boy. What is your name? You have the look of a man who’s suffered a great, humbling reversal of fortune. A true dramatic beginning.”

“Ronaldo,” he supplied, trying to keep the interaction brief. “And I need the fifteen euros, Tiago.”

Tiago rummaged in the deep pocket of his denim vest, pulling out a crumpled wad of cash and a handful of loose coins. He counted out the exact amount, pressing the notes into Ronaldo’s hand with a knowing look. “Fifteen euros for Dolores. The price of maintaining a difficult relationship.”

He then leaned closer, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “Tell me, Ronaldo. Do you seek more than mere delivery? Do you seek to truly understand the plot of the tides?”

Ronaldo sighed. He was tired, but the money was not enough. “I seek more work, Tiago. I need to earn more today.”

Tiago straightened up, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “A man who desires more! Excellent! I need help. My usual deckhand, Manuel, has contracted a terrible, dramatic flu. I’m going out this afternoon. We need to secure the afternoon catch. It’s difficult, heavy work. The sea provides a cruel twist of fate, but it also provides sustenance. I’ll pay you twenty-five euros for the three hours. Plus a share of the lesser fish.”

Ronaldo looked out at the water. It was calm now, but he knew the sea’s reputation. It was a massive, untamed playing field. “I’ll take it,” he said.

“Good!” Tiago clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture surprisingly strong. “But listen, Ronaldo. The sea is not the garage. She is not governed by logic or mechanics. She responds to respect. No arrogance here. If you show off, she’ll capsize your tiny little subplot.”

“I understand,” Ronaldo said, nodding. He had learned his lesson about ‘show’ from Dolores earlier.

“Good. Now, we need bait. Fresh squid. Head over to Mrs. Elena’s stall, the one with the purple awning. Tell her Tiago sent you for the ‘star’s selection.’ And don’t let her talk your ear off about her grandson, Paco. He’s another one who thinks he’s the protagonist of his own life story, just delivering newspapers.”

Ronaldo tucked the money securely into his pocket. “Mrs. Elena. Purple awning. Star’s selection. Avoid Paco talk. Got it.”

Tiago beamed. “Excellent focus! You’re learning the environment quickly. Now go! We sail in an hour! The plot thickens!”

Ronaldo turned and headed down the pier, already feeling the ache of the morning’s labor, but anticipating the different kind of physical challenge the sea would present. He had a few more characters to meet and more euros to earn before he could go home to Junior.

🌟 Final Chapter: The Trophy of the Everyman 🌟

The promise had been fulfilled. Not with the snap of a wallet, but with the grind of labor.

Ronaldo stood on the deck of his new boat, its hull painted a simple, practical blue—no gold, no flash, just sturdy marine paint. The air smelled of salt and the satisfying, clean scent of new wood. The boat was small, perfectly sized for coastal fishing, and it was his.

Beside him, Junior was bouncing on the balls of his feet, clutching a brand-new, regulation-size football. Not the cheap, plastic kind, but one that felt perfect in his small hands. Messi stood a few feet away, leaning against the rail, watching the boy. Messi was wearing simple clothes now too, his once pristine white shirt slightly wrinkled.

“You know, Ronaldo,” Messi said, without looking up. “I had it all. The views. The cars. The snooker table. Even the house.” He kicked idly at a loose rope. “But when I saw you, day after day, working on the docks, fixing cars, sweating for that one ball… that one house…”

He finally looked at Ronaldo, his eyes clear and genuinely humbled. “I had it all, but I forgot what truly matters. I forgot the hustle.”

Ronaldo watched Junior happily trying to dribble on the uneven deck. “The hustle never stops, Messi. It just changes its goal.”

“Exactly,” Messi agreed. “The yacht. The views. Those were just distractions. They were the easy path. But you, you took the hard path. You built this life from the ground up, not for the world to see, but for him.” He nodded towards Junior. “And that’s a bigger trophy than any Ballon d’Or.”

Ronaldo smiled, the sun catching the tired lines around his eyes. “It feels heavy, but not as heavy as the promise I made.”

Antonella Roccuzzo approached them, her arm linked gently through Messi’s. She was wearing a simple sundress and seemed completely at peace. The nightmare, the betrayal, was finally extinguished.

“We owe you so much, Ronaldo,” Antonella said softly. “You showed Leo what he had lost. That true wealth isn’t about what you possess, but what you are willing to fight for, honestly.”

“We’re a team now,” Ronaldo replied, shrugging. “Two fathers trying to teach their sons the value of work.”

Just then, García and Dolores pulled up to the dock in their truck, followed closely by Mr. Silva and Tiago, who had a bouquet of brightly colored plastic flowers under his arm.

“Ronaldo! Look at the boat!” Dolores boomed, stepping out. “A fine vessel! Excellent proportions! A perfect ‘secondary character’ to the plot of your new life!”

“Needs a bit more gold, though, for the dramatic flair,” Tiago muttered, handing the plastic flowers to Antonella. “Consider these a subtle, theatrical offering.”

Mr. Silva adjusted his perpetually flat hair. “See, Messi? Real hard work. Not just getting lucky with views. It’s about the steady narrative, the daily grind, the subtle world-building of a good life.”

García just grinned. “He paid his debts and learned how to change a tire without showing off. Good man.”

Junior’s football suddenly rolled off the deck and into the water with a quiet splash. The boy’s face crumpled immediately.

“Don’t cry, my boy,” Ronaldo said, calmly. He glanced at Messi. “We have a plan.”

Messi stepped forward, his eyes suddenly focused. “We’re going to build a better future. A future where a lost ball is just a temporary setback.”

Ronaldo grinned. “We’re going to build a car, son. A better car. One that no one can scold you for touching.”

The two rivals, the two legends, looked at each other, not as competitors, but as partners in a new, shared ambition. The rivalry was dead. The collaboration for their children had begun.

The final scene wasn’t a pitch, a yacht, or a mansion. It was two fathers, standing on a simple fishing boat, surrounded by eccentric friends, with the humble, endless promise of work ahead of them. The real game had just begun.