CHAPTER 35: DIAMOND MADE OF GLASS

The "Honorable Defeat" at Old Trafford had done something magical to the club.

When Michael arrived at the training ground the next day, the entire atmosphere had changed.

The "Lucky Punk" headline and his father’s cold text message didn’t matter. What mattered was the vibe.

It was electric.

The players, who had just been through a physical and emotional wringer, were training with an intensity Michael had never seen.

There was no post-defeat hangover, no moping. There was just a sharp, focused energy. They had tasted what it was like to play on the big stage, and they were desperate for more.

Even Finn Riley, the wild fox, was tracking back in drills.

Even Jamie Weston, the new hero, was practicing his defensive positioning.

Arthur’s philosophy, baptized in the fire of Old Trafford, had been forged into an unbreakable belief.

Into this cauldron of new, hardened professionalism, walked Raphael Santos.

Michael had gone to meet him at the small flat the club had rented for him. The kid was 17, rail-thin, and looked even younger.

He had big, soulful, slightly terrified brown eyes and a mop of messy black curls. He clutched a small, worn-out backpack and spoke about three words of English:

"Hello," "Okay," and "Thank you."

He was a [CA 48 / PA 93] ghost, a secret superstar who looked like he had never seen a weight room in his life.

Michael brought him to the training ground, and the contrast was almost comical. The senior players, battle-hardened and brimming with new confidence, were just coming in from a gym session.

They looked at the new arrival—this small, shy, skinny boy—with a profound, skeptical confusion.

"Morning, Boss," Captain Dave Bishop said, nodding to Michael before his gaze fell on Raphael. His expression softened from a captain to a concerned uncle.

"Is this the new lad, then? He looks like he could do with a good meal."

"He’s the one, Cap," Michael said, putting a reassuring hand on Raphael’s shoulder. "He’s here to train."

"Train?" the captain said, looking baffled. He clearly thought this was someone’s little brother who had won a competition.

The skepticism was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Michael caught Arthur’s eye across the pitch. The manager gave a small, resigned sigh and motioned them over.

"Right," Arthur said, his voice practical.

"He’s here. Let’s see what he’s got." He looked at Raphael and pointed to his boots, then to the pitch. "Football. Okay?"

"Okay," Raphael whispered, his eyes wide as he took in the full-size professionals around him.

Arthur decided to slot him into a light possession drill, a ’rondo’—eight players in a circle, two in the middle trying to win the ball back. It was the most basic, fundamental drill in football. It was just to see his touch, to see if he could even hang.

The circle was made up of senior players, including the captain, Dave Bishop, and a tough-tackling midfielder named "Nails" Johnson. They were all business. Raphael, in a borrowed, comically oversized training bib, was put in the circle.

The drill kicked off. The ball zipped around, crisp and fast.

It came to Raphael.

He controlled it with a touch so soft it looked like the ball was landing on a pillow. He played a simple, one-touch pass, perfectly weighted. So far, so good.

Then it was his turn to go in the middle, alongside Nails.

The ball was passed. Nails charged in, all aggression. Raphael glided. The ball came to Dave Bishop. The captain was a kind man, but he was also a professional.

He saw the kid coming and decided to just "ease him off the ball," to shield it with his body, a gentle ’welcome to England’ nudge.

Raphael, with his [CA 48] body, had zero strength to fight back. He didn’t even try.

As Bishop turned to shield the ball, Raphael, with a slick, almost invisible little touch, simply tapped the ball between the captain’s opening legs. A perfect nutmeg. He giggled, a small, high-pitched sound, and raced away with the ball.

The drill stopped. The other players stared, their mouths open. Dave Bishop just stood there, looking down at his own legs in absolute, profound disbelief.

"Alright, alright, get on with it!" Arthur called out, though Michael could see a flicker of shock on his gaffer’s face.

The drill restarted, but the vibe had changed. The players were no longer skeptical. They were intrigued. And one of them was angry.

Nails Johnson, the tough-tackling midfielder, did not like being made to look silly, especially not by a 17-year-old who looked like a strong wind would break him.

The ball was passed to Raphael again. This time, Nails flew in. It was not a "welcome" nudge. It was a hard, nasty, ankle-high tackle, designed to put the kid in his place.

Michael’s heart leaped into his throat.

He’s going to snap him!

The tackle came in, aimed at the kid’s standing leg. Raphael, who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, didn’t jump.

He just... spun. In a move that defied physics and anatomy, he absorbed the impact of the tackle with a ridiculous, balletic spin-move, rolling his foot over the top of the ball, letting the defender’s momentum carry him past. He emerged on the other side with the ball still glued to his foot, leaving Nails Johnson angrily embedded in the turf where he had been.

The entire training ground went silent.

For the next five minutes, it was no longer a drill. It was a magic show.

Raphael Santos just... danced.

He wasn’t fast like Jamie. He wasn’t powerful like Finn. He was just... impossible.

The ball was a part of his body. He slalomed around players as if they were training cones, his supernatural ball control and agility something out of a video game.

Even Danny Fletcher [PA 91], the club’s resident genius, stopped dead in the middle of his own drill, his jaw slack, just to stare in awe. It was a genius watching a magician.

Arthur blew his whistle, a long, shrill blast, ending the drill instantly.

The players were still shook, staring at the small Brazilian boy who was now breathing heavily, looking shyly at his boots as if he had done something wrong.

Arthur walked over, his face a mask. He pulled Michael aside, out of earshot of the players. He looked pale.

"Jesus, Michael," he whispered, his voice low and urgent.

"He’s... he’s a diamond. He’s more than a diamond. He’s the whole bloody mine."

He grabbed Michael by the arm, his grip tight, his eyes wide with a new, terrifying problem.

"But he’s made of glass," he hissed.

"Did you see that tackle from Nails? He almost snapped him in half! He’s a priceless, fragile masterpiece. He cannot play a league game. He can’t even play in the reserves. They will murder him. They will break him. We’ve just bought a Ferrari, and we have to keep it in the garage under a tarp for a year."