Success Will Be Waiting

My alarm went off at 6:00 AM. I groaned as I got out of bed. I was always late for training, but I needed to start to atleast get to the training pitch on time at 6:00 AM. I quickly put my FCBarcelona women's U16 youth team training uniform on and put my shoes on. I gave my Neymar Jr. poster a glance before I left. Neymar was and will always be my idol. I ran out of my house and to the nearest bus stop. I wish I had my parents to drop me off at practice all the time instead of wasting money on public transportation. I know I'm only 16, but I live on my own. Once I got scouted by FCBarcelona women's U16 youth team back in Canada (my home country) 3 months ago, I moved all the way to Spain and left my old life back at Canada as I was promised to have a successful future here in Spain, but I'm starting to lose patience as nothing has happened since I started playing for Barcelona. The bus finally came as it snapped me out of my thoughts. I got on before anyone else at the bus stop could've gotten on as if it'll get me to training faster. I arrived 5 minutes late. My coach was going to kill me. But atleast this time I tried to get to training on time, as I was careless every other day that I had training. I quickly threw my training bag onto the bench and sprinted towards the pitch into the small crowd of my teammates that were doing stretches. I tried to act as if I was here 5 minutes ago, but my coach was having none of it. She approached me with a furious look in her eyes. I smiled nervously. The rest of my teammates stopped what they were doing to watch what they thought was going to happen. My teammates hated me. I always believed because it was better then them. I assume that because they want me to get kicked off of the team just as badly as they want to be a professional soccer player. "If you aren't going to be on time at training, you might aswell just not come." She said calmly. "You aren't going to yell at me?" I asked as if I wanted her to yell at me. She shook her head lightly. "Get off the pitch and go home. You're worthless right now." She said as she was referring to my horrible performance during games lately. I gave her a disgusted look. "Without me, this team is nothing." I whispered quietly enough just for her to hear. She knew exactly what I was talking about. I am the hero of this team and without me, this youth team would always be at the bottom of the league. I am the top scorer of the whole league and it's not very arguable that I'm the best in the league also. But, I am not the cocky type. I never brag about it or mention it. The only way people find out and know this is by the statistics. I stormed off of the field and took my bag angrily. I decided I'll probably walk home.

I wasn't very known in Spain, nor Barcelona. I wasn't known in Canada either. But I've grown to believe that I'm a satisfied, strong person that was born with true talent for football, as what many people have told me since I started playing when I was around 7 years old. People have filled my mind with so many complements, that I'm starting to believe them. Which I don't want to. I am glad I have my coach though. No matter how much I think she hates me, or how tough she is to me and doesn't treat me fairly, I appreciate it. It gives me a grind to work harder and to impress her. I appreciate every insult and all the feedback I get from her, so that I'll work harder and that I would live up to her expectations, my own expectations and the worlds expectations to what a complete footballer truly is. My feet started to ache as I've been walking for around an hour, and I have half an hour to go until I get to my house. It started to rain. I cursed under my breathe. A white car that I recognized as a Audi R8 Spyder stopped beside the sidewalk of where I was walking. The person that was driving the car, rolled down their car's window. "You a barca fan?" He said as he noticed my uniform. I felt like I knew him, like I've seen him, but I just couldn't recognize him. "I play for Barcelona's U16 youth team." I said slowly. "Do you need a ride home?" He asked. I froze before I could make a decision I might regret. Could I trust this man to take me home? No one stops you to take you home, unless it's for other strange purposes. "Yes" I said hesitantly. I opened the front door of the car and sat down beside him. "So, you play for Barcelona's youth team?" He asked. "Yeah." I said wondering why he keeps on asking. "What's your name?" he asked in a harsh voice as if he's trying to get me to recognize him, but I didn't get the opportunity to stare at him long enough. I stayed silent for a few moments. I decided maybe I should act like I didn't hear his question. "Turn into that corner, please" I said as he followed the directions I was pointing out to him to get to my house. There. I finally recognized him. "Are you Neymar?" I said as I started to shake. Suddenly I felt shivers running down my back and butterflies in my stomach. I was about the throw up. But all he did was smile, and before he could've responded, we arrived at my house. "Um- thank you so much for the ride home." I said and got out of the car. I watched him leave.