He knew he shouldn't read them. He knew they were meaningless, the bitter words of small, jealous people. But they stung nonetheless. He put the phone down and stared at the ceiling, the doubts creeping in like shadows in the night. Had he been selfish? Should he have passed? Was he really good enough for this level?

The System, sensing his distress, flickered to life.

Emotional State: Negative.

Confidence Levels: Declining.

Recommendation: Engage positive reinforcement protocols.

Review performance highlights. Focus on achievements, not setbacks.

But he dismissed it with a thought. He didn't want algorithms and data. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand why football, the thing he loved most in the world, could be so beautiful and so cruel at the same time.

Later that morning, Don Carlos arrived. The old man, his mentor, his surrogate father, walked into the room with the quiet dignity that was his trademark. He didn't offer empty platitudes or false hope. He simply sat down, his weathered hands folded in his lap, and waited.

Finally, Mateo signed, his hands moving with a weary precision. "Why does it hurt so much? We lost before. But this... this is different."

Don Carlos nodded, his wise old eyes filled with understanding. "Because you gave everything," he signed back. "When you hold nothing back, when you pour your entire soul into something, the pain of failure is proportional to the depth of your commitment. You are not hurting because you failed. You are hurting because you cared so deeply."

"But we were so close. One more goal. One more moment."

"And that is the beauty and the tragedy of football," Don Carlos sighed. "It is a game of millimeters, of seconds, of moments. And sometimes, those moments go against you. But the fact that you came so close, that you pushed Real Madrid, the kings of Europe, to the very brink, that is not a failure. That is a triumph."

"It doesn't feel like a triumph."

"Not now. But it will. In time, you will look back on this night not with regret, but with pride. You will remember the two goals, the heroic performance, the way you inspired your teammates and your fans. And you will use this pain, this disappointment, as fuel. You will come back stronger. Because that is what champions do."

The old man's words were a balm to his wounded spirit. Don Carlos had a way of cutting through the noise, of finding the truth in the chaos. He was right. The pain was proof of how much he cared, how deeply he was invested in the dream. And that was not a weakness. That was his greatest strength.

Over the next few days, the visitors came in a steady stream. Lukas, his roommate and best friend, brought him homework and gossip from school, a reminder that there was a world beyond football.

Sarah, his translator and friend, brought him books and movies, her infectious optimism a welcome distraction from the gloom. The Casa de los Niños kids sent him a giant card, covered in drawings and messages of support, their innocent love a powerful reminder of why he played the game in the first place.

And through it all, Isabella was there. She cooked for him, she read to him, she sat with him in comfortable silence. She was his anchor, his light in the darkness. And slowly, imperceptibly, the darkness began to lift.

On the evening of the Hoffenheim match, as he watched his teammates celebrate their hard-fought victory, something shifted inside him.

The helplessness, the frustration, the self-pity, it all began to fade, replaced by a quiet, burning determination. He was not done. The season was not over. And he would be back. Stronger, wiser, and more determined than ever before. The injury had been a setback. But it would not be the end of his story. It would be the beginning of the next chapter.

The physiotherapy sessions were brutal. The club's medical staff, led by the no-nonsense Dr. Müller, pushed him to his limits, testing the boundaries of his pain tolerance, working to restore the strength and flexibility to his damaged ankle. Every stretch, every exercise, every movement was a small victory in the war against his injury.

But the physical recovery was only half the battle. The mental scars ran deeper, and they would take longer to heal. He found himself replaying the final moments of the Real Madrid match obsessively, analyzing every decision, every movement, every touch. What if he had passed to Reus instead of going it alone? What if he had seen Ramos coming? What if, what if, what if.

Isabella, sensing his turmoil, finally confronted him one evening as they sat together in his dorm room. She took his hands in hers, her eyes locked with his, and said with a fierce intensity. "Stop torturing yourself. You did everything you could. You were magnificent. And I am so, so proud of you."

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "But it wasn't enough."

"It was enough," she says back, her hands moving with an emphatic force. "You gave everything. You left nothing on the pitch. And that is all anyone can ever ask. The result doesn't change what you did. It doesn't change who you are. You are Mateo Alvarez. You are a fighter. You are a champion. And you are the man I love. Don't let this defeat define you. Let it refine you."

Her words, so simple yet so powerful, broke through the wall he had built around his heart. The tears came again, but this time they were not tears of despair. They were tears of release, of acceptance, of gratitude for the woman who loved him unconditionally, who saw him not as a superstar or a prodigy, but as a human being with flaws and fears and dreams.

He pulled her close, holding her tight, and for the first time since the injury, he felt a glimmer of hope. The road ahead would be long and difficult. But he would not walk it alone. And that made all the difference.

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