Before Dawn

The grass is wet at 5 AM.

Mist hangs low over the pitch, turning the stadium lights into halos. The air tastes like dew and possibility, like it did back when I believed in both.

I start with drills. Ball at my feet, weaving through cones I set up myself. The groundskeeper stopped asking why I arrive three hours before anyone else. He just leaves the equipment shed unlocked now.

Touch. Touch. Turn. Accelerate.

My body remembers what my mind tried to forget. Three years since I played at the highest level. Three years since my face was on jerseys instead of tabloid covers. Three years since everyone I trusted looked at me like a stranger.

The ball hits the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

Another.

Another.

I retrieve them all, line them up, start again. The repetition is the point. Do it enough times, and you don't have to think. Don't have to remember. Don't have to feel.

"You always start this early?"

The voice comes from the stands. Female. Professional. I don't turn around.

"Yes."

"Every day?"

"Yes."

Silence. I can feel her watching me. Studying. That's what they do, the media consultants, the image specialists, the people paid to make me palatable again.

I keep shooting. Let her watch. There's nothing here she hasn't already seen in whatever file they gave her.

The disgraced footballer. The fallen star. The cautionary tale they use to scare rookies about the dangers of fame.

"I'm Daniela Reyes," she says. "The club hired me to..."

"I know why you're here."

"Then you know we should talk."

I finally turn. She's standing in the first row of seats, dressed like she's about to walk into a boardroom. Sharp blazer, careful posture, notebook in hand. Pretty, in the way that women who deal with difficult men learn to be, polished, unthreatening, designed to disarm.

"I don't need image help."

"The club disagrees."

"The club needs a striker who can score. That's what I do."

She doesn't flinch. Most people do, when I go cold. She just tilts her head slightly, like I've confirmed something she suspected.

"You scored 47 goals in one season," she says. "Ballon d'Or shortlist at 27. National team captain. Then nothing for three years." She pauses. "That's quite a story."

"That's not the story anyone remembers."

"No. They remember the photos. The parties. The allegations." She takes a step down, closer to the pitch. "I've read the coverage. All of it."

"Then you know there's nothing to rehabilitate."

"I know what the press says. I don't know what's true."

Something flickers in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or its ghost.

I kill it quickly.

"It doesn't matter what's true. It matters what people believe. You should know that better than anyone."

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods slowly.

"Maybe. But I've found that the truth has a way of mattering eventually." She pulls out a card, sets it on the railing. "I'll be at the café on Calle Mayor at eight. If you want to talk."

"I don't."

"The invitation stands anyway."

She turns and walks up the stairs, disappearing into the pre-dawn darkness.

I go back to shooting.

Touch. Touch. Turn. Accelerate.

The net absorbs goal after goal.

I don't go to the café.

By the time the rest of the squad arrives at 8, I've run twelve kilometers and practiced free kicks until my foot aches. Coach Martinez gives me the same look he always does, half concern, half admiration.

"You know there's such a thing as overtraining."

"You know I've heard that before."

He claps me on the shoulder. The gesture is awkward, no one touches me much anymore. Contact feels foreign, like a language I used to speak.

"The PR woman found you?"

"She found me."

"And?"

"And I told her I don't need image help."

Martinez sighs. "Javi, the board is breathing down my neck. Sponsors are skittish. The league is watching every move we make."

"Because of me."

"Because of the championship run. We're one spot from promotion. Every article about our 'controversial signing' takes attention away from the football."

I tie my boots. The left one is worn at the heel, I should get new ones, but these are lucky. Were lucky, once. Maybe they still are.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to her. One meeting. If you hate it, I'll find another solution."

I look up at him. Martinez took a chance on me when no one else would. Signed me for a second-division club when I'd been playing pickup games just to stay sharp. He didn't ask about the scandal. Didn't mention the photos. Just said: "I remember watching you play. That player is still in there."

I owe him.

"One meeting."

"That's all I ask."

The squad filters onto the pitch. A few of them nod at me. Most don't. I'm the ghost at the table, present but not quite real. That's fine. I don't need friends.

I just need to play.

That night, I sit in my apartment and stare at the card Daniela left.

Simple design. Her name, a phone number, an email. Below that, three words: Image. Strategy. Truth.

Truth.

She said the truth matters eventually.

I want to believe that. God, I want to believe that.

But I stopped believing three years ago, when I held a press conference with evidence of the photos being manipulated and watched the reporters smirk. When my agent dropped me within the hour. When my fiancée moved out while I was still explaining.

The truth doesn't matter when the lie is better entertainment.

I put the card in my drawer.

Then I set my alarm for 4:30 and try to sleep.