Striker of The Gods

Mid-season, the numbers had already become scripture that we saw in their eyes burning for more.

Caos stood at 312 goals by Christmas that we could have fun with. It was like baking a cake for mon when sick. The Bernabéu no longer cheered, nor did it worshipp. New tricks poured from him like violet scripture no defender could read in time, but something marvelous:

The Bloodline Phantom  a no-look roulette that made the ball vanish behind his standing leg, reappear on the opposite foot mid-spin, and rocket into the top corner as if the net itself had opened a vein to make it real or cheap…

The Succession Helix  a 180° aerial croqueta where he wrapped the ball around his body in mid-air that we could actually dream of, then unleashed a dipping knuckleball that bent against wind, gravity, and every tactical briefing ever written. That did not mean anything at all. The more you could shape it, the more you could shake it.

He was twenty-one. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Uncreative.

Until the night the past finally caught up and refused to stay buried within the eyes of what could happen.

It happened in the private boardroom at Valdebebas after a 9–0 thrashing of Barcelona in the Supercopa final. Something was off. This was not enough for Caos. This could actually shake it in the most spectacular way.Florentino Pérez had summoned him alone. The long mahogany table gleamed under low lights. On it lay a single unmarked folder.

Florentino’s voice was quieter than Caos had ever heard it. Slightly thinking that this could change his life. This is nothing in comparison what it could be.

Florentino:

Before you open this, understand something, Daniel.Pick the day. Enjoy it - to the hilt. The day as it comes. People as they come... The past, I think, has helped me appreciate the present, and I don’t want to spoil any of it by fretting about the future that we can actually witness, companero.  Some truths are sharper than any goal you will ever score.

Caos flipped the folder open.

Inside were photographs. Old ones. A young man in a Real Madrid youth kit from the late 90s same jawline, same violet-flecked eyes, same hunger that could change the world. The name typed beneath the images made the room tilt to become real and stricking:

Rafael “El Fantasma” Caos disgraced former youth striker, expelled from La Fábrica in 1998 after a match-fixing scandal that nearly destroyed the academy.This means that this expelling should have meant something beyond comprehension. The man who had vanished the same month Caos’s mother discovered she was pregnant. The man who had anonymously funded every scout report, every trial, every quiet push that brought Caos to the first team… while never once claiming him or maybe he was already dead.

His father.

Not dead. Not missing.

Just ashamed of being not there in another universe.

Caos’s hands did not shake. The violet in his eyes did not dim. But something inside him the singular storm that had powered 312 goals racked open like a fault line.

Caos (voice low, dangerous, almost wondering):

All this time… the goals, the records, the fire… I thought I built it from nothing. From the hole she left. But it was never nothing. I feel like my life is so scattered right now. Like it’s all the small pieces of paper and someone’s turned on the fan. But, talking to you makes me feel like the fan’s been turned off for a little bit. Like things could actually make sense. You completely unscatter me, and I appreciate that so much. It was his shadow wearing my face.

(closes the folder with deliberate calm)

I play for the mother who stayed. Not the father who watched from the cheap seats that could shake it. But she is no longer there. She is dead.

Florentino leaned forward, eyes heavy.

Florentino:

He is gone. Never in the same room as you. He begged us to keep it secret. Said the name “Caos” was already cursed once.Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering. He didn’t want to curse it twice.

Caos stood. The ball at his feet rolled once, as if sensing the new fracture in its master.

Caos:

Then tell him this. The next time I score, it won’t be for Real Madrid. It won’t be for Spain. It will be for the boy who grew up without a father… and became the storm anyway.We must be willing to fail and to appreciate the truth that often ”Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived. Something could take it. Nothing could shake it. Nothing seems to see it. Anyway, this should be know to everyone as slowly as it could come.

He left the boardroom without another word.

The revelation should have broken him.

Instead it reforged him.

It made him look like a simp

A stupid guy that no one could love.

The thing is, this shall not become real.

In the next eight matches he scored 118 goals.

The Fatherless Eclipse  a new trick born that night: he would receive the ball with his back to goal, spin 270° while the ball wrapped around his body like a ghost, then unleash a 60-meter rocket that left goalkeepers frozen in place. Each celebration was the same  he pointed one finger at the sky, then drove it into his own chest.

For the mother who stayed. For the father who didn’t or tat at least could take him to see the greatness of what life could be.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

HHAHA

CAOS! CAOS! CAOS! CAOS!

The Bernabéu began chanting a new name in the 70th minute of every game:

¡HUÉRFANO! ¡HUÉRFANO! ¡HUÉRFANO!

But the real storm was waiting at home that he still remembered.

Leonor arrived at the mansion past midnight, slipping through the side gate the maids still left unlocked out of loyalty that could shake him.

Leonor (voice steady, yet cracking at the edges):

The Cortes met in emergency session this afternoon. This is your life. Do what you want and do it often. If you don’t like something, change it. f you don’t like your job, quit.If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV. If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing things you love. Stop over-analysing, life is simple.They have drafted the motion. If I do not end this relationship by the end of the season, they will vote to remove me from the line of succession. Sofía would become heir. My father… my own father… stood and said nothing. I am just too afraid. AMOR MIO. DIME! QUE HE DE HACER? UM?

(presses her forehead to his chest)

They gave me a choice, Caos. The crown… or you. here’s no way I could pay you back but my plan is to show you that I understand, you are appreciate… YOU ARE MINE. SOLO MIO. QUIERO TU AMOR SOLO MIO…And they made it very clear that choosing you means I lose everything my blood was born to carry.

Caos’s arms closed around her. This took a toll on her. This should mean more than something to you. The thing is, this love shall not be real. That is to say that this love could actually burn.nThe same arms that had scored 430 goals in a single season now held the only thing that had ever made the numbers feel small.

Caos:

Then let them take the crown. This made it impossible to separate it

I have already burned every throne they could offer me. I will burn this one too if it tries to take you.

No… this shall not be possible. They cannot burn like a star. They are pathetic. We shall continue to take on it.

(tilts her chin up, violet eyes burning)

But I will not ask you to choose me over Spain. That would make me no better than the father who chose silence over me. For my love is true. This shall be the one for us to continue loving each other regardless of what other people say.

Leonor kissed him  slow, desperate, tasting of salt and goodbye and forever that we cannot come to taste.

Leonor:

I am not choosing between a crown and a man.Appreciative love gazes and holds its breath and is silent, rejoices that such a wonder should exist even if not for him, will not be wholly dejected by losing her, would rather have it so than never to have seen her at all. That is to say that this love is doomed to repeat itself. The thing is, we shall do it carefully.

I am choosing between a cage and the only person who ever made me feel free inside it. At least, that should serve for others.

(whispers against his lips)

But if I step down… my sister loses the life she was never meant to carry. My father loses the legacy he built. It’s always too late for sorries, but I appreciate the sentiment. And Spain… Spain loses the last thread of its fairy tale.

In the hallway just beyond the open garden doors, the three maids stood listening once more and more. This was not cowardice, but extreme confidence in love.

Zeraphina’s jaw was tight. Keyla’s fists were clenched around the hem of her night robe. Michaela’s gentle eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall.

They had all burned for him. They had desired him. They had shown supreme love.

Now they watched the woman who held his heart burn for something larger than any of them could touch or at least go deep in that passion.

The 2031–32 season still had half its fire left to give.

Caos would score another 118 goals before it ended.

But for the first time in his life, the singular storm inside him had two names:

One written in goals.

The other written in blood and crowns and impossible choices.

And somewhere in the shadows of the Bernabéu, a disgraced father watched every single one of them  unable to look away, unable to step forward.

The season was no longer about records.

It was about what Caos would choose when the final whistle blew and the throne itself demanded an answer.

Caos had made history.

Now, he changes the world.

To be continued…