Striker of The Gods

Pablo’s words echoed in his mind: “It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”

Caos grinned, his eyes scanning the crowd, knowing he’d carved his truth into the game, into history. The melody of Queen’s anthem still lingered in the air, his voice raw from singing, his soul alight with the chaotic flow he’d claimed as his own.

As the celebration wound down, confetti settling like soft rain, Caos stepped away from the flashing cameras and fervent fans. His teammates were still caught in the euphoria, but his mind was already drifting.

The weight of the moment had sparked something new—a vision for his next chapter. The vacation he’d planned, a quiet escape to the beaches of Mallorca, no longer felt right. He craved something wilder, something that matched the fire in his chest.

He pulled Pablo aside, the city skyline glittering behind them through the stadium’s open roof. “I’m not going to Mallorca,” Caos said, his voice low but certain.

 “I need something… bigger. A place where the earth feels alive, where I can feel the chaos of the world and make it mine.”

Pablo raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What’s the plan, then? You are gonna climb a volcano or wrestle a storm?”

Caos laughed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Maybe both. I’m thinking Iceland. Black sand beaches, glaciers, volcanoes that could erupt any moment. A place where the ground shakes and the sky dances with lights. I want to stand where the world feels untamed.”

Pablo nodded, catching the spark in his friend’s gaze. “You’re a force of nature, man. Iceland’s perfect. But you’re not going alone, are you?”

Caos paused, considering. He’d always thrived in his own orbit, but this victory had shown him the power of connection—his team, his fans, the music that carried him. “Maybe I’ll bring a few of the boys. Or maybe I’ll meet someone there who can keep up with me.” He winked, already imagining the stories he’d collect.

As the night deepened, Caos stood alone for a moment, the stadium now quiet. He closed his eyes, letting the echo of the crowd’s cheers and the rhythm of his song pulse through him. Iceland was calling—a land as raw and unyielding as he was. This vacation wouldn’t be an escape; it would be a conquest, a chance to chase the chaos that fueled him.

He whispered to himself, “We are the champions,” and stepped into the night, ready to write the next verse of his legend.

To be continued…