Striker of The Gods

Coming back to Spain, Madrid.

The private jet touched down at Adolfo Suárez Madrid–Barajas under a slate-gray sky, which made numerous fan come to the airport. It was something unqiue. This could actually amaze anyone who wanted become one with greatness. That is to say that Caos had amazed the whole world. Caos stepped off alone, collar turned up against the January wind, the golden Ballon d’Or still in its case somewhere in the cargo hold. They could see his brilliant violet eyes. Paris felt like another lifetime. The 39-feet chilena, the World Cup, Leonor’s tear-streaked face in the chapel all of it pressed against his ribs like an old bruise that refused to heal in his heart.

He did not go to the mansion first. Well, I would not do it either. He was pretty sad there.Instead, Caos wandered the quiet streets, allowing the memories to wash over him like the cold rain that began to fall. Each step echoed with the weight of his past that he could never forget or dismiss, as he sought refuge in the familiar corners of the city that had once embraced him with open arms and shameful love beautifuly.

He went to Valdebebas. He ran at 200 miles per hour, bouncing the his ouranos along the street.The adrenaline surged through him, pushing him faster as the landscape blurred around him. In that moment, the past faded, replaced by the thrill of movement and the promise of freedom just a heartbeat away. At least, he got God on his side.

Xabi Alonso was waiting on the training pitch, alone, dressed in the simple black training gear he favored even as head coach as usual. The grass was still marked with fresh lines from the morning session that could never get better. That is to say that drew upon the fact that he needed more than the individualistic fact that he was the coach of Real Madrid. A few balls lay scattered like forgotten soldiers. In that sense, he could question the real shape of what this could be in his heart for it tou burn eternally between the shadow and the light. When Caos appeared at the tunnel mouth, Xabi didn’t smile. He simply nodded once the quiet recognition of one man who had carried heavy crowns and another who was learning their true weight.

Xabi Alonso:

You look like a man who just won the world and still lost something important. That should be tough. I do not get why you would overcomplicate it. I mean it the best way we can have it.

Come. Walk with me.

They walked the length of the pitch in silence at first, boots crunching softly on the grass, and the night gew heavier upon the eyes of God. The start would glimmer like ever before. The Bernabéu loomed in the distance like a white cathedral waiting for its next miracle. In that sense, no one can notice it. No one can feel me. No one can see me. I am the stars.

Caos (voice low, rough from disuse):

I scored 430 goals last season. Twenty-five in the World Cup. Another Ballon d’Or they handed me like it was inevitable. This feels unreal for many,

And yet every record feels smaller now. Every goal tastes like ash. Leonor chose the throne. Her sister is sharpening knives in the dark. My father is a ghost who funded the boy I used to be. That is to say that this could not get better for those who dream of being one with the logos. In that sense, we change who we are for a new future.

I came back because I don’t know where else the storm is supposed to go when the sky no longer wants it.

Xabi stopped near the center circle the same spot where Caos had once turned entire seasons into legend. He placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, the grip firm, paternal, grounding. After all, he was a great coach for Caos.

Xabi Alonso:

Dani, I coached you when you were still lightning in a bottle. To be honest, I really loved it from the bottom of my heart. Now you’re the storm itself. Well, the eye of the storm. But even storms need anchors, KHAOS.

(quiet laugh, almost fond)

You think I don’t see it? The way you play now colder, sharper, like you’re punishing the ball for existing. in doing so, we shape the wholeness of the singularity. You’re not playing for joy anymore. You’re playing to fill holes no trophy can reach.

They sat on the grass, backs against the advertising boards. Xabi pulled out two simple water bottles from his bag and handed one over. A comet could be seen in the sky.

Xabi Alonso:

When I was playing, I thought winning everything would make the noise stop. It never does. Oh well, I still remember every facture, not just the good things. The noise just changes its language.

You have a father out there who never claimed you. A woman who chose a crown over your heart. A sister-in-law who sees you as a threat to her ambition.

Those are heavy burdens, even for a man who runs at 450 km/h in training.

Caos stared at the pitch, violet eyes distant.

Caos:

I keep thinking about the 39-feet chilena. This should be mor than love just pretending to be real. Oh damn! I just got so close to it! The whole world called it the greatest goal ever scored. But I kicked it because I had nothing left to lose on that pitch.

Now I’m back in Madrid and the only thing I want is the one thing I can’t score.

Tell me, Coach… how do you keep playing when the biggest match is one you already lost? it is like I did it for putas, joder.

Xabi was quiet for a long moment, watching the clouds drift over the empty stadium.

Xabi Alonso:

You don’t play to win that one. You play so the boy who comes after you doesn’t have to carry the same ghosts.His words hung in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the weight we all carry. In that moment, I understood that the essence of the game wasn’t just about glory; it was about legacy, about paving the way for the next generation to find their own victories.

You train like the storm you are. You are the captain of your own soul. Get to it. You mentor the young ones. You build something that outlives both the goals and the pain. After all, you know who you are.

And when the woman you love knocks on your door again—because she will—you decide then whether the storm still has room for her. At least, that is what I see.

He stood and offered Caos a hand up.

Xabi Alonso:

Tomorrow we train. Not for records. Not for revenge. For the version of you that still believes football can be beautiful even when everything else isn’t.

And tonight… go home to those three girls who look at you like you hung the moon. They’re better medicine than any trophy.

Caos took the hand and rose.

For the first time since Paris, the singular storm inside him felt a little less heavy.

As they walked off the pitch together, Xabi glanced sideways at his former prodigy — now the undisputed king of the game.

Xabi Alonso (softly):

You’re twenty-two, Caos. The world is still yours to break.

Just make sure you don’t break yourself while doing it.

Caos said nothing.

Caos did not dare.

Something had broken.

Something went away.

But as they reached the tunnel, he allowed himself the smallest nod.

Madrid was home again.

The storm had returned.

And for the first time in months, it felt like it might still have something left to build instead of destroy.

To be continued…