On-screen football helps me to think more calmly and carefully. The danger is real now. If we don't do what Mr. Backer wants... we're in big trouble. Apparently, Isaak Backer owns a failing telephone company and wants to relaunch his brand in the Provinces. Though he doesn't look it, he's in complete ruin and his fellow businessmen have turned him down, understanding that if his business has failed, he doesn't deserve to continue to belong to the small circle of great men of the Provinces. That's the way things work here, if you don't adapt to reality, you get left behind, and reality itself will finish you off. That's all the information Paris was able to gather after calling Edgar, despite my refusal. Her boyfriend insisted on what was going on with Backer, and Paris could only get out of the way by telling him she would tell him in person. Now we have two fronts: a logical and credible story to come up with and an article to publish.

—Edgar will intervene on our behalf. His family, the Scofields, you know... —Paris tells me, watching football with me.

—On your behalf, you mean—I tell him, very seriously—. It seems to me that we're getting more and more involved in this mess. What if we tell Julie Bell or Diego Marquez? They'll know what to do better than we do.

—No way! I got us into this and I'll get us out—.Although her words say one thing, her gestures say the opposite. She's not so confident anymore.

—But Paris... it was my fault that I found out more about my mother, about Simon Moon...

—No, it has everything to do with that. It was because of this and that. Because of the Collapse, the Goddess.

—What? —When she talks, I don't understand.

—History is made by men and women. They are the protagonists. If... we understand them as a whole, if we know what they thought, what happened to them, how they acted... we can see much more of the past. We can get closer to it.

—Do you plan to include Lunetta in your research?

—Think about it, Eric. She is a relevant historical figure: she followed the Goddess, participated in the rebellion, was arrested and sentenced to death...

—Paris! You're using me to get information about my mother?

—I own you, Eric. You are my slave. Don't make that face... What I mean is... things don't just happen. Everything has a reason, a why. A meaning. Our paths have crossed for a reason. The Goddess and the Priestess are very present in our families. We are the pieces trying to fit all the others together.

Lately Paris has been talking very strangely. She goes deep into her thoughts and makes reflections that I can't understand the first time. I don't know if finding her mother as a Priestess or becoming a follower of a forbidden religion has affected her for better or worse. It's like she has her feet off the ground.

—What do you remember about your mother, Eric?

—I only have voices and distorted images in my head. Her touch... Her smell... Just that—. I'm deep in thought. Have I ever asked myself this before?

—What if Lunetta, your mother, is an unsung heroine of the slave rebellion? Or was she just a condemned slave? Wouldn't you like to rescue her life story and publish it? So that all the Provinces would know who Lunetta Moon was?

—But Simon said... she wasn't a slave; he wasn't my father.

—He's crazy, Eric. I don't believe a word he says. It was a mistake to find him and question him. He gave us nothing and now we have a bigger problem. Don't worry, I'll take care of it.

I know she means Edgar Scofield and I keep my mouth shut. I tell myself that Paris is right. Simon Moon is my father, as much as he disowned me. I don't want anything from him. He's sick, and maybe he doesn't understand what it means to have a lost child, and if he does... he's not ready to deal with it. I just want to know who my mother really was and if Paris can help me do that and also put her example of a tireless freedom fighter in the history books...I'll be proud.

—Go ahead. You can research and write about my mother—. I tell Paris later that afternoon, after thinking it over. It sounds like I'm giving her permission, but Paris had already made up her mind before she asked me what I was going to do—. She's my mother, and she died thinking of a more equal society. For that alone she deserves the greatest tribute. Like so many other people...

—Thank you, Eric. But it's not just your mother who will be the subject of study.

—What do you mean?

—When I interviewed Simon Moon, I realized that by interviewing the people who lived through the events, the rebellion, we can have direct access to what happened, what they felt, how they lived it.

—You can always go back in time...

—The jumps... they are just an extra help for periods as rare as the Collapse, but this... I need historical sources to validate my research. That's what being a historian is. Emotions and feelings...you don't collect them in news stories and books. I have to interview...

—…your father—. I finish his sentence because I remember young Mr. Stonecraft on the streets of New America in 168 A.C.

—Start with him, yes.

The next morning Paris and I have breakfast while waiting for Matt Stonecraft to return from his personal workshop in the basement after another sleepless night of work. Since it's Sunday, he's surprised to see us up so early.

—Are you all right? —he asks questioningly. He looks tired. We nod and he makes himself a coffee—. Everything is almost ready again, Paris. The machine is being readjusted and I promise you there won't be any setbacks.

Suddenly, a flash of happiness in the midst of the storm. I wish with all my might to travel to the Collapse and fulfill once and for all the mission for which I was bought. Then... I will be able to resolve all the unknowns about my mother by searching for her in time. Only then will my doubts be resolved.

—Great! Let us know when we can jump again. But what if you could help us in another way?

—How? —Mr. Stonecraft burns his lips with coffee.

—Would you mind answering a few questions about the slave rebellion of 168 A.C.? It came all the way here, to the capital, and you were in college at the time... You had to live through it.

Matt Stonecraft's facial muscles tighten all over. He looks us both up and down as we stand expectantly.

—I wasn't there. All I remember...what they talked about at the university, in the bars...it wasn't interesting—. He is lying. Paris knows it too.

—Come on, Dad. No one can lie to the Goddess.

—Now it's true that you look like your mother—he takes a moment—. If the Goddess was there, why didn't she do anything? Hundreds, thousands of people died, tens of thousands were imprisoned, sent to work camps, or sentenced to death. Where was the Goddess? Why did she allow it? Paris, religion is a very powerful weapon because it tries to answer the questions that science cannot yet answer. It blinds people, gives them something to fight for, something to die for. But... when it's all over... the Goddess is still up there, asking for more sacrifices, while down here there's only hunger, crying and misery. Be ready, soon you will be able to travel again. Paris, please, focus on what is important.

To be honest, Matt Stonecraft is partly right. Julie Bell feels powerful because she is a Priestess. Those who follow the Goddess listen to her words without judging or questioning.

I leave Paris to think and go to watch the Screen. There is nothing but publicity for the two great events taking place today in the Provinces. On the one hand, the New Year's Cup, the most important game in the Provinces, which this year will be played by Leonard Montana's team, New America United, and Real Floridapolis, the two best teams in the first division. On the other hand, the Presidential Elections, in which the two Leeparker twins are fighting to become President of the United Provinces. Matt and Paris have the right to vote, but they don't because they don't agree with the system. They say it's a way to stand up to the Provinces. We slaves don't vote, of course, but even if we did... it wouldn't do much good. Choosing between two someone from the elite doesn't make much sense, because it would always benefit the elite.

After lunch, I spend some time reading the Bible, trying to verify Mr. Stonecraft's words, and looking for any trace of my mother until I fall asleep. When I go down to the living room, Paris has prepared a feast for watching the game. Popcorn, colorful sodas, candy, hamburgers and fries. We sit on the couch in front of the Screen while it gets dark outside.

—The oldest of the Leeparker twins has won again—she says—another eight years as President of the Provinces.

—They're twins! How do they know who's the oldest? Actually, how do you know which one is which? They're identical, I can't tell them apart....

—They are complete opposites, Eric—. There's no way she's serious.

—Slaves don't have laser beams in their eyes—I joke.

The newscasts of all the channels of the Provincial Screen echo the speeches of the two Leeparker twins, one winner, one loser, but both smiling from ear to ear, thanking the voters and their respective political parties.

—Dictatorial democracy works—says the re-elected president—, we are free because we can vote.

—And where are the slaves? —My question has no answer.

The channels of the Screen quickly change their programming. They switch from politics to sports to show one of the biggest events in the Provinces. I remember how every year we slaves sat in front of a Screen that Greg Gordon set up on the plantation to watch the New Year's Eve Cup game. All the slaves, crowded together, would celebrate the goals and cry with equal parts emotion. It was rare that there were no fights between the supporters of one team and the other. I remember the excitement in my stomach before the game, the enthusiasm on the cotton plantation a week before. The ninety minutes flew by. I don't know what's wrong with me, but this year I don't have that feeling. I don't have the desire I used to have.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

—Do you like soccer? —I ask Paris.

—It's not one of my passions, but I'm not going to miss the biggest show in the country.

Mr. Stonecraft joins us and we begin to eat and drink as the narrator, with some exuberance, begins to announce the starting lineups of the two teams. The stadium is filled with screaming and cheering souls. One hundred thousand people, according to the commentators. When the video scoreboard shows the image of Leornard Montana, New America United's star striker, the field erupts in applause and cheers. The turf is in perfect condition, it looks like a carpet. Everything is ready. New America United in their red and yellow striped jerseys on one side, Real Floridapolis in light blue on the other.

The referee blows the whistle, but the ball has not yet been kicked. The players of both teams shake hands, pose individually or in groups in front of the cameras, and even answer a few questions from the journalists. These are the first two minutes of rigor, in which the respect and camaraderie of this sport is demonstrated. Once the protocol is fulfilled, the ball starts rolling and the fans cheer even louder. All the United Provinces are watching the Screen. Every detail is broadcast: the hairstyles, earrings or tattoos of the players, the events repeated in slow motion, how they drink water, the hardest kicks and plays, the gestures of the coaches, always exalted, the benches, the funny scenes that take place in the stands. Everything.

The ball changes color depending on which team has possession. New America United seems to be in control of the game. After eighty minutes of play, it's still all square. Leonard Montana, sweaty and tired, is fouled near the top of the box. He places the ball himself to shoot. The wall, where only one player can be, is also in place. After the whistle, Leonard hits the ball right into the net. The whole country shouts goal. I shout goal. Paris shouts goal. I pump my fists in the air. It's a goal! I hug Paris as we jump for joy. I kiss her cheeks, not caring that Mr. Stonecraft is there. Paris turns her face. We're inches from each other. A few awkward seconds pass before I pull away and hug her again.

Mr. Stonecraft pulls out a camera device and the three of us take a picture, celebrating. The three of us come out laughing. We sit back down on the couch to watch the replay of Leonard Montana's goal and his celebration, which is aimed at the box where Sophie Gordon is standing in a shiny short dress. I look at her and can't help but think with some nostalgia of all the time we spent together. We've grown up now. I'm happy for her and for Leonard Montana.

—Look! It's Sophie! My owner's daughter—I tell them, trying to hide my feelings—. Don't you remember, Paris? The upskirt mess that brought me here?

She nods, but says nothing. What happened to her? Was it because we were so close? Because of the kiss on the cheek? The referee blows the final whistle. New America United wins the Year End Cup.

—I'll talk to Edgar tomorrow...see how it goes...that's it—Paris says as we clear the table—. In the afternoon we'll go to your soccer tryout. Good night.

I had completely forgotten about the trial with Brox City, Provincial Division 5. Although it was something I wanted, I think other more important things have crept into my mind. Still, I want to prove myself. I fall asleep on the sofa and watch the various talk show hosts commenting and discussing the game footage.

In the morning I can't stop thinking about Paris. She left with Edgar, and the truth is, I feel lonely. What's wrong with me? I know she wants to settle things with Mr. Backer, but... he's her boyfriend... and that makes me sick. I think I did a good job of controlling my impulses last night, but Paris got weird right away. I didn't do anything wrong, even though I was looking forward to it. My willpower was great. Knowing myself, I could have cared less about the consequences, but this is Paris and my loyalty to her goes beyond that. Does this mean that I love her as a friend? That I'm not attracted to her? I hope not, because I am her slave.

I try to put Paris and the Goddess out of my mind and concentrate on the soccer test. Paris comes home in the early afternoon.

—Shall we go?

An orange airmobile, driven by Edgar Scofield, is waiting for us at the front door. He glares at me. I get into the back seat and the perfume of a woman intoxicates me.

—Eric, this is Rosetta Scofield Jones, Edgar's cousin. She's in town for New Year's.

—Delighted, slave—Evil runs in the genes of this family—. No offense, Eric. Everybody is what they are and there's nothing wrong with that.

She's a Scofield, so I naturally distrust her. I would distrust any Scofield on the planet. But Rosetta's got something...a pristine white smile, piercing blue eyes, short jet hair. She'll be a few years older than me, and she's relentlessly pretty and attractive. I avoid looking at her bare legs. She's a Scofield.

We arrived at the Brox City soccer field, which is quite modest. It barely has bleachers for a hundred people and the grass is muddy in places. Paris hands me the trial ticket I got, and a man in a tracksuit tells me to go to the locker room in a few minutes.

—Edgar, didn't you play soccer? —Rosetta is interested.

—I quit years ago. Business can't wait and is more necessary than professional sports.

—Excuse me, Mr. Businessman—she laughs—. And you, Eric, are you any good or are you going to embarrass us with your ridiculousness?

—Can you hit the ball? —Edgar joins the party—. Slaves should be working, not playing soccer.

I want to hit him again. What's wrong with him? I hit him and now he comes at me with giggles and jokes. I don't think he's forgotten, no matter how much Paris insisted. That's why he keeps telling me that my position is inferior. I don't say anything so as not to spoil the moment, I don't want to indulge him and I want to concentrate on the test.

A man in an impeccable suit approaches the four of us and asks for my representative. Paris introduced herself.

—If nothing goes as expected and the kid is good, I can offer him a contract with a small second-division team. He would become a professional.

Would I be able to achieve freedom by becoming a soccer player? My eyes sparkle at the prospect of appearing on the screen like Leonard Montana. I see myself scoring goals, just like him.

—I'm Jeff Morgan, a football agent. This is my card. If I like what I see and you advance me thirty thousand dollars, your slave will play in the second division.

That's a lot of money. Dollars move the world! I know Paris has no money. And neither do I.

—This is a scam, Paris—Edgar explains as the agent leaves—. The soccer mafia is very real...they try to squeeze money out of deluded parents who want to see their kids become stars.

I have no more time to think about it or talk to Paris. If she or Edgar would lend me the money, I am willing to pay back every penny on the dollar, but I remember who I am and where I belong. In just three months I will be the property of the United Provinces again. I can't choose my fate.

I go to the locker room and they give me my equipment. I changed and went out with the other boys who were going to take the test on the field. From a distance, I wave to Paris, who keeps smiling at me. I know she trusts me. The coach conducts several drills until he calls for two teams to play a game. He puts me on the red team as a forward.

—Play the way you know. Be a good teammate and take care of the ball. Soccer is a gentleman's game—he tells us.

I have a bad start. The ball comes to me and I can't control it. The defender lunges at me and I go down. I wasn't expecting the hit. I look up at the stands and Paris, who is cheering and applauding me. I have to prove myself.

—Are you all right? —the defender helps me up.

I gain confidence by combining with my teammates a few times. I make a few moves and run, but I don't have a chance. I pass to the guy on the left and he scores. The first half is over. In the second half, I'm more relaxed and manage to head in a cross that ends up in the goal. I celebrate by looking at Paris like Leonard Montana does with Sophie. The game ends and I go to the locker room. The coach informs me and the boy on the left wing that we are in the team. Sweaty and tired, I go out to discuss the news with Paris, who screams and hugs me.

—I knew you'd make it!

—Congratulations, Eric—Edgar offers his hand. Didn't he say he wouldn't touch the slaves? I squeeze it.

I stay alone in the changing room and take a shower. The hot water helps me to think. I'm happy, but not completely happy, and I don't know why. I have achieved one of my dreams since I was a child. To feel like a soccer player. But something tells me it's still a dream, because I won't leave Paris and the Goddess for soccer. As I dried myself, a figure appeared at the door of the dressing room. I cover myself with the towel. It is Rosetta Scofield Jones, her entire body weight resting on one of her legs.

—You're not so bad for a slave—she says.

—We are a box of surprises—. I ignore her and continue drying myself.

—And this surprise...? —I look up and see that she has taken off her blouse, showing me her bare chest—. Don't you like it?

She slowly approaches me. My baser instincts burn within me. Rosetta takes the towel from me and throws it away. She grabs my head and kisses me. I respond to her kiss and pull her close to me. It has been a long time since I felt wanted by a woman. Remembering that I am a slave and she is a Scofield, I try to pull away from her. I resist, but she continues to hold me.

—It will be late if we want to celebrate—It's Edgar's voice as he enters the dressing room with Paris—. Come on Rosetta, you know he's just a slave.

Paris says nothing. She is mute. She takes Edgar's hand and they both leave. Rosetta gives me a wave and a kiss in the distance before she leaves.

The four of us celebrate my selection as a Brox City player in a bar with live music on one of New America's main avenues. Edgar orders four mojitos and leads a toast to the soccer slave. My face must be a poem because Edgar asks me if I'm not happy. Rosetta laughs beside me and touches my leg. Paris hasn't opened her mouth yet. I had always wanted to admire the night of the provincial capital, but now that I have the chance, I just want to go home with Paris and help her with her research. I don't feel well and my head doesn't allow me to fixate on the details. The colored lights in the pub, the extravagant clothes, the metallic ornaments on the faces of the free people of the city, the glasses with ice and flowers.

Paris and Edgar leave to pay, and Rosetta continues to touch my leg.

—Don't you like me, Eric? —she laughs and kisses me on the lips, which I close—. You don't know what I can do to you. You'd enjoy it like you've never enjoyed it before. I assure you.

—I'm just a slave—I remind him.

—Is the little slave afraid? I know I'm an imposing woman and I could...

—Shall we go? —Finally, Edgar and Paris return.

Edgar takes advantage of the fact that Paris and Rosetta have left the pub to tap me on the shoulder.

—Make no mistake, Eric. A Scofield does not forgive or forget.

—You are a bastard—I will not be intimidated.

—Think hard about where you're going when your contract with Paris is up. I'll find you— That is a threat.

—I'm not afraid of you.

I come home very tired and Paris doesn't say a word to me. She goes into the kitchen and drinks water. It's like I don't exist.

—Are you going to tell me what's wrong? —I ask her.

Paris comes over and slaps me in the face.

—What the hell is wrong with you, Paris?

—How could you even think of kissing Rosetta?

—She was the one who...

—Yesterday you almost kissed me with Leonard Montana's goal and now you're biting her?

—Paris! I kissed you and you were mad at me for weeks. I crossed your red line and it looked like you didn't trust me anymore!

—I thought we had something, Eric.

—A slave owner contract.

—Something else. An investigation, a project. Trust. You can't go in there, the Scofields! It's dangerous...

—Your boyfriend is Edgar Scofield! Remember him?

—I thought we were like family. Siblings. Loving each other and not wanting anything bad to happen to you.

—What does that have to do with anything?

—You didn't have to mess with the Scofields!

—I hit Edgar, Paris… Are you jealous? Would you have wanted me to kiss you yesterday to celebrate Montana's goal?

—No!

—Then what's wrong?

—She's Edgar's cousin! And you're a slave!

—So what? —It bothers me when she reminds me.

—Eric, good night—. She's leaving.

Of course, I'll never understand Paris.