Three days passed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
For Giorgi Loria, the routine never changed.
Wake up.
Morning run.
Breakfast.
School.
Training.
Extra training.
Study football.
Sleep.
Repeat.
To anyone else, it might have seemed monotonous.
To Giorgi, it was another step toward his dream.
Meanwhile, the Erovnuli Liga season was entering its final stretch.
Only three matches remained.
Dinamo Tbilisi still occupied third place, but the title race had become tighter than ever.
The previous weekend’s result had done them no favors.
A frustrating 2-2 draw.
On paper, it looked like a decent comeback.
In reality…
It felt like a defeat.
The sports channels replayed the highlights endlessly.
“Dinamo have thrown away two valuable points.”
“They were expected to beat a side sitting eighth in the table.”
“Questions have to be asked about their defensive organization.”
“The title race may have ended today.”
The analysts broke the game down frame by frame.
In the first half, Dinamo looked unrecognizable.
Their backline was slow to react.
The midfield left dangerous spaces between the lines.
The eighth-placed side exploited every mistake.
By halftime…
Dinamo were losing 2-0.
The second half began with renewed urgency, but another disaster struck in the seventy-third minute.
Their starting striker, Mate Vatsadze, pulled up while chasing a through ball, clutching the back of his thigh before collapsing onto the pitch.
A hamstring injury.
He couldn’t continue.
The substitute, Barnes Osei, entered with barely enough time to warm up.
Surprisingly…
He changed everything.
Within fifteen minutes, he had scored twice.
First, a close-range finish after a goalmouth scramble.
Then a brilliant header from a corner.
Two-two.
Dinamo suddenly looked capable of completing the comeback.
Then came the eighty-eighth minute.
One reckless challenge.
A shove.
Another shove.
Osei completely lost his temper.
The referee didn’t hesitate.
Straight red card.
Violent conduct.
Instead of chasing a winning goal, Dinamo finished the match with ten men.
The final whistle echoed around the stadium.
Two points dropped.
One striker injured.
Another suspended.
The title race suddenly looked much more complicated.
The following morning, every major sports program discussed the league table.
Dinamo remained third.
Mathematically, finishing first was still possible.
Realistically…
It was another story.
One veteran pundit leaned back in his chair before shaking his head.
“I don’t see it happening.”
His colleague raised an eyebrow.
“You think they’re out?”
“They have to win all three remaining matches and hope the teams above them slip.”
He pointed toward the standings displayed on the screen.
“That alone is difficult.”
Then he folded his arms.
“But look at the squad.”
“Two injured strikers, including the veteran, Vakhtang Salia.”
“One suspended.”
“The depth simply isn’t there.”
“So you’re writing them off?”
“I’m saying what everyone is thinking.”
He smiled slightly.
“Winning all three?”
“Impossible.”
Across town, inside Dinamo Tbilisi’s training complex…
The manager wasn’t interested in television opinions.
He stared at the injury report lying on his desk.
One striker.
Out.
Another striker.
Out.
Third striker.
Suspended.
He rubbed his temples.
“This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
His assistant coach sighed.
“We could play a winger through the middle.”
“Not ideal.”
“A midfielder?”
“Even worse.”
Silence settled over the office.
Eventually, the manager reached for another folder.
Youth Academy.
Reserve Squad.
One name immediately caught his attention.
Giorgi Loria.
Age: 16.
Position: Forward.
Work Rate: Exceptional.
Technical Ability: Excellent.
Mentality: Outstanding.
The assistant looked over his shoulder.
“You’ve been watching him.”
“I have.”
“Think he’s ready?”
The manager didn’t answer immediately.
“No.”
The assistant blinked.
“…No?”
“Nobody is truly ready at sixteen.”
He closed the folder.
“But sometimes…”
“…you don’t wait until a player is ready.”
“You let football decide.”
Later that afternoon…
Giorgi had just finished another finishing drill when one of the academy staff approached him.
“Giorgi.”
“Coach wants to see you.”
His first thought was that he’d done something wrong.
Had he stayed too long on the pitch again?
Broken another training cone?
Forgotten to sign some paperwork?
He wiped the sweat from his forehead before making his way toward the first-team offices.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
He stopped outside the manager’s door.
Knock.
“Come in.”
The room was surprisingly simple.
A tactical whiteboard.
Several match reports.
League standings pinned to a corkboard.
The manager looked up from his desk.
“Sit down.”
Giorgi obeyed immediately.
For a few seconds…
Neither of them spoke.
Then the manager folded his hands together.
“You know our situation.”
Giorgi nodded.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Our attacking options are…
limited.”
Another nod.
“We’re calling you up.”
“…”
“You’ll join the senior squad for the remainder of the season.”
For a heartbeat…
The words didn’t register.
Calling him up?
Senior squad?
His heart skipped.
Then started racing.
“I…”
He swallowed.
“…Really?”
The manager smiled faintly.
“You’ve earned it.”
“I know this is earlier than expected.”
“You’ll train with the first team beginning tomorrow.”
Giorgi couldn’t stop smiling.
He tried.
He really did.
It simply wasn’t possible.
The manager continued.
“For the next three matches…”
“…you’ll be on the bench.”
That was the moment it finally became real.
Not just training.
Not just observing.
He would be part of the matchday squad.
He would travel with the team.
He would sit among professional footballers wearing the Dinamo badge.
His chest tightened with excitement.
“Thank you, Coach.”
“I won’t disappoint you.”
“I know you won’t.”
The manager stood.
“That’s all.”
Still grinning from ear to ear, Giorgi reached for the doorknob.
“Giorgi.”
He turned around.
“Yes?”
The manager tilted his head.
“One more thing.”
“What squad number do you want?”
The question caught him completely off guard.
His number?
He’d never really cared.
At academy level, numbers changed constantly.
Seven one week.
Nine the next.
Sometimes even twenty-three.
It had never mattered.
Now…
He found himself thinking about someone else.
His father.
Without warning, old memories surfaced.
A dusty photo album.
Yellow-and-black Borussia Dortmund kit.
The red Nottingham Forest shirt.
The Arsenal jersey that had never been worn.
Every photograph carried the same number.
55.
Nikoloz Loria’s number.
The number that had followed him throughout his career.
The number that never got the chance to appear in the Premier League.
Giorgi looked up.
“I’d like number fifty-five.”
The manager raised an eyebrow.
“That’s an unusual choice.”
“It belonged to my father.”
A brief silence filled the office.
Then the manager nodded.
“Number fifty-five is yours.”
“Wear it proudly.”
“I will.”
As Giorgi left the office, he quietly repeated the number to himself.
Fifty-five.
It wasn’t just a shirt.
It was a promise.
Training ended a little earlier than usual.
For the first time in months, Giorgi didn’t stay behind to practice free kicks.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t stand still.
Every few minutes he found himself smiling for no reason.
When he reached the parking lot, the familiar silver hatchback pulled into its usual space.
Charlotte lowered the driver’s window.
“Good session?”
Instead of answering…
Giorgi climbed into the passenger seat with the widest grin she’d seen in years.
She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“I’ve got news.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been called up.”
Charlotte blinked.
“…Called up?”
“To the first team.”
Silence.
“I’ll be training with the senior squad.”
Another pause.
“I’ll be on the bench for the last three league matches.”
She stared at him.
Waiting.
As if expecting him to laugh and admit it was a joke.
He simply smiled wider.
“I’m serious.”
Charlotte’s hand immediately flew to her mouth.
Her eyes shimmered.
“Giorgi…”
He chuckled nervously.
“I know I probably won’t play.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll still be there.”
“I’ll travel with the team.”
“I’ll wear the first-team kit.”
“I’ll—”
Before he could finish…
Charlotte wrapped him in a tight hug across the center console.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Her voice trembled.
Years of sacrifice.
Years of driving him to training before sunrise.
Years of washing muddy kits.
Years of encouraging him after difficult matches.
In that moment…
Every single one of them felt worthwhile.
She pulled away just enough to look at him.
“Your father would be smiling from ear to ear.”
Giorgi smiled softly.
“I picked my squad number.”
“Oh?”
“Fifty-five.”
Charlotte froze.
“…His number.”
He nodded.
“I wanted to continue where he couldn’t.”
For several seconds she couldn’t speak.
She simply looked at her son.
The same determined eyes.
The same quiet confidence.
The same love for football that Nikoloz had carried throughout his life.
Only now…
It lived on through their son.
A tear escaped despite her efforts to hold it back.
She quickly wiped it away with a laugh.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
“You almost made it.”
“I did.”
“You lasted…
what, thirty seconds?”
She lightly punched his shoulder.
“Don’t tease your mother.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“…Not really.”
They both laughed.
As Charlotte started the engine, she glanced at him once more.
“In four days.”
Giorgi nodded.
“The away match against Iberia 1999.”
“And after that?”
“Two more games.”
She smiled.
“I’ll be in the stands every chance I get.”
Giorgi looked out the window as they drove away from the training ground.
Four days.
Just four more days until he would wear the number 55 for Dinamo Tbilisi’s senior team.
Whether he played or not didn’t matter.
For the first time, he was no longer chasing the dream from afar.
He was standing at its doorstep.