Chapter 2:The Choice
The sun had barely risen when Neymar sat at the small table, chewing on bread his mother set before him. Nadine moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, scolding his younger sister for spilling juice, humming softly when she thought no one listened.
It was such an ordinary morning that it almost felt cruel. In his old life, Chinedu would have killed for mornings like this--warm food, a family that believed in him, a roof that didn't leak. Now he had them, yet his heart weighed heavier than ever.
"You're quiet today," Nadine said suddenly, glancing at him.
Neymar forced a smile. "Just thinking about training."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Always football with you. At least eat properly. You'll need strength."
Strength. He chewed slower, letting the word sink in. She had no idea how much it meant to him.
---
Outside, the neighborhood was alive. Vendors shouted by the street corners, radios blared samba, and kids ran barefoot chasing after dented plastic balls. A few neighbors greeted him as he walked past.
"Bom dia, Ney!"
"Show us a trick later, Neymar!"
A group of friends waved, one of them juggling a ball clumsily before it rolled away. Neymar smiled faintly, stopping to retrieve it with a quick flick of his heel that made the boys cheer. For them, it was just Neymar being Neymar. But for him,it was a thrill,the thrill of being Neymar.
He greeted them all politely, but his mind was already racing ahead—to the training ground.
---
The pitch at Santos shimmered in the heat. The grass was patchy, the goals rusted, but to Neymar it looked like a battlefield. His coach, a gruff man with sunburned skin, gave him a nod.
"You're early again," the coach said.
"Can't waste time," Neymar replied simply.
His teammates laughed and teased as they gathered, clapping his shoulder, calling him "showman" and "future star." He played along, smiling, but inside he was cold, calculating.
Because he knew he faced a choice.
The Neymar of the past—the one the world remembered—was a dribbler, a magician. He could humiliate three defenders in a single move, make a stadium gasp with a flick of his boot. It brought joy, fame, highlight reels. But he also remembered how critics sneered: too flashy, not efficient enough. How defenders hacked him down, how injuries piled up, how coaches doubted if he could carry a team the way Messi or Ronaldo did.
Then there was the other path—the path of Cristiano Ronaldo. Ruthless efficiency. Goals above all else. No wasted dribbles, no circus tricks. Just speed, power, positioning, finishing. That path made Ronaldo a machine, a Ballon d'Or magnet.
But if Neymar abandoned dribbling, would he still be Neymar? Would he still be the boy who made kids on the street scream with joy, who carried Brazil's spirit in his dancing feet?
He gritted his teeth. The decision twisted inside him.
In the end, he chose.
No. I won't erase Neymar. I'll sharpen him.
I'll keep the flair—but cut the waste. I'll dribble when it kills defenders, not when it entertains the crowd. I'll be more than magic. I'll be deadly magic.
---
Training began.
The whistle shrieked, and the boys split into teams for a scrimmage. Neymar found himself up against two defenders who smirked the way only teenagers do—half challenge, half mockery.
The ball came to his feet.
He dipped his shoulder, teased them with two quick stepovers. They bit. Too easy. A sudden cut, and he was gone, the ball rolling free on the other side. He sprinted through the gap, finished with a curling shot that kissed the post before sliding into the net.
Shouts erupted. Teammates clapped his back, coaches whistled approval. Neymar didn't smile. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
Minutes later, the ball came again. This time, he didn't dance. One touch, then a rocket shot from distance—straight past the keeper's gloves. The defenders blinked in shock.
Dribble when needed. Shoot when possible.
It was only training, but he was already shaping the new Neymar.
---
The scrimmage ended. The other boys collapsed onto the grass, laughing, drinking water, bragging about their goals. Neymar stayed behind.
When everyone else left, he picked up the ball again. The pitch was silent now, the sun dipping lower, the shadows long.
Dribble. Cut. Shoot.
Dribble. Cut. Shoot.
Again and again, until sweat drenched his shirt and his legs screamed for rest. But he didn't stop.
Because the Neymar of the past wasted nights like this. The Neymar of the past believed talent alone would carry him.
This Neymar knew better.
And as he struck the ball into the empty net one last time, he whispered under his breath, voice hoarse but steady:
"This is only the beginning."