The first real morning of the off-season always felt strange. No alarms, no ride to the training ground, no schedule on the fridge telling me what time to eat or run or stretch.
Just sunlight and the soft sound of my mom's sandals moving across the kitchen floor.
It was already warm. The kind of São Paulo summer morning that made the air heavy before breakfast. I rolled out of bed, stretched my legs, and winced when the floorboards creaked under me. My body still carried that faint ache from the season , the kind of good pain that stays after something important ends.
The house smelled like coffee and pão de queijo. Digão was already awake, judging by the dull thump of a football bouncing somewhere in the living room.
"Stop that, menino!" my mother shouted from the kitchen.
I smiled, rubbed my eyes, and pulled on a loose T-shirt before stepping out.
He grinned when he saw me. "Bom dia, craque!" (Good morning, star!)
"Bom dia," I said, ruffling his hair. "You trying to break something before Papai sees?"
He shrugged. "The wall's stronger than me."
"That's what you think."
From the kitchen, Mamãe called, "Breakfast is ready! Eat before everything gets cold."
Papai was already sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, half of it folded neatly beside his plate. His hair looked freshly combed, but the tired lines around his eyes told me he hadn't really rested either.
He glanced up with a smile. "Our hero wakes."
"I'm no hero," I said, sitting down. "Just a hungry boy."
Mamãe placed a cup of coffee in front of me and kissed the top of my head. "Then eat and relax. All that running around the field and no rest."
"I've been eating, Mamãe."
"Not enough. You're growing again."
She said it like it was a mild accusation. I grinned and reached for the breadbasket.
The conversation at breakfast drifted between topics, Papai talking about some project at work, Mamãe about a friend from church, Digão about his latest match at school. I mostly listened, letting the sound of them fill the air.
For the first time in months, football wasn't the center of every word in the room.
After breakfast, Mamãe started doing laundry. The sound of water filled the back room. Digão and I helped carry out the bags from last night's groceries. I ended up chasing him down the hallway when he dropped a bag of onions and blamed me for it. Mamãe's scolding laughter echoed from the kitchen.
Later, I went outside to sit by the veranda. The air shimmered with heat. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor's radio played old samba tunes. It was ordinary , and that was the best part.
During the season, my days were timed to the minute: wake up, eat, train, rest, repeat. Even joy had a schedule. Now, I had hours with nothing written on them.
At first, that emptiness felt heavy. Then it started to feel like breathing again.
Papai joined me with two glasses of orange juice. He handed me one and sat beside me. "I saw you reading the papers yesterday," he said casually. "They're already talking about next season."
I nodded. "I know."
He looked at me sideways. "You're not letting it get to your head, are you?"
"No, Papai."
"Good. Because one day they'll praise you, the next they'll say you're finished. Don't ever let either change how you train."
I smiled faintly. "I won't."
He leaned back, eyes on the street. "You did good, son. You earned it."
That simple sentence meant more than all the applause from the crowd at Morumbi.
We stayed there for a while, watching the afternoon roll in. Kids played football barefoot in the street, kicking up dust. A bus passed by, coughing smoke.
It was home in all its noise and imperfection. Without even realising it, a few hours passed by, I wanted to check in on my mom, to see if she needed any help. I told her that I would help her cook lunch, back to grinding cooking again.
The kitchen was already alive when I walked in, steam fogging the windowpanes, the scent of garlic and lime thick in the air, a low hum of gospel music from the small radio near the counter. Mamãe stood over the stove, stirring something in her favorite clay pot, her hair tied up loosely, the sleeves of her blouse rolled to her elbows.
"You're late," she said, without turning.
"I didn't know there was a schedule," I said, grinning as I washed my hands.
"In this kitchen, there's always a schedule," she replied, tasting the broth with a wooden spoon. "Now come. If you're going to learn moqueca, you're doing it right."
I'd helped her cook plenty of times before, mostly on quiet evenings when Papai came home late or when she wanted company while preparing Sunday lunch. But today was different. Today, she wasn't just letting me stir a pot. She was teaching.
She handed me a small bowl of chopped garlic, pepper, lime juice, and salt. "Start with the seasoning. Coat the fish, don't drown it."
I nodded, reaching for the fillets, thick cuts of robalo, their pale flesh gleaming in the light. The tang of lime hit my nose as I mixed the marinade with my fingers.
"Massage it in," she said, watching me. "The fish has to feel loved."
"That's one way to put it," I said, laughing.
She laughed too, then turned back to the stove. The sound of sizzling onions filled the kitchen, sharp and sweet at once.
"Smell that?" she said. "That's the start of everything good."
I leaned closer, inhaling the mix of olive oil, onion, and garlic. "Smells like home," I said.
"It should," she answered softly.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. There was something about cooking together that made silence feel full instead of empty. I set the fish aside to rest while she prepared the next part.
"Now, layer it," she said, pointing to the clay pot. "Tomato, bell pepper, coriander. Then fish. Then again."
I followed her instructions, arranging everything carefully , red, green, and yellow slices forming a small mosaic. She smiled when she saw how neat I was being.
"You get that from me," she said.
"I think I get my obsession with order from Papai," I teased.
"Maybe," she said, "but he doesn't make it look this good."
Once the layers were done, she poured in the coconut milk and a drizzle of dendê oil. She added some Cayenne as well for heat. The color changed instantly, from pale cream to a warm orange-gold. The scent rose like a wave, rich and coastal, with something comforting beneath it.
Mamãe stirred it once, slow and patient. "Now we wait," she said. "Good food never hurries."
I leaned against the counter, watching the pot simmer. Steam curled around her face, softening her features. She looked peaceful, but her eyes were sharp, focused.
"You know," she said after a while, "you've always had a calm hand. Even when you were small. You'd try to help me stir the beans and never spill a drop."
"I probably ate half the beans before you could serve them."
She chuckled. "True. But you paid attention. That's rare for a boy."
The moqueca started bubbling, the broth thickening just slightly. I lifted the lid and stirred it carefully. The fish had softened, the sauce turning glossy. I added a handful of chopped coriander, like she'd shown me before.
"Perfect," she said, peering over my shoulder. "See? You don't just help anymore. You're cooking."
I looked down at the pot, proud but trying not to show it. "You think so?"
She smiled, that small, knowing smile that always reached her eyes. "I know so. A mother knows when her son's ready."
I laughed. "That should help me in Milan, I will need to cook for myself"
"Don't even talk about that," she said quickly. "You're still my baby boy." I touched a sore spot!
I let the silence hang between us again, soft, like steam. Then I picked up the spoon and tasted the sauce. I adjusted the salt, and squeezed a bit more lime. It was perfect. A little salty, a little sweet, brightness and zing from the lime, and a late heat from the Cayenne.
She watched my face. "So?"
I swallowed, smiling. "Tastes like something Papai will brag about to everyone at work."
"Then our job is done," she said, satisfied.
I turned off the stove, and we carried the pot to the table together.
"Careful," she warned. "It's hot."
"I know, Mamae" I said.
When Papai and Digão sat down, the air filled with that kind of silence only good food can create , the kind where everyone's first reaction is to eat, not talk.
Mamãe took her first bite, nodded in approval, and said quietly, "See? Told you, he can cook."
Papai raised his fork. "If football doesn't work out, you'll open a restaurant. Kaká e Mamãe's Moqueca House."
"Sounds terrible," I said.
"Sounds perfect," Mamãe replied.
I hadn't seen Juan or Carlos in weeks. Ever since training picked up speed, our schedules had stopped matching. Even Sundays, when we used to meet for futsal or burgers or games, turned into recovery days for me.
I finally had a free afternoon. So when Juan called and said, "Morumbi Shopping? Two o'clock?" I didn't even think twice.
I grabbed my cap and wallet, told Mamãe I'd be back before dinner, and took the bus. The city felt heavy with summer heat. December in São Paulo has that particular warmth, the kind that sticks to your neck but smells like vacation.
When I reached the mall, I spotted them immediately. Juan waved, tall and always too loud for his own good. Carlos stood beside him, calm as ever, pretending to be annoyed by Juan's jokes.
And then there was Alex, who had joined us more recently. Alex, I knew from the youth teams, and he was all grin, all trouble
"Olha só quem apareceu!" Alex said, throwing his arms wide. ("Look who showed up!")
"Somebody's been too busy for us, craque," Juan added. ("Star.")
"Treinos, cara," I said, laughing. "You think the ball waits for me?"
They pulled me into a quick hug before we started walking, blending into the lazy Saturday crowd , families, couples, teenagers wandering with nowhere special to be.
Christmas decorations hung from the ceilings, red ribbons and golden lights, the kind of thing that always made Mamãe smile.
We ended up in the arcade first. Alex and I went straight for the football game, the one with the old CRT screens and plastic joysticks that always stuck to your fingers. Juan cheered every time he scored against me, like it was the Libertadores final.
"You can dribble defenders in real life, but here I'm the king," he declared.
"Because the machine helps you," I shot back. "It knows you're desperate."
He burst out laughing, bumping my shoulder. "Excuses, excuses."
Juan and Carlos were on the pinball machines, arguing about who had the higher score. It felt easy, stupid jokes, soft music in the background, the whir of air-conditioning.
After the arcade, we went to the food court. The smell of fried pastel, pizza, and popcorn filled the air. We squeezed around a small table, trays stacked with coxinhas and cans of guaraná.
"Man, you were on Globo Esporte last week," Alex said, mid-bite. "That assist? The one for França?"
"Yeah," Juan chimed in. "They replayed it twice."
I shrugged, trying not to sound awkward. "They replay everything when you win."
Carlos leaned forward. "Still. Sixteen and already helping the team win matches. That's crazy, Kaká."
The others nodded, and for a second, I didn't know where to look. Compliments always made me uncomfortable.
"I'm just doing my job," I said finally. "And trying not to mess up."
Alex laughed. "That's the most Kaká thing you could say. Man scores on TV and still sounds like he lost his homework."
We all cracked up.
Then Juan asked, "How's the locker room?
The big guys treating you okay?"
"Mostly, yeah. Some like to tease, but that's normal. The coach's happy. Says I just need to get stronger."
"You already look stronger," Juan said, talking dramatically. "Look at those arms, meu Deus!" ("My God!")
I threw a napkin at him. "Cut it out."
The teasing rolled on until Carlos suggested we check the CD store. Inside, rows of cases gleamed under the lights , Brazilian rock, samba, imported albums from Oasis, The Cranberries, and a few I couldn't even remember.
Alex flipped through a rack. "We should start a band. Juan can sing."
Juan struck a pose, hand to his chest. "Only if Kaká writes the songs. About football and heartbreak."
"Pass," I said, grinning.
"Coward," Alex muttered.
"Realist," I countered.
The clerk eyed us suspiciously, probably waiting for us to either buy something or leave. Carlos bought a CD for his sister, and we drifted out toward the big glass windows overlooking the street. Outside, the Christmas lights blinked across the avenue, soft and gold.
We leaned against the railing, watching the flow of cars below. None of us spoke for a while.
"It's weird," Juan said at last. "Feels like everyone's growing up too fast. You've got matches, Alex's got exams, and I'm still figuring out what I'm doing next year."
I nodded slowly. "Same. Just in different ways."
He looked at me. "Yeah, but you already know what you want. That's rare, man. You're lucky."
I wanted to say it didn't always feel that way , that sometimes the schedule and the expectations made it hard to breathe , but I didn't. Instead, I just said, "Maybe. But it's still just one step at a time."
Alex smirked. "Listen to him, Mister Motivation. Next thing you know, he'll be giving interviews about hard work."
We laughed again, the kind of laughter that feels like you've forgotten the clock.
By the time we left the mall, the sky had started to turn orange. We stopped by a corner kiosk for picolé. I picked coconut.
"Same as always," Carlos said. "You never change."
"Why would I?" I asked, biting into the ice.
He smiled. "Fair enough."
We walked to the bus stop together, talking about movies we wanted to watch, teachers we didn't miss, and plans for the Christmas break.
Before we split ways, Juan clapped my shoulder. "Hey, we're still your friends, right? Even when you're playing at Morumbi?"
I grinned. "Always. You can say you knew me when I still lost at arcade football."
He laughed so loud people turned to look.
When I got home, the house smelled of moqueca again, warm and rich. Mamãe called from the kitchen, "Was it good, filho?"
"Yeah," I said, kicking off my sneakers. "It was perfect."
Digão popped his head from the hallway. "Did you bring anything?"
"Only stories."
He groaned dramatically.
I just laughed and dropped onto the couch, the day still humming in my head , not the roar of a stadium, just the echo of laughter between friends.
Papai was the first one to float the idea.
"Let's take Sunday off. No football, no repairs, no errands. Just us."
He said it while buttering toast at breakfast, in that casual way he used when he'd already made up his mind.
Mamãe looked up from the newspaper. "Take Sunday off and do what?"
"Fishing," he said, as if that single word solved everything. "There's a pesqueiro in Cotia, nice ponds, good food, clean bathrooms. A friend from work swears by it."
From the other side of the table, Digão nearly choked on his milk. "Fishing? Really? With actual worms?"
"Maybe I'll use you for bait," I said.
He threw a napkin at me.
Mamãe sighed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile. "Fine. But everyone helps pack. I'm not cooking twice."
That was how it started, an idea born over toast and ended with four people cramming coolers, towels, and fishing rods into our Fiat by dawn on Sunday.
The streets glimmered from an early drizzle, and the smell of wet asphalt mixed with fresh bread from the corner padaria. Papai drove with the windows half-open, the radio tuned to softly scratchy bossa nova. Mamãe sat beside him, sunglasses already perched on her head, giving directions that he pretended not to need.
I sat in the back with Digão. He had a straw hat far too big for his head and a pack of gum he kept offering.
"Want one?"
"No, thanks."
"Come on, it helps with the altitude."
"We're not on a plane."
"Still helps," he insisted, chewing loudly to prove it.
The drive took about an hour. As we left the urban sprawl behind, the road began to snake through green slopes dotted with jacarandas and small farms. The clouds broke open, sunlight spilling over fields that still smelled of rain.
By the time the sign for Pesqueiro do Sol appeared, the air had warmed. Families were already gathering around the ponds, children with plastic rods, fathers arranging coolers like generals before battle.
We paid the entry fee, parked under a cluster of trees, and carried our things to an empty table near the water. The pond shimmered, a pale green mirror rippled by tiny fish. A couple of men sat farther down, their radios tuned to a football recap. Somewhere, oil hissed from a grill.
Mamãe took a deep breath. "Smells like vacation."
We set up our tent, next to the tree.
We started fishing mid-morning. Mamãe spread out a checkered cloth, opened the cooler, and handed around bottles of guaraná. Digão and I stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the pond.
"Okay, bait first," Papai instructed.
Digão grimaced at the worm. "It's moving."
"That's the point," I said.
"But I named him," he muttered, reluctantly skewering it. "Goodbye, Francisco."
His first cast landed directly into a patch of reeds.
Papai winced. "Wow! I didn't see that happening."
The rest of us laughed until Mamãe shushed us. "You'll scare the fish."
For a while, silence settled,broken only by the hum of insects and the occasional plop of a fish breaking the surface. I hadn't realized how much I needed quiet. After weeks of matches, travel, noise, and shouting crowds, the stillness felt like a clean breath.
The float bobbed once, twice. Then it dipped under.
"Got one!" I yelled.
The line tightened, bending the rod. Papai was instantly beside me, giving quick advice,"steady, don't jerk it", while Digão jumped like he'd just scored a goal.
The fish broke the surface, flashing silver. Papai scooped it up with the net and lifted it triumphantly.
"Tilápia!" he said.
"Big one," I added, trying not to grin too wide.
Mamãe clapped from behind the picnic cloth. "Lunch!"
We took pictures with the disposable camera she'd brought, Digão holding the fish like a trophy. Then Papai slipped it into the small cooler with a bit of water.
"Beginner's luck," he said.
"Or natural talent," I countered.
"Careful," Mamãe called, "you'll start giving interviews at the pond."
By noon the sun was bright enough to sting, so we moved into the shade. Mamãe unpacked lunch: rice, farofa, salad, and the fried pastel she'd bought on the way. Papai grilled our catch over one of the stone pits, sprinkling it with lemon and salt. The smoke drifted lazily over the pond.
When we finally ate, nobody spoke for a while. The fish flaked perfectly, smoky and tender.
"This," Mamãe declared, "is better than any restaurant."
"That's because you didn't see me burn the first one," Papai admitted.
I laughed. "You always said trial and error is part of engineering."
He pointed his fork at me. "And football."
After lunch, Papai dozed off in his chair, hat tipped over his eyes. Mamãe stretched out on a hammock nearby, her book open but unread. Digão and I wandered toward the smaller pond, skipping stones.
"Bet you can't beat four," he said.
"Watch me." I flicked a flat one, it hopped five times before sinking.
His jaw dropped. "No way."
"Five. You owe me the last pastel."
He scowled but handed it over. "You're impossible."
"I'm here, so I can't be impossible. I'm improbable. But, I AM INEVITABLE" I emphasized fro dramatic effect.
He just blew a raspberry at me!
We sat in the grass eating in comfortable silence. A dragonfly hovered near the water. Somewhere, someone's radio crackled with a samba tune.
Out of nowhere, Digão asked, "Do you think you'll play every game next year?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. It depends on the coach."
He nodded thoughtfully. "When you score, you look taller."
"Taller?"
"Yeah. Like you grow when the crowd shouts."
I laughed softly. "Maybe that's just adrenaline."
"Whatever it is," he said, "it's cool."
The way he said it,earnest, matter-of-fact,hit me harder than I expected. I ruffled his hair. "Thanks, irmãozinho (little brother)."
"Don't mess the hat," he complained, pushing my hand away.
Later in the afternoon, Mamãe joined us by the pond, barefoot, carrying a plate of sliced fruits. She sat between us, letting her feet dangle in the water.
"I forgot how good this feels," she said. "Just sitting without rushing anywhere."
Papai walked over a minute later, still half-asleep but smiling. "We should do this more often."
"You say that every time," she teased.
"This time I mean it."
They looked at each other for a second too long, and I had to look away. Some things about them still made me shy, even after sixteen years of being their kid.
Mamãe looked up and announced, "We're not leaving yet. You two have been sitting all day. Go do something that involves moving."
I looked at her. "We've been fishing."
"Exactly," she said. "That doesn't count. Move."
Papai stretched, his hat tilted low. "You heard your mother. Find a way to burn some energy."
Digão grinned immediately. "Football!"
Of course.
The pesqueiro had a dusty half-field behind the main building, uneven grass and two crooked metal goals. By the time we reached it, a few other families had gathered there , older men still in their fishing shirts, a couple of kids chasing a ball barefoot.
"Mind if we join?" I asked one of the men.
He looked up, squinting. Recognition flickered. "Wait, you're the boy from São Paulo FC, aren't you?"
My stomach dipped for a second. "Yeah, that's me."
The man laughed and clapped my shoulder. "Then we're definitely letting you play. But you're not allowed to shoot hard, deal?"
"Deal," I said, smiling.
The game began almost immediately , shirts versus no shirts, six on six, no referee, no tactics. Just chaos. The kind that felt pure.
Digão insisted on being on my team. Mamãe and Papai watched from under a tree, her hands folded on her knees, his fingers wrapped around a bottle of water like a coach studying strategy even when he swore he wasn't thinking about work.
The grass was patchy, and every bounce was unpredictable, but it didn't matter. A small boy dribbled through three adults, earning applause. I played easy, focusing on passes, keeping my touches light. Every once in a while, I'd hear Papai's voice cut through the shouts , "Nice one, son!" , or Mamãe's laughter when someone tripped and got up covered in dust.
At one point, the ball rolled out near her feet. She kicked it back with surprising accuracy. "Still got it," she said, wiping her hands on her skirt.
"You used to play?" one of the men asked.
"School team," she said. "Before this one was even born." She pointed at me.
That got a cheer from everyone, and I felt my face heat up.
The game stretched on until the sun started leaning west. Nobody kept score, but Digão claimed we won anyway because, as he said, "You were on my team."
Mamãe passed around slices of watermelon she'd kept cold in a small container. Sweet, sticky juice ran down our wrists, and we wiped it with the backs of our hands, not caring.
Papai took pictures with the old camera, the kind you had to wind after each shot. The click, click, click of the shutter sounded like time slowing down.
When we finally packed up, Mamãe insisted on one more stop before heading back. "I heard that there's a small chapel down the road," she said. "They have a lookout over the valley. It's beautiful at this hour apparently."
Papai didn't argue. We loaded the cooler, the rods, and the leftover food into the trunk and drove off, tires crunching over gravel.
The chapel wasn't on any main map , just a small white building at the top of a hill, its bell tower barely taller than the jacaranda trees around it. The view, though, was worth it. From there you could see the valley spread like a painting, streaks of gold and green under the fading sun.
Mamãe climbed out first, straightening her blouse. "See? Told you. You looked at me like I made it up"
Papai put an arm around her shoulder. "All right, you were right."
Digão ran ahead, his straw hat nearly flying off. "There's a bell!" he shouted.
"Don't ring it!" Mamãe warned.
He rang it anyway. The sound echoed down the hill , deep, hollow, but strangely warm.
I stood near the edge, the wind tugging at my hair. Down below, I could see the distant shimmer of the pesqueiro's pond. For a moment, I just watched it in silence. No thoughts of matches or training sessions. Just the feeling of being sixteen and with my family, the kind of day that usually slips by unnoticed until you realize later it was perfect.
Papai joined me. He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking at the horizon.
Then he said quietly, "You know, when I was your age, I'd spend days like this fishing with my father. He used to say patience is learned with a rod in your hand."
I smiled. "Guess he was right."
He nodded. "He usually was."
Mamãe's voice floated over from the chapel doorway. "You two are getting sentimental again!"
Papai laughed. "She's right. Let's go before we start writing poetry."
We took one last look at the view, then followed her down to the car.
We stopped again in Cotia at a roadside pastel stand. The air was heavy with the smell of fried dough and sugar. A young man behind the counter shouted orders while his wife filled bags with steaming pastries.
Mamãe ordered pastel de carne, Papai wanted one with cheese and palm heart, and Digão pointed to a sign that said "DOCE DE LEITE" like it was treasure.
"Just one," Mamãe warned.
"Two," he bargained.
"One and a half," Papai decided.
"That's not a thing!" Digão said, but he was already grinning.
We sat on a wooden bench near the road, eating while trucks rumbled past. The oil left little stains on the brown paper, and the filling burned our tongues just enough to make us laugh.
"Better than the ones from last week's market," Mamãe declared.
"That's because anything tastes better when you're full of sunlight," Papai said.
Mamãe rolled her eyes. The laughter came easy, the kind that doesn't need an audience.
When we finally got back in the car, it was already dark. The dashboard lights glowed softly, the air smelled faintly of sugar and salt. I rested my head against the window and watched the city lights slowly grow brighter as we drove closer to home.
Mamãe hummed softly to a song on the radio, something from Gal Costa. Papai tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Digão leaned forward between the seats, recounting how "technically" he scored a goal earlier even though the ball didn't even go in.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, the day already felt like a memory , warm, distant, complete.
We carried everything inside, left the rods by the wall, and collapsed onto the couch. The television flickered in the background , a late-night talk show, some chatter about football scores I barely registered.
Mamãe stretched and said, "I'm not moving until tomorrow."
"You don't have to," Papai said. "We did enough living today."
For a while, none of us spoke. Just the faint buzz of the TV and the hum of the city outside.
Before heading to bed, I looked toward my family , Mamãe with her feet tucked under her, Papai half-asleep in his chair, Digão curled up with his plate of leftover pastel , and thought, This is the part no one sees.
Not the stadium noise or the goals, but this. The important bits.
The quiet, the laughter, the smell of food and soap and home.
And maybe that's what makes everything else matter.
The Next Day
By the time we got to Tia Marta's house, the sky was already glowing orange. The air was heavy with that kind of São Paulo summer warmth that clings to your skin and smells faintly of rain. I could hear the chatter from halfway down the street. Laughter, clinking glasses, the buzz of conversation that spilled right through the gate.
Mamãe carried a tray of coxinhas she'd made in the morning. Papai followed behind with a bottle of guaraná under one arm and a pack of soda cans in the other. Digão ran ahead the moment the door opened.
"Slow down, garoto!" Mamãe called after him, but her voice was half-laughing.
Inside, the house was alive , the sound of cousins yelling over a card game, uncles arguing about Palmeiras versus São Paulo, and someone already shouting for more ice.
The smell of grilled meat mixed with perfume and fruit punch. Typical family chaos. The kind that makes you feel like you've stepped back into a world that never really changes.
"Olha o craque!" one of my uncles shouted when he saw me. ("Look at the star!")
That was all it took. The next ten minutes were a blur of claps on the back, jokes about "our boy on TV," and people asking if I'd met their favorite players.
I smiled, tried to answer everyone politely, even when the questions repeated. I didn't mind, really. They meant well.
"Still eating like you used to, or does the club feed you grass and protein shakes now?" another cousin teased, handing me a plate loaded with picanha and rice.
"Still Brazilian," I said, grinning. "Never skipping rice and beans."
That got a round of laughter.
Mamãe drifted naturally toward the kitchen, greeted by a dozen hugs. Papai disappeared to the veranda where the older men stood around, talking about projects, car repairs, and the weather like philosophers. I was halfway to joining them when I noticed someone standing near the window.
Glória.
For a second, I froze, like someone had just pressed pause on the world. She was wearing a soft blue dress, her hair pulled back neatly. Same eyes, same way of tilting her head when she was listening to someone. But there was something about her now. She's different.
She noticed me almost immediately. There was no surprise, just that polite smile people give when they see an old classmate.
I nodded slightly, a quiet "oi" (hi) with my eyes.
She gave a small nod back.
I told myself to keep walking , maybe grab a drink, maybe join the noise outside , but my feet didn't listen. Somehow, I ended up near her anyway.
"Hey," I said finally, voice low. "It's been a while."
"Yeah," she said. "A long while."
Her tone wasn't sharp, but it wasn't soft either. There was distance in it , not anger, more like a closed door that didn't need opening.
"You've been good?" I asked.
She shrugged lightly. "Busy. Finishing school. Started taking some language classes. You?"
"Busy too," I said, with an awkward chuckle. "Training. Traveling."
"I've seen," she said, not looking at me. "It's hard to miss your face on TV."
There was no bitterness in her voice, just observation. I smiled faintly. "I didn't expect you to watch my matches."
"I don't," she said quickly, then caught herself. "Sometimes my brother leaves the games on."
I nodded, pretending to study the window frame beside us.
For a moment, it was just the sound of people laughing in the next room, someone dropping a spoon, kids running down the hall.
The kind of background noise that fills a silence you don't know how to break.
Then a boy walked up , tall, brown hair, good looking, cleaned up well, and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You coming?" he asked in a friendly voice. "We're starting that game outside."
"In a bit," she said, then turned back to me. "Ricardo, this is André. My boyfriend"
I smiled, genuinely this time. "Nice to meet you, cara."
André shook my hand, polite and easygoing. "Nice to meet you too. You're the footballer, right?"
"That's what they tell me."
He laughed, and for a second, it wasn't awkward. Just normal.
When they left to join the others, I stayed near the window, looking out at the backyard where the cousins were setting up a volleyball net. I exhaled slowly. It didn't sting, exactly , it just felt… distant. Like finding a photo you forgot you had, one that belonged to another season of life.
Mamãe found me a few minutes later, holding a plate. "You haven't eaten enough," she said, pressing it into my hands.
"I'm good, Mamãe."
"You look pale."
"It's the lighting."
"Eat."
So I ate. Because with her, that was always the only answer that worked.
By late afternoon, the party had spread into the garden. The air smelled of roasted meat and jasmine. Papai was laughing at something one of my uncles said; Digão was chasing a soccer ball barefoot with the cousins, his hair soaked with sweat.
It felt good to just be part of it , no crowd noise, no jerseys, no pressure. Just noise, food, and people who knew me before any of that mattered.
At one point, Mamãe came outside with a tray of brigadeiros. She offered me one, smiling softly.
"Better than the club's nutrition plan."
"Don't tell the coach," I said through a mouthful of chocolate.
"Your secret's safe with me." and she winked.
I leaned against the fence for a while, watching the sunset. The air buzzed with crickets, and the light turned everything gold. I could still hear Glória laughing somewhere behind me, faint but real, and it made me smile , not because I wanted anything back, but because it reminded me that we were both growing up, just in different directions.
Papai came over with two cans of guaraná and handed me one. "You all right, filho?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just thinking."
"Don't think too much. It's a party."
He smiled, clinking his can against mine. We stood there quietly, watching the younger cousins jump into a water fight near the hose.
"You know," he said after a moment, "these are the moments that disappear first when life gets busy. Try to remember them."
I nodded. "I will."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
As the evening wound down, people began to leave in clusters. Hugs, kisses on the cheek, leftovers packed in foil. Mamãe and Tia Marta exchanged promises to see each other again "soon," which always meant next season at best. Papai helped carry trays back to the car.
I said goodbye to Glória in passing , just a small wave from across the garden. She returned it, polite, almost warm, and then turned away to help her little brother with something.
In the car, Digão fell asleep before we even left the neighborhood. His head tilted against my shoulder, mouth slightly open, one hand clutching the leftover brigadeiro he refused to leave behind.
Mamãe turned halfway in her seat. "You had a good time?"
"Yeah," I said. "It was nice."
The city lights flickered through the window. For a long moment, I watched them blur past , gold, red, white , all blending together like a single moving thought.
Somewhere in that rhythm, I realized how full the day had been , of food, of noise, of faces that had watched me grow. Maybe I hadn't known how much I missed that until now.
When we reached home, Mamãe woke Digão gently and guided him inside. Papai stayed behind to unload the car. I lingered in the driveway for a moment, staring up at the warm glow of the living room lights through the curtains.
The night was still humid. Somewhere down the street, someone was playing guitar, the faint chords of "Evidências" floating on the breeze.
I smiled, stretched, and went inside.
Next Sunday
Sunday mornings had a sound of their own in our house , the shuffle of feet on cool tiles, the smell of coffee drifting down the hallway, the muffled clatter of Mamãe looking for her purse. I woke up to all of it, sunlight leaking through the curtains and the hum of Papai's voice from the kitchen radio.
"Ricardo, levanta! São quase nove!"
("Ricardo, get up! It's almost nine!")
I groaned into my pillow. "Já tô indo, Mamãe…" ("I'm coming, Mom…")
Digão was already awake, tying his shoelaces on the edge of the bed. He had combed his hair too neatly for it to be his idea. "You're late again," he said, smirking.
"You just like being Papai's favorite," I muttered.
He grinned. "He said I'm more organized."
"Then you can sit next to him in church."
"I always do."
"Kissass."
He laughed, called me Mama's boy, and threw a pillow at me before running out of the room.
When I got to the kitchen, Mamãe was standing by the counter with her coffee mug in hand, already dressed in her light blue blouse. Papai was reading the newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose.
The smell of toasted bread and butter filled the air. A small plate of sliced papaya sat in the middle of the table.
"Eat something before we go," she said automatically, handing me a plate.
I sat down, yawning. "Do we really have to be on time, early in the morning, every Sunday? Can't we go in the evening?"
Papai lowered his paper just enough to look at me. "It's not an appointment, it's Church."
"Feels like both." I muttered under my breath.
That earned me a look from Mamãe , not angry, but sharp enough to make me take a quick bite of toast. The butter was still melting, sweet and warm.
"We'll stop for pastel after mass," she said, softening. "If you behave."
"Define behave."
She raised her eyebrows, and I took another bite.
The church wasn't far, just a few blocks down. We walked together, Mamãe and Papai side by side, Digão bouncing a small ball against his knee as he walked, me trailing behind, hands in my pockets. The streets were quiet except for the occasional car and the chatter of a neighbor sweeping the sidewalk.
By the time we reached the church gates, the courtyard was already full. The stone steps glowed faintly under the morning sun. People greeted each other with light kisses on the cheek, children ran between legs, and the bell tower gave a single slow chime that made the pigeons flutter away.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of wax and lilies.
We found our usual seats, middle row, right side. Mamãe always liked it there, close enough to see, far enough to not be seen too much.
Father Renato was at the altar, smiling as he flipped through the readings. I knew him well enough; he'd known our family since I was little. When his eyes found us in the crowd, he gave a small nod.
The choir started softly , a simple hymn. The sound filled the hall, warm and slow. I glanced sideways and saw Mamãe close her eyes, lips moving with the words she'd probably known her whole life. Papai stood straight, his voice low but steady. Even Digão sang, barely above a whisper, but he sang.
I stayed quiet. Not because I didn't want to, but because I liked listening , the rise and fall of their voices, the echo against the old stone walls. It made everything else, the noise and speed of the week, feel far away.
After the service, everyone spilled back out into the courtyard. The air had turned hot already, the kind of humid heat that made shirts stick to your back.
People lingered anyway, chatting in little circles, saying goodbye ten times before actually leaving.
"Ricardo!" someone called.
I turned to see Father Renato walking toward me, robes flowing slightly in the breeze. He still moved with that quiet, deliberate pace that made you feel like he was thinking three steps ahead.
"I saw you on TV last week," he said, smiling. "Congratulations on the season."
"Thank you, Father."
"I told your mother she should've brought you for blessings before that game," he said, with a wink toward Mamãe. "Maybe next time."
Mamãe laughed. "Maybe he'll score twice then."
"Or learn humility," Papai added dryly.
"Ah," Father Renato said, chuckling. "That too."
He patted my shoulder before moving along to greet another family.
As we started down the street again, Mamãe leaned in. "See, even Father Renato watches football."
"Everybody does in Brazil" I said.
"Even in heaven, probably. Do you think God watches football?"
She smacked my arm gently. "Don't joke."
We stopped at the pastel stall on the corner like we always did. The same man had been running it for years , Senhor Amaro, with his stained apron and endless patience.
The smell hit us before we even reached the stand: fried dough, cheese, oil, and coffee. Heavenly.
"Bom dia, Dona Simone!" ("Good morning, Mrs. Simone!")
"Bom dia, Senhor Amaro," she said, smiling. "The usual."
He nodded, already dropping pastéis into the bubbling oil. I leaned against the counter while Digão watched eagerly, eyes locked on the fryer like it was a magic trick.
"Two with cheese, one with beef, one with heart of palm," Amaro said, pulling them out, the golden dough glistening.
We ate standing by the side of the stall, napkins catching crumbs that still somehow ended up on Papai's shirt. He didn't care. He bit into his pastel like a man starved.
Mamae tried to look annoyed, but her smile betrayed her. I laughed, and so did Digão.
When we finished, Papai wiped his hands and stretched. "We should stop by the market before heading home."
"Again?" Mamãe said. "We just went on Thursday."
"Fish prices are down today."
She sighed, already knowing resistance was pointless. "You two go. I'll take Digão home."
"I'll go with Papai," I offered.
"Good," Papai said, giving me a pat on the back. "You can carry the bags."
The walk to the market was longer, and the sun hit harder now. The sidewalks were packed with stalls, fruit, bread, handmade jewelry, radios blaring sertanejo songs. Vendors called out prices like auctioneers.
Papai moved slowly, examining everything. "Always look at the eyes first," he said, pointing at a row of fresh fish. "If they're clear, it's good."
"I remember," I said.
"You remember, but you don't look."
I bent closer. "These are fine."
"Fine is never enough. If you're in doubt, you check the Gills. They need to be blood red. If they change color, the fish is no good. And always use your smell. That's an indicator"
We bought two, wrapped neatly in newspaper, and carried them back through the noise and chatter.
Back at the house, Mamãe was already setting the table for lunch. Digão was in front of the TV watching reruns of an old cartoon. Papai dropped the fish on the counter, and she gave him a look that said, "Not on my clean counter."
"Sorry," he said, and she shook her head, laughing.
I helped set out the plates, moving carefully around the kitchen while the radio hummed a lazy samba tune. The ceiling fan spun slowly, carrying the smell of garlic and onion across the room.
When we finally sat down, Papai raised his glass.
"To Sundays," he said.
"And peace," Mamãe added.
"And dessert," Digão said.
We laughed, clinking glasses of juice.
And for the rest of the day, nothing extraordinary happened, which was exactly what made it perfect.
The heat had settled heavy over São Paulo that week, the kind that stuck to your skin even at night.
By late afternoon, two days before Christmas, the backyard smelled of charcoal and meat, and Papai was in his element, tongs in hand, commanding the grill like it was an orchestra.
"Don't turn it yet," Mamãe warned, peeking over his shoulder. "It is not done."
"I've been grilling longer than you've been teaching, Simone."
"Not better, just longer," she said, and stole a piece of sausage from the corner of the tray before walking off.
I sat under the awning with Digão and Alex, sipping cold guaraná from sweating glasses. The sound of laughter and clinking plates drifted through the open door.
The house was full , family, neighbors, a few of my teammates who lived nearby, and friends from the neighborhood. There was music somewhere inside, an old pagode record spinning, the rhythm soft and lazy.
Diego arrived late, waving from the gate. "Kaká! I brought the ice!"
"Finally," Alex called out. "You saved humanity." In a dramatic way.
Diego dropped the bags into the cooler, grinning. "Where's your father? I can smell the churrasco from the street."
"Commanding the post," I said, pointing to the smoke.
He laughed and went straight for the grill, drawn in like everyone else.
It was one of those evenings that felt slow but alive, the hum of people talking in overlapping conversations, the hiss of meat hitting the grill, kids running around with sparklers even though it wasn't dark yet.
Summer light spilled over everything in shades of gold and amber.
Mamãe moved from table to table, checking that everyone had a plate. Her hair was pinned loosely, a few strands escaping every time she bent down to talk to someone.
Every now and then, she glanced at Papai to make sure he wasn't burning anything. He pretended not to notice but adjusted the coals anyway.
I leaned back, letting it all wash over me.
"Ricardo," Mamãe said suddenly from behind me.
"Go greet the Costas. They just arrived."
"Right now? I just sat down."
"Yes, right now. Don't make me ask twice."
I sighed, set down my drink, and walked toward the front gate.
The Costas had always been close friends of our family , old church companions, always cheerful, always bringing desserts.
"Oi, Ricardo," Senhor Costa greeted, pulling me into a quick hug. "Congratulations on your year, rapaz!"
"Thank you, senhor," I said, smiling.
Senhora Costa hugged me too, smelling of vanilla and perfume. "You've grown taller again!"
I laughed. "Maybe a little."
As the evening went on, the garden lights came on, tiny white bulbs strung along the fence.
The food disappeared fast , skewers, sausages, garlic bread, bowls of farofa and vinaigrette. The chatter grew louder with the music. Someone brought out a guitar, and Diego couldn't resist singing, badly, of course.
"Meu Deus," Alex groaned, covering his ears. "Make it stop."
"Hey," Diego protested, still strumming. "I'm improving!"
"Compared to what? A dying cat?"
Everyone laughed.
Papai shook his head but didn't stop them. "As long as no one breaks the strings," he said. "They're expensive."
Later, after everyone had eaten and the music had slowed, Papai brought out a tray of sliced watermelon. Mamãe poured more juice, and the adults settled into chairs to talk about vacations and neighbors. The air had cooled just enough to make it bearable again.
Alex and Diego were still teasing each other near the cooler, arguing about which football boots were better. Digão had fallen asleep on the couch inside, one leg dangling off the side.
I stretched, feeling that quiet kind of tired that comes from being full, happy, and just a little sunburned.
Papai came over, sitting beside me on one of the lawn chairs. "Good night, wasn't it?"
"It was," I said.
He handed me a piece of watermelon. "You've grown into a good young man, Kaká. You make us proud."
I smiled, embarrassed. "Thanks, Papai."
"Now eat. Your mother says you're not eating enough"
I laughed, bit into the watermelon, and let the cool sweetness fill my mouth.
Mamãe walked over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Good night, meu amor," she said. "Don't stay up too late. We still have church tomorrow."
"I know."
She smiled, kissed my forehead, and went back inside.
For a while, I just sat there, listening to the soft buzz, the crackle of the last embers in the grill.
The air smelled of smoke and salt and faint perfume from all the guests. The lights twinkled above us like small stars.
Somewhere down the street, someone lit fireworks, bright flashes breaking the night for a few seconds before fading away.
It wasn't Christmas yet, but it felt close. The kind of evening you wanted to fold up and keep, just to remind yourself that life was more than football, more than goals or headlines.
Just family. Friends. Laughter. The simple things that stayed, the things that mattered.