The bus rattled down Avenida Borges de Medeiros, windows rattling in rhythm with Gabriel's racing heart. His calloused hands clutched a worn backpack—inside, a single pair of boots, scuffed from years of backyard matches. Around him, kids his age laughed, shouted, and nudged each other, but Gabriel kept quiet. His stomach twisted.
When the bus finally stopped in front of Flamengo's training center, the boys surged out like a red-and-black wave. Gabriel lingered a moment, staring at the iron gates and the giant crest shining above them.
"This is it…" he whispered to himself. His mother's words from that morning echoed in his head: Play like it's your only chance, meu filho. Because maybe it is.
---
Baptism of Fire
The coach was a stocky man with a sharp voice that carried across the pitch.
"Listen up! Out there, you're not kids. You're warriors. Flamengo doesn't raise players—we raise legends. Show me who you are!"
The scrimmage began at once. Gabriel hesitated, the weight of the jersey heavy on his shoulders. He watched the others—so fast, so strong. Their touches were cleaner, their movements sharper. For the first few minutes, he barely touched the ball.
Then it came. A loose pass, rolling toward him. He stopped it with his instep, heart hammering. An opponent rushed him, tall, confident, already sneering.
Don't overthink. Just play.
Gabriel dropped his shoulder, nudged the ball left, then spun right. His body moved before his mind did. The defender stumbled. Gasps rose from the sideline. Gabriel surged forward and slipped a pass to a teammate. Nothing spectacular—no goal, no crowd—but his lungs filled with fire. He belonged here. Maybe.
---
The Weight of Silence
After training, the locker room filled with laughter and arguments over who scored what. Gabriel sat on the edge of the bench, lacing and unlacing his boots, unsure if he should join in. His Portuguese sounded the same as theirs, but somehow it felt heavier, slower.
A boy with dyed blond hair—Lucas, the loudest of the group—glanced at him.
"Hey, backyard boy. Nice dribble out there," he said with a grin that was half compliment, half challenge.
Gabriel nodded, forcing a smile. "Thanks."
But when Lucas turned away, Gabriel exhaled quietly. Every glance, every joke, every silence felt like a test. He wasn't just fighting for a place on the team—he was fighting to be seen, to be accepted.
---
Night Thoughts
That night, back in his small room, Gabriel lay staring at the ceiling again. His muscles ached, his lungs still burned, but it was the silence that hurt most. Here, nobody cheered his name like Vinícius did back home. Nobody believed in him yet.
He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Outside, Rio never slept—the honk of cars, the echo of music. But inside Gabriel's chest, there was only one voice:
You can't go back. Not now. Not after you touched that grass. Tomorrow, you fight harder. Tomorrow, you make them notice.
And with that vow, he closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would be another battle.