The morning sun spilled across the Gávea training grounds, turning the dew on the grass into tiny sparks. Gabriel tied his boots slowly, his chest heavy. The second week of training had begun, and already the pressure felt suffocating.
During warm-ups, Lucas—the blond-haired boy with the sharp grin—kept dominating the ball, flicking passes and showing off stepovers. The coaches liked him. The other boys laughed with him. Gabriel stayed on the edges, waiting for chances that rarely came.
That day's scrimmage felt crueler than usual. Every touch Gabriel made seemed too heavy, every pass rushed. In the second half, he received the ball near midfield. He tried to dribble, but Lucas slid in, clean and fast, stealing it before Gabriel even had a chance to breathe.
"Welcome to Flamengo, backyard boy," Lucas muttered as he jogged past.
The coach blew the whistle. "Play faster, Gabriel! This isn't the playground!"
Heat rushed to his cheeks. The sting of humiliation cut deeper than the scraped skin on his knees.
---
A Hand Reached Out
Later, in the cafeteria, Gabriel sat alone with a plate of beans and rice, pushing the food around with his fork. He wanted to disappear.
"Hey."
Gabriel looked up. A tall, lanky boy with dark skin and an easy smile stood beside him, tray in hand.
"Mind if I sit?"
Gabriel shrugged. "Sure."
The boy sat and dug into his food. "I'm João. Center back. You?"
"Gabriel. Forward."
João grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "I saw you yesterday. That spin move—you nearly broke Lucas's ankles."
Gabriel's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Nearly doesn't count."
"Doesn't matter. I know talent when I see it. And trust me, you got it."
For the first time since arriving, Gabriel felt the weight on his chest lighten. They talked—about the heat, about missing home, about the endless pressure to impress. João laughed easily, and Gabriel realized how starved he was for simple kindness.
---
Falling Hard
But kindness couldn't shield him from failure.
On Friday, the coach announced a practice match against an older age group. "This is where we see who can handle pressure," he barked.
Gabriel's heart soared. This was his chance.
When the game began, though, everything collapsed. The older boys were faster, stronger, ruthless. Gabriel's first shot skied over the bar. His second was blocked before it even left his foot. In the second half, he missed a sitter—an open net, the kind of chance strikers live for.
The whistle ended the nightmare. Gabriel bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping into the grass. He wanted to cry but forced it down, swallowing the lump in his throat.
On the walk back, Lucas smirked. "Maybe the playground is where you belong after all."
Gabriel's fists clenched. He said nothing.
[14:45, 15/09/2025] Heitor: A Friend, A Fall
The morning sun spilled across the Gávea training grounds, turning the dew on the grass into tiny sparks. Gabriel tied his boots slowly, his chest heavy. The second week of training had begun, and already the pressure felt suffocating.
During warm-ups, Lucas—the blond-haired boy with the sharp grin—kept dominating the ball, flicking passes and showing off stepovers. The coaches liked him. The other boys laughed with him. Gabriel stayed on the edges, waiting for chances that rarely came.
That day's scrimmage felt crueler than usual. Every touch Gabriel made seemed too heavy, every pass rushed. In the second half, he received the ball near midfield. He tried to dribble, but Lucas slid in, clean and fast, stealing it before Gabriel even had a chance to breathe.
"Welcome to Flamengo, backyard boy," Lucas muttered as he jogged past.
The coach blew the whistle. "Play faster, Gabriel! This isn't the playground!"
Heat rushed to his cheeks. The sting of humiliation cut deeper than the scraped skin on his knees.
---
A Hand Reached Out
Later, in the cafeteria, Gabriel sat alone with a plate of beans and rice, pushing the food around with his fork. He wanted to disappear.
"Hey."
Gabriel looked up. A tall, lanky boy with dark skin and an easy smile stood beside him, tray in hand.
"Mind if I sit?"
Gabriel shrugged. "Sure."
The boy sat and dug into his food. "I'm João. Center back. You?"
"Gabriel. Forward."
João grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "I saw you yesterday. That spin move—you nearly broke Lucas's ankles."
Gabriel's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Nearly doesn't count."
"Doesn't matter. I know talent when I see it. And trust me, you got it."
For the first time since arriving, Gabriel felt the weight on his chest lighten. They talked—about the heat, about missing home, about the endless pressure to impress. João laughed easily, and Gabriel realized how starved he was for simple kindness.
---
Falling Hard
But kindness couldn't shield him from failure.
On Friday, the coach announced a practice match against an older age group. "This is where we see who can handle pressure," he barked.
Gabriel's heart soared. This was his chance.
When the game began, though, everything collapsed. The older boys were faster, stronger, ruthless. Gabriel's first shot skied over the bar. His second was blocked before it even left his foot. In the second half, he missed a sitter—an open net, the kind of chance strikers live for.
The whistle ended the nightmare. Gabriel bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping into the grass. He wanted to cry but forced it down, swallowing the lump in his throat.
On the walk back, Lucas smirked. "Maybe the playground is where you belong after all."
Gabriel's fists clenched. He said nothing.
---
Fire in the Dark
That night, lying in bed, the silence was unbearable. His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from shame. He replayed the miss over and over until the image burned into his skull.
Then came João's voice in his memory: I know talent when I see it.
Gabriel pressed his hands against his face.
"Tomorrow," he whispered into the dark. "Tomorrow I rise again."
Failure hurt. But it also carved something deeper inside him—a stubborn flame that refused to die.