The roar of the crowd still lived inside Gabriel's chest. Even days later, lying in his small bedroom, he could close his eyes and hear it—sixty thousand voices chanting in unison, a thunder that rattled the soul.
He woke earlier now. Ran longer. Stayed after training until the floodlights flickered off. Every time his legs screamed, he reminded himself: The Maracanã. The Nação. That's where I belong.
João sometimes stayed with him, tired but loyal.
"You're possessed, irmão," he laughed after one of their endless sessions. "You train like the ghosts of Zico and Adriano are chasing you."
Gabriel smirked through his sweat. "Maybe they are."
---
A New Spotlight
But with effort came attention.
One morning, the youth team's press officer approached him after training.
"Silva, Globo Esporte wants an interview. Just a quick talk, nothing fancy."
Gabriel blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you. The kid who walked the Maracanã with Gabigol and scored on the first team in training? People want to know your name."
That afternoon, a reporter shoved a microphone in his face.
"Gabriel, how did it feel to hear the Maracanã crowd? Do you dream of being Flamengo's next striker?"
He stumbled through his answers, cheeks burning, voice trembling. But later, when he saw his mother watching the clip on her old phone with tears in her eyes, he realized—this wasn't just about him anymore. It was about hope.
---
Rivals Watching
Not everyone celebrated. At the next training match against Fluminense's base team, Gabriel felt the difference. Their defenders were rougher, tighter, whispers trailing across the pitch.
"That's the Flamengo golden boy?"
"Let's see if he can handle pressure."
The game became a war. Every tackle aimed to break his rhythm, every shove a test of nerves. Gabriel got up each time, teeth gritted, fire burning brighter with every fall.
He didn't score that day, but he didn't break either. And sometimes, survival is its own victory.
---
The Warning
That evening, the youth coach called him into the office.
"Silva, listen carefully. Fame is a dangerous thing. Today, the press loves you. Tomorrow, they could tear you apart. Don't play for the headlines. Play for the shirt. For yourself. For your family. Understand?"
Gabriel met his eyes, steady. "I understand, professor. I'll carry it. All of it."
The coach nodded, satisfied—but behind his eyes lingered worry.
---
A Flame That Grew
That night, Gabriel lay in bed, phone buzzing again with messages, his face appearing in short online clips. His name wasn't yet carved in history, but it was spreading.
And as he stared at the ceiling, exhaustion heavy on his muscles, he whispered to himself:
"This is just the beginning. I'll make sure the world remembers the boy from the backyard."