Two years had passed since Gabriel Silva's debut.
The boy who once dribbled barefoot in the backyard was now Flamengo's number 9. The Maracanã had sung his name countless times, and the whole of Brazil knew his story.
The numbers didn't lie:
Brasileirão: 24 goals, 12 assists in one season.
Copa do Brasil: 7 goals in 9 matches.
Libertadores: 10 goals, 5 assists in 12 games.
Overall for Flamengo: 41 goals and 22 assists in 62 appearances.
At just 19 years old, Gabriel's statistics were absurd. Commentators called him "o fenômeno da nova geração". Fans compared him to Adriano Imperador. Scouts from Europe circled like hawks.
Real Madrid. Barcelona. Liverpool. PSG. Offers whispered through the corridors of Gávea, numbers with too many zeroes to believe.
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The Pull of Europe
After a Libertadores quarter-final where Gabriel scored twice against River Plate, an agent approached him outside the tunnel.
"Madrid is watching you," the man said quietly, handing him a card. "They want you now."
Gabriel stared at the card, heart pounding. Europe. The dream of millions. The stage of legends.
But his chest felt heavy. Was he ready to leave? Was he ready to abandon the Maracanã, the fans who had carried him, the shirt he had sworn to honor?
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Conversations in the Night
At home, his mother cooked quietly, watching him wrestle with the thoughts.
"You've already given Flamengo so much, Biel," she said. "But I see it in your eyes. The world is calling."
Gabriel shook his head. "Mãe, I swore I'd lift the Libertadores with this shirt. I can't leave without that."
Later, on a call with Mel, her voice was soft but firm. "Europe will always be there. But moments like these? The chance to become eternal with Flamengo? That's once in a lifetime."
Her words struck him deep. She understood what the Maracanã meant.
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Fire at the Maracanã
In the semifinal of the Libertadores, Flamengo faced Boca Juniors. The stadium thundered, red flares painting the sky. Gabriel stepped onto the field carrying all the noise of his choices, all the weight of two worlds pulling him apart.
At the 15th minute, he danced through two defenders, leaving them stumbling, and scored with a rocket into the top corner. The stadium shook. Later, he assisted Gabigol with a clever backheel, sealing the win.
The commentators shouted:
"He's not just Flamengo's jewel anymore—he's South America's star!"
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Between Dreams
That night, Gabriel lay in bed, scrolling through articles. One headline read: "Gabriel Silva: Europe's Next Wonderkid." Another: "Will Flamengo's flame leave before burning in the Libertadores final?"
He turned the phone off, staring at the ceiling.
Two worlds pulled at him. Europe, with its fame, fortune, and legends. Flamengo, with its passion, history, and the promise of immortality in the Libertadores.
He clenched his fists. Not yet. Not until I've finished what I started.