The streets of Rio were painted red and black. Murals of Gabriel Silva appeared on walls, flags with his face waved in buses and cars. He was no longer just Flamengo's jewel—he was the símbolo of their dream.
The Maracanã was ready for war. Flamengo vs. River Plate. The Libertadores final. 80,000 fans in the stadium, millions more watching around the world.
But before the storm, Gabriel found peace in a voice.
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The Night Before
In the hotel room, sleep refused to come. His phone buzzed.
"Can't sleep?" Mel's message lit the screen.
He smiled faintly and called. Her voice, soft and warm, filled the silence.
"You've come so far, Gabriel," she said. "From the backyard to here. Tomorrow, it's history."
"I'm nervous," he admitted. "Europe is watching. Flamengo is counting on me. If I fail—"
"You won't," she interrupted gently. "Because you're not playing for Europe. You're not playing for the headlines. You're playing for the boy you were, and for the people who love you. That's why you're different."
Her words calmed him like no coach's speech ever could. For the first time that night, he closed his eyes and slept.
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The Whistle
The Maracanã trembled as the players walked out. Red flares burned. The anthem of Libertadores echoed. Gabriel kissed the badge on his chest, staring at the ocean of fans.
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
The game exploded. River pressed high, suffocating Flamengo. Tackles flew, tension mounted. At the 30th minute, River scored first. Silence fell over the stands.
Gabriel clenched his fists. Not tonight. Not here.
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The Spark of Genius
At the 42nd minute, Arrascaeta won the ball in midfield and slipped it forward. Gabriel sprinted into the gap, defender on his back. With one touch, he rolled the ball behind his heel, spun, and left the defender chasing shadows.
The keeper rushed out. Gabriel chipped it lightly, the ball floating over the gloves and kissing the net.
GOAL.
The Maracanã exploded. Fireworks lit the sky. Fans screamed his name, over and over: "Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel!"
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Carrying Flamengo
The second half was chaos. River pushed harder. Flamengo fought back.
In the 70th minute, Gabriel picked up the ball near midfield. Three defenders closed in. He feinted right, cut left, nutmegged one, spun past another. The third slid desperately—but Gabriel skipped over, racing into the box.
Instead of shooting, he squared it to Gabigol, who smashed it in.
2–1 Flamengo. The stadium shook like an earthquake.
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The Decider
But River equalized at the 85th minute. 2–2. Extra time loomed. The fans bit their nails, praying.
Then came the 93rd minute.
Everton Ribeiro lifted a desperate cross. Gabriel rose, higher than anyone, time slowing. His forehead met the ball clean. It thundered into the corner of the net.
GOAL. The Maracanã exploded like never before. Tears, screams, chaos.
Gabriel ripped off his shirt, ran to the corner flag, and fell to his knees as teammates buried him in celebration.
Flamengo 3–2 River. Libertadores champion.
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After the Roar
The final whistle blew. Fans invaded the streets. Fireworks painted the Rio sky. Gabriel lifted the Libertadores trophy high, tears streaming, his mother crying in the stands.
And when he returned to the hotel that night, phone buzzing endlessly, one message mattered most:
"I'm proud of you," Mel wrote. "Not because of the goals. Because you stayed true to yourself."
They met soon after. Away from cameras, away from noise, just two young souls in a city that never slept. For the first time, Gabriel wasn't just the boy from the backyard or Flamengo's flame. He was simply Gabriel, and she was Mel.
Together, they walked through the streets of Rio, hand in hand, the Libertadores trophy shining in his memory, the future wide open.
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The Vow
On the rooftop of his home, Gabriel looked at the night sky, Mel's head resting on his shoulder.
"I'll go to Europe one day," he whispered. "I'll wear the yellow shirt of Brazil in a World Cup. But before everything… I'll always carry Flamengo in my heart."
The flame inside him burned brighter than ever.
And this was only the beginning.