"Whoo! I feel pumped already."
Kanito, the main U-20 Right back's voice burst through the silence of the SUV like a spark hitting dry fuel, loud and energetic enough to pull everyone's attention toward him instantly. He leaned forward from his seat with a wide grin, stretching his arms like he'd been waiting his whole life for this exact moment to arrive.
"Been a while since I saw a Brazil national under-20 football team thing."
Osvaldo didn't even look at him at first.
He stayed leaned back in his seat, one arm resting against the door, eyes half-lidded as if the entire situation bored him already. The movement of the car barely registered to him, and neither did the excitement filling the space.
"You all disgust me."
That got everyone's attention.
Osvaldo's voice cut through the SUV like a 1000 degree knife. His eyes moved from one face to the next, analysing, judging, dismissing.
"How do y'all make the lineup?" He scoffed quietly. "This is pathetic."
"Are youth players normally like this, Gabi?"
Noa leaned back in his seat, brushing his white hair out of his face as he glanced around the SUV, clearly trying to process the personalities crammed into such a small space.
"Yeah," I replied without hesitation, my eyes drifting across each of them one by one. "The more you talk to them, the more you realise they're all arseholes."
That earned a reaction.
A quiet scoff came from across the car, followed by a low chuckle from someone near the window.
Osvaldo finally moved.
Not much.
Just enough to tilt his head slightly, his gaze sliding toward us for the first time. His expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of interest there now, like he'd just decided we were at least worth acknowledging.
"Good," he muttered.
Noa blinked. "…good?"
Osvaldo's lips twitched slightly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
Noa looked at me.
I looked at Noa.
"Yeah, I don't like him," Noa said flatly.
"I don't think you're supposed to."
A quiet laugh came from the other side of the SUV.
A another person shifted slightly in his seat, his mismatched eyes catching the light as he looked between all of us. The contrast between the brown and green made it impossible to ignore him, even when he wasn't speaking.
"You two talk like you've already made it," he said calmly, his tone almost conversational.
Noa leaned forward immediately. "We will."
That got a smirk out of him.
Osvaldo, however, didn't react at all.
He simply stared forward again, as if the conversation had already lost its value.
"You'll see," Noa added, leaning back again like he'd just made a statement to the world.
"Everyone here will," I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.
The car fell into silence again, but it wasn't the same silence as before.
The SUV slowed.
Gradually at first, the hum of the engine lowering into a quiet growl as the city noise outside began to creep back in through the tinted windows. None of us spoke, but you could feel it. Whatever this was, wherever we were going… we had arrived.
Then the car stopped.
Completely.
For a split second, nothing happened.
The doors slammed open.
One after another, sharp and sudden, the outside air rushing in as if the vehicle itself had been holding its breath this entire time. The driver didn't say a word, didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge us at all.
It was an order without words.
Get out.
The boy who had been the loudest earlier was the first to move, stepping out quickly like he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life. The others followed more slowly, each carrying themselves with their own version of confidence, their own version of ego.
Osvaldo stepped out last.
Standing just a few steps away from the SUV like he had been placed there deliberately, waiting for us before we had even arrived.
He looked… wrong.
Not in a bad way just… in a different sense of way.
Average height, nothing physically overwhelming about him at first glance, yet somehow he stood out more than anyone else there. His hair was completely white, unnaturally so, like fresh snow under direct sunlight.
His eyes were a vibrant blue like they were glowing.
But they were partially hidden behind a pair of blue-tinted glasses that sat perfectly on his face, dulling their intensity just enough to make you question if you'd imagined it.
Noa leaned slightly toward me.
"…why does he look like a final boss?"
"I was thinking the same thing."
The boy didn't move, he just sort of watched like he was analysing every single detail about us in complete silence.
"Late," he said simply, his voice quiet but carrying enough weight to cut through the air around us.
Noa frowned immediately.
"We're not late."
"Yes, you are."
Noa looked personally offended.
The boy tilted his head slightly, his blue-tinted glasses catching the light.
"That is not the same thing as what you think is late."
Silence.
"Who are you?" one of the others asked.
The boy paused for a moment. "Lucas Yoshimura."
Lucas didn't wait for a response.
He simply turned and began walking toward the building, expecting everyone to follow without needing to say it out loud. There was something about him that made it obvious.
Noa looked at me.
I shrugged.
We followed.
The doors slid open automatically as we approached, revealing a long corridor lit by bright white lights that felt almost clinical. Our footsteps echoed as we moved through it.
At the end of the corridor, a hall large in size.
The kind of space built for announcements, selections, decisions that changed careers.
And it was already full.
At least eighteen other players stood scattered across the room, some leaning against walls, others sitting on benches, a few already talking quietly among themselves. You could tell instantly just by the way they stood, the way they looked at each other. They were all elite.
Some wore training gear from European academies, others from Brazilian youth systems, a few even still in travel clothes like us. But they all had one thing in common.
They belonged here.
Noa leaned closer to me.
"…this isn't normal."
"No," I said quietly. "It's not."
At the front of the hall stood a massive screen displaying the crest of the Brazil national under-20 football team in full detail, glowing against a dark background like a symbol of everything we were standing there for.
Across the room, a figure stood out.
A winger, pacing slightly like he couldn't stand still, his energy almost spilling out of him. Quick feet, sharp movements, constantly adjusting, constantly ready.
Mateus Rocha.
One of the most talked-about U-20 attackers in Brazil.
He flicked a ball up casually, catching it on his foot without even looking, like it was second nature.
Near the back. A defender.
Broad-shouldered, arms folded, watching everything without saying a word.
Diego Carvalho.
Known for shutting down attackers like they didn't belong on the same pitch as him.
A cap flew up in the air. I had known this scenario most of my career, that was the move of Alisson Santos, the greatest high school keeper in all of Brazil. And the guy I scored on aka the first person to score on him.
The way he looked at me was the way of saying without talking, "I'm going to kill you Gabigol.". All I can say is he didn't look happy.
The crest of the Brazil national under-20 football team flickered for a brief second before fading into something else entirely.
A figure appeared holding a football under one arm like it wasn't just a ball but a symbol.
The head of the Brazilian FA.
Even Noa, who had somehow managed to talk through everything so far, went completely silent beside me.
The man on the screen didn't rush.
Let every single player in that room feel exactly how small they were in comparison to what stood in front of them.
"Welcome."
it carried across the entire hall without effort, like it had been designed to command attention.
"Each of you has been selected for a reason."
His eyes scanned forward, even through the screen it felt like he was looking directly at each of us individually. The football in his hand rolled slightly against his palm as he adjusted his grip.
"Different clubs. Different countries. Different styles."
A pause.
"But the same objective. Now you all know I have full right to pick this Brazilian U-20 team as I wish. And since I figured some useless players have their uses in this team, I've decided to pick my team out of the 23 standing right in front of me." He continued, his tone calm, That reason you all happen to be here is that you showcased the most talent to me out of the youth leagues you have played in."
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then adjusted the buttons on his suit jacket with slow, deliberate movements.
"Whilst some have made debuts for professional sides, taking Alisson Santo's São Paulo debut."
His eyes drifted toward me like he already knew something I didn't.
Little did he know. I'd already stepped onto the pitch for Botafogo.
"In this selection. I will throw all of you sickos into… THE WORLDS TOP LEAGUES."
The screen behind him exploded into visuals, Different countries flashing one after another.
"These European divisions are the peak of your potential careers People. Money, popularity, ability. Among those 5 countries you will be handed at least 3 contracts from clubs I have secured via my contracts around the football world."
The man adjusted his glasses again, turning slightly as if preparing to present something far bigger than just an explanation.
"and you will select which environment fits you perfectly. For reference, I will give what I think each league stands for."
"First: England."
The screen shifted to roaring stadiums, rain-soaked pitches, and relentless pressing as the flag of England filled the background.
"UEFA and world rank number one. A league built on strength and conditioning, defined by its fast-paced, physical style of play."
Clips rolled. Hard tackles, explosive counterattacks, last-minute winners in packed stadiums.
"Packed stadiums, loud fans, some of them hooligans, most of them relentless. This is where pressure becomes normal."
The camera zoomed in on players.
"Globally recognised names such as Miladin Oman of Manchester United…"
A powerful strike hit the net.
"And Raffy Sala of Liverpool FC."
The crowd erupted on screen.
"This is not a league for the weak."
The screen transitioned.
"Second: Spain."
Warm tones replaced the chaos, the flag of Spain appearing as the clips slowed into something far more controlled.
"Their citizens will not tolerate a lack of beauty in your game. This is a league built on intelligence, on movement, on the philosophy of Tiki-Taka. If you cannot think, you cannot survive."
Two players appeared on screen.
"Technicians such as Álvarez of Atlético Madrid…"
A perfect through ball split a defence open.
"And Ravinho of FC Barcelona."
A silky dribble followed.
"This is a league for those who treat the ball like an extension of themselves."
"Third: Italy."
The flag of Italy appeared as clips of tight defensive lines and disciplined structures filled the screen.
"A league that prefers 1–0 victories over 4–4 chaos."
A defender made a last-ditch tackle whilst a goalkeeper claimed a cross under pressure.
"This is where defenders are forged."
The man adjusted his glasses again.
"A playstyle born from individual brilliance fused with absolute team discipline. Recently, some powerhouses have fallen but the identity remains."
Names appeared.
"Legends such as Paolo Maldini and Leonardo Bonucci built this foundation."
Then newer faces.
"Now carried by players like Shakir Mohammed of Juventus…"
A crushing tackle played.
"And one of the world's finest, Matteo Pizzàballa."
A composed finish followed.
"If you want to dominate without the ball… This is your battlefield."
"Fourth: France."
The tone changed again, filled with young faces and rising stars as the flag of France appeared.
"If you are a fan of money…"
A few players in the room smirked.
"Then France will welcome you."
Clips of young players bursting onto the scene filled the screen.
"This league thrives on development."
Two names appeared.
"Talents such as 18 year old Julien Mol…"
A striker speed blitzing past defenders.
"And 16 year old Cedric DuCourt."
A composed midfielder dictated play.
"It is becoming a hotspot for youth players and coaches alike."
The man's tone sharpened slightly.
"Grow here. Or be replaced by the next generation."
"Finally: Germany."
The flag of Germany filled the background as the tempo of the clips skyrocketed.
"Dominated recently by Bayern Munich… But still a league that understands one simple truth."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Football is a sport you win by scoring the best goals."
A 30-yard strike flew into the top corner.
"6–1 thrillers are not rare here."
The room stayed silent.
"And the main reason people tune in…"
A final name appeared.
"…the world's number one player. Sergio Marquez."
The clip showed him gliding past defenders like they didn't exist before finishing with effortless precision.
"If you want to test yourself against the best…" The man lowered his voice. "Go there."
"And now…" He adjusted his jacket one final time. "…you choose who you become. I have sent each contract offer to your phones. Get ready my young diamonds. I am Gilmar Garcia, you have 60 minutes to select the contract you want to accept. The world is awaiting you."