"Gabriel!" My mothers hard hitting voice cut through the neighbourhood like a bird calling for its prey to appear. "Don't go too far okay!"
"A football keeps him calm. How amusing." My father flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot, grinding it into the dust like it owed him money.
"My flight leaves in 5 hours, give it 6 months and I'll be back. Who knows he may even forget what I look like!"
"Children do grow up fast." my mother muttered, softer now, like the words might bruise if they landed too hard.
My father didn't reply straight away. He turned his head toward the roadside, eyes following the rattle of tuk-tuks dragging sunburnt tourists through our part of Rio de Janeiro. The city of beaches, of noise, of music spilling from broken radios. The city of the towering Christ the Redeemer watching everything and saying nothing. The city where football wasn't just a game. it was the air that we breathed.
"Huh?" My mother's voice snapped sharp again. "He was just there! Where has this child gone?!"
There was a pause. A shift. The kind that makes the air feel heavier.
"He must've gone into the street…" she said, panic creeping in now, climbing each word. "It gets dangerous around this time."
My father straightened, scanning the road. The easy, careless edge in him slipped for a second, just a second.
It was just noise, like everything else in the street. People shouting, engines coughing, music fighting to be heard. I'd heard it all before. None of it ever mattered.
The ball mattered.
It rolled away from me, slow at first, like it wanted me to catch it. I smiled, chasing after it, my feet barely touching the ground. I could already see it, tap it past someone, maybe flick it up, pretend I was playing in a stadium instead of a broken street.
Then the light hit me.
Bright. Blinding.
I stopped.
I don't know why. My legs just… didn't move anymore.
Everything felt heavy all of a sudden. The air. My chest. Even the ball at my feet.
"Move!"
That voice, that was different.
I knew that voice.
Before I could think, something yanked me backwards. Hard. My shirt tightened around my neck and the world flipped, the ground hitting me before I understood what was happening.
I didn't feel pain straight away. Just shock. Dust in my mouth. My ears ringing.
Then arms.
Tight. Strong. Not letting go.
I blinked, looking up, and there he was. My father. Closer than usual. Too close, almost. His face didn't look the same as before like something had cracked through it.
"I… I got it," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I expected. "The ball, I almost had it…"
I didn't know why I said that. It felt important. Like I had to explain.
He didn't answer straight away. He just held onto me.
Then my mother was there too, her hands moving all over me, fast, shaky. "Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Gabriel, answer me!"
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "I'm okay."
I wasn't lying. I didn't feel hurt.
Just… confused.
My father's arm tightened slightly around me before he finally spoke. "You don't chase the ball into the road."
His voice was low, but it didn't sound angry. That was new.
"The ball isn't worth that."
I nodded, even though part of me didn't agree. The words sat strangely in my head, like they didn't fit properly.
My eyes drifted past them, back to the street.
The ball had rolled away again. Of course it had.
My mother pulled me into her, holding me tight. I could hear her breathing, uneven, like she'd been running. "You scared me," she whispered. "You scared me so much."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just stayed still.
After a moment, my father stood up. I felt his arm leave me, and for some reason, I noticed that more than anything else. He brushed the dust off his hands, then looked at me.
Not like before.
Before, he looked at me like I was just… there.
Now, it felt like he was actually seeing me.
"My flight…" he started, but the words didn't finish.
I waited. He stepped closer instead.
"Come here."
I got up slowly, my legs still a bit shaky, though I didn't want to show it. I walked over, watching him carefully, like he might change his mind.
He picked up the ball and placed it gently at my feet.
"Show me," he said.
I frowned slightly. "Show you what?"
A small pause. Then, quieter this time.
"What you can do."
10 years later…
"GABIGOL!!!"
The voice crashed into my room before I could even open my eyes properly. A second later…
BANG!
The ball smacked against my wall and dropped somewhere near my feet.
"We've got a football pitch to get to!"
I groaned, dragging the pillow over my head. "Not now, Noa…"
"Not now?" he shot back, his accent twisting the words just enough to make them sound louder than they actually were. "You scored a Hattrick yesterday and now you want to sleep? Impossible!"
That voice, that chaos was Noa Bernard. My best friend.
He came over from France years ago, back when his parents got offered jobs coaching the Brazilian U-20s. That was supposed to be temporary.
Nothing about it stayed temporary.
Now his dad, Abraham Bernard, was the head coach of Brazil, and Noa… well, Noa basically lived in my house more than his own.
I cracked one eye open. "You mean the claymore shot."
"Yes! That one!" he said instantly, like he'd been waiting for me to correct him. "You hit it like, BOOM! Like you were trying to break the net!"
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. "I suppose I can…"
He leaned forward, already smiling.
"…if you buy me a coke from the corner store afterwards."
"hmmm… deal!"
Too easy.
I swung my legs off the bed and finally looked at him properly.
He was standing there like he owned the place, holding the ball under his arm and wearing one of my hairbands.
I stood out of my bed, rubbing my eyes to see Noa had seemingly wore one of my own hairbands around his hair.
"Please take that off."
"But why?" he grinned, pushing his hair back like he was some kind of model. "My hair is a mess just like yours."
I stared at him.
He tilted his head, squinting at me like he'd just noticed something terrible.
"Actually… you may want to invest in a comb before you come out looking like a werewolf had a baby with Val Kilmer."
I paused.
Then grabbed the nearest thing I could find and threw it at him.
He ducked, laughing, already running out the room.
"Five minutes, Gabigol!" he shouted from down the hall. "Or I'm leaving without you!"
"Yeah, right!" I called back, standing up.
I glanced at the ball resting on the floor.
For a second. Just a second. I saw that same street again. The noise. The headlights. My father's voice.
The ball isn't worth that.
I walked over, picking it up, spinning it lightly in my hands.
I smirked, grabbing my boots.
"Wait up!"
Lapa Football Fields, the home of the local school football clubs and where the kids play for fun. It wasn't the most lucrative football field with 15 pitches and stuff like that. Only 2 pitches, a goal at each end and a cage for certain situations. I've never used it before since I'm not a sociopath.
"It seems like San Sebastián and Lucao are fighting again… over who can use the football fields today," a girl around our age muttered, standing off to the side like she'd seen this movie too many times already.
"These schools are always fighting, man," another guy added. "It's been two weeks. Just make up your minds."
"Hey, Alisson, what does this mean? You brought those damn San Antonio kids."
The guy they called Alisson stepped forward, calm like he'd done this a hundred times. He had that look, like he already knew how this was going to end. He tipped his cap forward, pointing it at the other boy.
"So Lucao can have these pitches today," he said simply. "We already did a wager. 5v5. Winner takes the field for the week."
"Just shut up already, Alisson," another boy snapped, stepping forward. Cristiano, from what I'd heard. "Just because you play for Botafogo Academy doesn't mean you run the show. Leave the field. We've got a big match this week against Telsa."
Alisson didn't even flinch.
"We're national champions for a reason, my brother," he replied, almost bored. "We've got new players coming in. This is for our B team."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Why don't you go find another pitch on the other side of the city, Cristiano?"
"Hey Alisson, we understand you have a good football team. Doesn't mean you have you're the one giving orders!"
"It's pretty clear, none of us will give up so quickly it seems."
"This field is important for San Sebastián's training process. Leave this field now if you don't want any troubles." Big, burlier students came trodding up. San Sebastian's rugby club had showed up.
"No matter what you do. Whether that's kick a ball from the penalty spot or outside, I will save it no matter who kicks it! I bet you 500 Real and this field you can't score a single goal against me!" Alisson smirks, putting his cap back on.
Just one single goal and you win. So you want us to shoot from the penalty spot, eh?" one of the bigger boys chuckled, cracking his neck. "Piece of piss."
He dropped the ball onto the spot, took a few steps back, and didn't even hesitate.
He ran up and struck it.
Clean. Hard. Rising.
Top corner.
For a split second, I thought, it's in.
But Alisson moved.
Not like a normal dive. Not desperate. Not guessing.
It was sharp. Coiled. Like he'd been waiting for that exact shot his whole life.
He exploded off the ground, body twisting mid-air, arm stretching just enough.
Bang.
The ball smashed against his glove and flew away at speed, spinning off to the side like it had been rejected.
A few people gasped.
Others just went quiet.
"That was easier than I thought," Alisson said, landing smoothly and pushing himself back up like it was nothing. He tipped his cap again, like he was putting a stamp on it. "Haha."
The boy who shot just stood there for a second, rubbing the back of his head. "So… you're that good."
"Hey… can we have a shot?" Noa stepped forward, already smiling like he'd been waiting for this moment since he woke me up. "I think me and my friend would like to try."
A few heads turned.
Cristiano raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"Hmmm…" Alisson adjusted his cap, studying us properly this time. Then he nodded once. "I allow it."
He stepped back toward the goal line, rolling his shoulders.
"Come at me, young bloods."
Noa placed the ball carefully on the penalty spot.
Too carefully. I knew that look. He glanced at me, eyes locked in. Planning something.
"Do the Claymore Shot," he said under his breath.
I exhaled slowly.
Of course he would say that.
Before I could answer, he moved.
A quick flick, the ball popped up into the air, spinning slightly.
Then he pointed at me.
"Lift off!"
My body moved before my brain caught up.
One step. Two. Jump.
For a moment, I was weightless.
Everything slowed, the noise, the people, even the wind brushing past me.
I twisted mid-air, my body turning just enough, just like I'd practiced a hundred times in smaller spaces, tighter streets, with no one watching.
My foot struck through the ball with everything I had.
The ball flew.
High. Fast. Heading straight for the top corner.
Alisson reacted instantly, pushing off, diving toward it again, perfect read, perfect movement but the ball changed.
Mid-flight, it dipped.
It dropped sharply, hitting the ground right before the line and rolled in.
Then
Noise exploded.
Shouts. Hands in the air. Someone swore. Someone laughed like they didn't believe it. I landed, stumbling slightly, but I didn't take my eyes off the goal.
Off him.
Alisson stayed on the ground for a second longer than before. Then he pushed himself up slowly. No smile this time.
Just… looking. At me.
I felt my heart pounding, but not from the jump.
I had just scored. On the best high school goalkeeper in Brazil.
And in that moment, standing there with everyone watching, the noise crashing around me, something clicked into place inside my head.
I swallowed, a small grin creeping onto my face despite myself.
That wasn't just a good shot. I believed it.
I have what it takes to become the greatest player in the world.