On the morning of the 5th, sunlight filtered weakly through the São Paulo haze, casting a soft glow over the narrow street outside the café where Gabriel had insisted on having breakfast with his mother and his brother.
It was a small place—nothing fancy, just a few wooden tables, a faint smell of fresh pão francês, and a barista who hummed old samba songs under his breath. For Julieta, it felt perfect.
"Just like home," she had whispered with a smile when they walked in.
Now, an hour later, the three of them were strolling back toward the hotel at an unhurried pace.
Julieta clung to Gabriel's arm with one hand while holding her purse with the other, occasionally brushing imaginary crumbs off his shirt like she had when he was little.
Lucas walked on his other side, cracking jokes constantly, as if humor could distract all of them from the fact that they were leaving soon.
"Make sure you call on Sunday," Julieta reminded him for the tenth—maybe twelfth—time.
Her voice was soft, but insistent in that maternal way that said she cared too much to pretend otherwise.
"I will, mãe," Gabriel said, squeezing her hand lightly. "Promise."
"And eat properly," she continued automatically. "Don't skip meals. And drink water. And rest. And—"
Lucas groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "He's not ten anymore."
"He might not be ten," she shot back without missing a beat, "but he still forgets lunch when he's stressed."
Gabriel couldn't deny it. He didn't even try. His laugh was almost embarrassed.
When they reached the hotel entrance, the moment turned quiet, the kind of quiet that fills the gap between reality and feelings too big for simple words.
Julieta held him in a long embrace, her hands pressing firmly into his back as if trying to memorize the shape of him.
Lucas hugged him after, with the kind of rough affection only an older brother could pull off.
"Vai com tudo, moleque," Lucas murmured. "Show them who you are."
Gabriel nodded, throat tight.
And then, just like that, they were gone—two figures disappearing behind glass doors, leaving Gabriel standing on the sidewalk with that familiar ache blooming in his chest.
Homesickness mixed with gratitude. Love mixed with longing.
Pride mixed with pressure.
He watched the doors close, caught his breath… and made himself a silent promise.
He wasn't going to waste the break. Not one second.
Most players treated off days like a sacred ritual.
Sleep until noon. Binge Netflix. Visit family.
Go to the beaches near Santos. Clean their apartments. Play FIFA.
Some even bragged about how they refused to even look at a football.
But Gabriel?
He lasted one day.
One full day of rest—movies, naps, junk food—and by the next morning, the itch had returned.
The restlessness. The need to move, to train, to touch a ball until something clicked into place inside him.
So on the 6th, at 7:40 a.m., he was already jogging outside the Palmeiras training center gates.
Rain drizzled, the kind that dampened hair and eyelashes but didn't soak clothes.
The pavement glistened. Even the trees along the wall of the facility drooped under the humidity.
Gabriel inhaled the cold, damp air and let it sharpen his focus.
He wasn't required to be here. No one was.
But every time he tried to relax, every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same things—the missed passes, the poorly timed run in the Miami friendly, the hesitation in the box when he should've shot first time.
He wanted to fix everything.
Now.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message to the fitness coach.
Gabriel:
Bom dia, professor.
Is the gym open today? I want to get some work in.
The reply came almost instantly.
Coach:
It's your off day, garoto. Rest.
But… if you're really coming, I'll be here in 20 minutes.
Gabriel couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.
He wasn't the only one who took football personally.
The Palmeiras training ground on off days felt like another world entirely.
No noise. No shouting. No whistles.
Just silence—and the faint hum of rain.
The grass outside sparkled under the drizzle. The nets were tied neatly.
Cones and poles were stored in perfect lines against the wall.
The pitch looked like a sleeping giant, waiting for life to return.
Inside, only the gym lights glowed.
"Come in, Menino" the fitness coach said as Gabriel approached.
He held a cup of steaming coffee, eyebrows raised. "You're lucky I like you. Otherwise, I'd be home sleeping."
Gabriel laughed, pushing wet hair from his forehead.
"I'll make it worth it, professor."
The session was light—core strength, mobility work, a few balance drills, then ball control on the indoor turf.
Enough to sweat, not enough to count as real training.
The coach watched him with an expression somewhere between fondness and skepticism.
"You know…" he began after a while, arms crossed, "you improved a lot in the preseason.
Your speed of decision is faster. Your movement without the ball… sharper."
Gabriel slowed his dribbling, heart thumping in his chest.
Praise always felt heavier than criticism.
"You really think so?"
Coach shrugged, as if stating a fact rather than an opinion.
"It's not about 'thinking.'
It's what I see. But don't lose yourself trying to get the coach's approval.
Play naturally. Play as you did at home in Curitiba. The boy running barefoot in the street."
Gabriel smiled, nostalgia tugging at him. "Those were good days."
"Then bring those days here," The coach said gently.
"Football listens to the heart before it listens to the feet."
They finished with stretching, long and slow. Rain softened into mist.
By the time Gabriel walked out, the sky had started to clear, a pale streak of blue slicing through the clouds.
He felt lighter. Calmer.
Back in his apartment, he did something he hadn't expected: he napped.
A real nap. No guilt, no racing thoughts. Just rest.
By evening, his phone exploded.
Dozens of messages. Notifications. Mentions.
It was all because of the simple Instagram story he'd posted:
A photo Lucas took—a shot of Gabriel bent over in training gear, sweat dripping from his chin, looking exhausted but focused.
Caption:
"Preparing early. Season loading…"
It blew up instantly.
But the real buzz began the next morning.
He walked into a bakery for breakfast—and heard his own name.
The place was crowded, workers grabbing coffee before their shifts, mothers picking up bread, retirees sitting in the corner with newspapers.
A muted TV was mounted near the ceiling, playing a popular sports channel.
Gabriel had barely stepped inside when he froze.
"…and we cannot ignore the improvement of young star Gabriel Silver during Palmeiras' preseason," one analyst said.
"He was one of the most talked-about players in Miami.
Goals, assists, intensity. The boy is showing personality."
Gabriel blinked, stunned. He held a loaf of French bread so tight it bent.
The panel continued:
"Everyone expected him to be a long-term project, but he's forcing competition earlier than expected.
If he keeps this up, Abel Ferreira will have a headache choosing his starters."
Another journalist—one he recognized from training sessions—nodded.
"I've been watching Palmeiras for years.
I haven't seen a youngster work with this kind of hunger in a long time."
His ears rang.
He paid quickly, eyes lowered under his hoodie, and left.
Inside the car, he turned on the radio.
Every station seemed to be talking about him.
"The kid is showing star potential."
"He might be Palmeiras' surprise of the season."
"Gabriel Silver—is he ready to explode this year?"
He leaned against the seat, overwhelmed.
Praise felt good. Motivating.
But pressure… pressure was a different beast.
And pressure always looked for cracks.
Lunch with teammates helped. A little.
They ate at a quiet spot in Vila Madalena—nothing fancy, just hearty food and comfortable chairs.
A few academy friends came, along with Gustavo Gómez, the captain and unofficial big brother of everyone under 25.
They joked about music, bad haircuts, tattoos gone wrong.
For a brief stretch, football left the conversation entirely.
But attention followed.
A group of teenagers hovered timidly nearby until one finally stepped forward.
"Gabriel! Can we take a picture?"
He smiled immediately. "Of course."
Selfies. Autographs on napkins. One kid asked him to sign his phone case.
They laughed from nerves more than amusement.
When the fans left, Gómez nudged him.
"Look at you, Mr. Superstar. Don't forget us little people."
Gabriel snorted. "Bro, you're taller than me. I couldn't forget you if I tried."
And though he laughed, a small whisper inside him persisted:
Don't let them be wrong about you.
At 4 p.m., he headed to the Palmeiras pitch alone. The security guard recognized him instantly.
"Vai treinar sozinho de novo?"
"Só um pouquinho," Gabriel replied with a grin.
The field stretched out before him, golden under the setting sun. Empty. Completely his.
He dropped a bag of balls at midfield. No cones. No drills.
Just instinct.
He dribbled freely, cutting, turning, striking long passes to invisible teammates.
Then finishing—near post, far post, curling shots, low drives, chips.
Over and over. Sweat soaked his shirt. His legs burned.
At one point, breathless, he collapsed onto the grass.
The sky above him shifted from orange to pink to purple.
Everything smelled like earth and effort.
"This year… this year has to be special," he whispered.
The words floated into the air, swallowed by the fading light.
After showering, he headed out—and found fans waiting.
"Gabriel! Por favor, uma foto?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Claro, claro."
He signed hats, shirts, a notebook, and even one random kid's shoe. A little boy hugged him tightly.
"Você vai destruir esse ano," the boy said.
Warmth bloomed in Gabriel's chest. "Vou fazer o meu melhor, campeão."
Ten minutes passed in laughter and pictures before he waved goodbye and walked to his car, feeling a strange combination of exhaustion and exhilaration.
Alive.
He felt alive.
That night, he posted three pictures,
- Him sprinting on the empty training field.
- Him signing autographs outside the gate.
- A close-up of him controlling the ball, sunlight catching sweat on his forehead.
The comments exploded.
Future star.
This boy is different.
We trust you.
VAI PRA CIMA, GABRIEL!
He made himself dinner—simple rice, chicken, and vegetables—then lay in bed scrolling through messages.
A new notification popped up,and it was Ana
Ana
I saw the photos. I'm proud of you. Keep working like this.
I can't wait to watch you play next week.
Gabriel felt warmth rise through him, slow and steady.
He typed back:
Gabriel:
Thank you.
Next week… I want to make everyone proud.
He set the phone aside and closed his eyes.
The noise, the praise, the expectations, the pressure—all swirled together, blending into something intense… but not suffocating.
Not anymore.
Under it all, one feeling stood strongest:
He wasn't afraid.
He was ready.
Truly ready.
The season was coming.
And Gabriel Silver was coming with it.