The morning air was too quiet for a final.
Not a bird, not a breeze. Just the slow hum of the city beyond the hotel window, distant and unreachable. Thiago sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the door, a phone pressed to his ear.
"Clara's waiting," his mother said gently. "She's set the living room up like a stadium. Little paper banners. Your name on everything."
"Did she leave room for João?"
"She tore his name off after that penalty he missed last year."
Thiago laughed—genuine, soft.
"I wish I could be there."
"You are," she replied. "Every time that ball touches your feet."
There was a pause.
Then she added, "Play free, meu filho. You don't need to prove anything. Just play like it's the streets again."
Thiago closed his eyes.
"I will."
On the bus ride to the stadium, João leaned close.
"She's coming, you know."
Thiago turned, confused.
"Camila."
A pause.
"She said she messaged you. You never replied."
Thiago looked out the window.
"I couldn't."
João grinned. "Then score one and wave to her. That'll talk loud enough."
The stadium was packed. Not a super arena—but the energy was ten times what they'd seen in the earlier rounds.
Grêmio U17.
Undefeated. One goal conceded all tournament. Four players already shortlisted for U20 national camp.
And their defense?
Famous in the youth circuit. Tall, structured, fast. They didn't dive in. They didn't foul out. They just choked you until you passed backwards—or lost the ball.
Palmeiras warmed up in silence.
Thiago juggled near the halfway line, keeping his touches sharp. But his eyes kept drifting up—to the far corner.
She was there.
Camila. Wearing his old street football jersey, oversized and faded.
She smiled.
He didn't wave.
But he saw her.
And he felt it in his chest.
In the locker room, Paulo's tone was flat.
"Forget who they are. Remember who you are."
Eyes locked on Thiago.
"You've earned this pitch."
He tapped the whiteboard once.
"Now take it."
Kickoff.
The first touch wasn't Thiago's. It went wide to the Grêmio right-back, who immediately pinged a sharp line drive down the wing.
A flick, a trap, a lay-off.
Grêmio's tempo was electric—but clean. Not chaotic like Goianiense. Not bruising like São Paulo.
Surgical.
In minute 4, they already had Palmeiras pinned back.
The crowd rumbled with every pass, like a warning.
Thiago adjusted his position. Dropped back. Waited.
But Grêmio didn't target him.
They built their play on the opposite side—testing Palmeiras' weaker fullback.
Minute 6 — cross whipped in.
Cleared by João.
Counter chance.
Thiago sprinted up the left channel.
The ball came—but floated.
Too slow.
Intercepted.
Grêmio reset.
Minutes 10 to 20 were a tactical grind.
Palmeiras couldn't string more than four passes together.
Thiago barely touched the ball.
He checked his mark constantly, tracked back, circled wider—but Grêmio's left-back shadowed him like glue.
Not tight.
Smart.
They gave him the illusion of space, then cut off the angles the moment he received.
He started to get frustrated.
Then came the System.
System Alert:Opponent Formation Logged – 4–1–4–1 PressPlayer Role Identified – Man-Shadow: You are being mirroredRecommendation: Break tempo via wide diagonal overlaps or retreat rotations
He let the prompt fade.
He already knew what he needed.
He dropped back—deeper than usual—and clapped twice.
João saw it.
Diagonal switch.
Midfielder overlapped.
Grêmio's shape twisted—just for a second.
That was all he needed.
Minute 27.
Ball thrown in near halfway. João traps. Looks up.
Thiago signals short—then darts long.
The bait works.
Ball goes over the top.
Thiago collects it on the run, pushes past the fullback with a burst, and sees the box.
Two defenders inside. Striker calling for it.
He doesn't hesitate.
Low cross.
The striker misses.
But João crashes in late—BOOM.
Goal.
1–0 Palmeiras.
The bench explodes. Paulo just smiles.
Thiago jogs back to his side.
No celebration.
Not yet.
System Notification:Assist Logged+6 EXPMatch Rating: 7.1Vision +1 → 67
The crowd shifted now. Grêmio fans shouted louder. Their midfield barked instructions.
And Thiago could see it in their captain's face.
Now it was personal.
Minute 30.
Grêmio turned up the heat.
Quick tap-tap through midfield. Their number 10 started drifting wide—pulling defenders.
João followed.
Wrong move.
The moment João stepped, Grêmio switched.
One touch through-ball to the edge of the box.
Thiago turned too late.
The Grêmio forward—number 9—raced past the line.
One touch. Two. Shot.
Low and hard.
Goal.
1–1.
The bench was stunned.
But Paulo didn't panic.
He called two words.
"Reset. Read."
Thiago nodded.
He walked back into formation, chest still rising.
They weren't invincible.
But Grêmio?
They didn't blink.
Final 10 minutes of the first half were played like a chess match.
Grêmio rotated their fullbacks into midfield during build-up. Palmeiras sat deeper.
Thiago stayed high now.
Waiting.
He almost got through in the 41st—a long ball over the top that he chest-controlled mid-run, but the keeper rushed out and cleared it inches before his touch.
No goal.
But now the rhythm was shifting.
Halftime.
1–1.
Thiago sat on the bench, water dripping down his neck, watching steam rise from his arms in the locker room light.
No music.
No noise.
Just breath.
Paulo walked in slowly.
"Fifty percent done," he said. "But not enough."
Then he looked at Thiago.
"You've been patient. Time to stop waiting."
He pointed at the chalkboard.
"They built their whole backline to control one thing: you. So stop letting them."
A pause.
"Make them react."
Thiago stood.
And finally smiled.