The warm evening breeze swept through the training grounds as the sun dipped just beneath the treetops, casting long shadows across the pitch.
A gentle hum of anticipation buzzed in the air—an unspoken tension shared by all the players on the field.
It was the last training session before their first pre-season game. For many, this wasn't just another routine practice—it was an audition.
One final chance to prove to the coaching staff that they belonged in the starting eleven.
Jogging began just as the sun's glow kissed the horizon.
The players moved in formation, silent, focused. Their faces, normally lit with laughter or casual chatter, were tightened with concentration.
Each man was running not just to stay fit, but to send a message: I'm ready. Pick me.
After the warm-up came intense physical drills—short sprints, shuttle runs, and dynamic stretches.
The air was thick with the scent of grass, sweat, and ambition.
Abel Ferreira, the head coach, stood by with his arms folded, watching every movement, every foot placement, every grimace.
His eyes were calculating, weighing possibilities, and silently assessing who had come back sharper, stronger, hungrier.
Then came the moment everyone had anticipated. Abel raised his whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast.
"Divide into two teams!" he shouted. "Team A in white bibs. Team B in Green "
There were no smiles now. No jokes. The split was clear. This wasn't just training—it was a silent declaration of hierarchy, even if unofficial.
Team A lined up in a familiar 4-2-3-1 formation:
Carlos Miguel between the posts.
Defenders: Gustavo Gomez, Bruno Puchs, Joaquin Piquerez, and Khellven.
Defensive midfielders: Double pivot of Aníbal Moreno and Lucas Evangelista.
The attacking trio: Facundo Torres, Gabriel Silver, and Paulinho, just behind the lone striker: Victor Roque.
Team B, meanwhile, arranged themselves in a 4-3-3:
Marcelo Lomba guarding the net.
Backline: Luis Benedetti, Miceal, Agustin Giay, and Jefte.
Midfield trio: Emiliano Martinez, Andreas Pereira, and Fugueiredo.
Leading the line were Ramon Sosa, Jose Manuel Lopez, and the ever-elusive Felipe Anderson.
Abel Ferreira stood in the middle, taking on dual roles—coach and referee.
He barked constant instructions, cutting through the noise like a drill sergeant. His energy was infectious.
"One touch, boys!" he yelled. "Keep the tempo! Don't let them build from the back! Press! Press! Press!"
His voice rose above the players' shouts, the thud of passes, the squeak of cleats biting the grass.
This wasn't a friendly scrimmage. It felt like a final.
Team A kicked off. Victor Roque received the first pass, a quick flick to Gabriel Silver. Gabriel controlled the ball, his head up, scanning.
The park spread out before him like a chessboard. Options moved.
Lanes opened and closed. With a subtle pivot, he back-passed to Bruno Puchs, choosing to reset the tempo.
The ball rolled all the way back to Carlos Miguel, who launched a long, diagonal ball into space.
It was aimed at Facundo Torres, but it overshot him. The ball skidded out, and Team B took over.
Now in possession, Emiliano Martinez controlled the ball with poise, threading a sharp pass to Fugueiredo.
A silky turn later, and the ball was at Andreas Pereira's feet.
Pereira surged forward with intention, his eyes locked ahead.
He spotted space on the left and switched the play beautifully, a lofted ball aimed at Ramon Sosa.
But the winger misjudged the bounce, and it went out for a throw-in.
Quickly, Khellven snatched the ball and threw it in before Team B could regroup. He found Gabriel Silver again.
Gabriel's control was exquisite—a turn that sent the trailing defender off balance.
Without hesitation, he sent in a low-driven cross into the box.
Roque was already on the move, like a predator sensing his chance.
Bang Goal
Victor Roque didn't celebrate. He just jogged back, head down. It was expected.
Gabriel jogged past him and they bumped fists quietly. A silent code. Job done.
The ball was back with Team B, and . Andreas Pereira was like a machine in the attacking third—sharp, alert, and always moving into the right spaces.
The tempo of the game was rising, and Pereira thrived on it.
He received the ball on the edge of the final third and laid it off quickly to Fugueiredo, who didn't hesitate to return it.
A quick one-two, and suddenly the pressure was mounting. Fugueiredo fed it back to Emiliano Martinez, who kept the rhythm going with a short, controlled pass back into Pereira's feet.
Pereira took the ball on the half-turn, pushed forward with three quick touches—one to control, the second to drive, and the third to open space.
He saw an opening just outside the box. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
He let fly—a low, driven shot with his right foot.
Carlos Miguel, Team A's keeper, was well-positioned.
He dropped low quickly and smothered the shot into his chest. Solid hands. No rebound. He was calm as ever.
Without wasting time, Miguel jumped to his feet and threw the ball out wide to Gustavo Gómez in their own half.
Gómez took one touch and glanced up, spotting Bruno Puchs peeling into space. A simple but clean pass followed.
Bruno didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and played a clever through ball to Lucas Evangelista, who was shifting into the middle channel.
But Team B wasn't giving him time. Two midfielders closed him down immediately, trying to win it back in the middle third.
Lucas stayed composed. With barely enough time to breathe, he released the ball into space—and found Gabriel Silver.
Gabriel, full of confidence, received it on the half-turn. He kept the ball close, head up, body language calm but aggressive.
He pushed forward, accelerating quickly. One touch. Then another.
A sudden body feint, and he slipped past Agustin Giay, who lunged but caught only air.
One more defender—Luis Benedetti—tried to hold his ground, but Gabriel glided past him with a quick shift to his left, ghosting into the penalty area like he had the ball on a string.
The angle was tight, but Gabriel didn't hesitate. He unleashed a shot with his left foot.
It smacked the underside of the crossbar with a thunderous echo.
The ball ricocheted downward, bounced just outside the line—and then out.
Gasps rippled from the few fans watching from behind the fence. Some even had their hands on their heads, stunned. So close.
Gabriel didn't fall to the ground or complain. He simply looked up at the bar, shook his head with a half-smile, and jogged back, already preparing for the next play.
He knew chances like that don't come often—but he also knew he was playing well.
He was making them notice.
Gabriel Silver was electric.
He didn't stay in one spot. He floated. He drifted from central attacking positions to the left, then back to the center, then to the right—relentless in his motion.
He wasn't just playing; he was orchestrating, pressing, probing. His hunger showed in every sprint, every press.
When Team B tried to build from the back, Gabriel hounded them like a terrier.
His pace and timing made life miserable for the defenders.
It was clear—he was making a statement.
One by one, the coaching staff began to murmur among themselves.
Abel, watching quietly now from the sidelines, allowed himself a small nod. Silver wasn't just ready—he was determined.
Near the corner of the pitch, a small group of local kids had gathered.
They stood behind the fence, some perched on the rails, others leaning against the mesh.
They watched wide-eyed, their expressions a blend of awe and excitement.
"This is just training?" one asked.
"Yeah," said another. "They play like it's the Champions League final."
They laughed, but kept watching. Their eyes followed the ball like it was made of gold.
One boy wore a faded jersey with Gabriel Silver's name printed on the back with a black marker.
It wasn't official merchandise, but it didn't matter. It was loyalty.
Abel blew his whistle sharply.
"Alright, boys. That's it!"
Sweat dripped from every chin. Jerseys clung to backs.
Most players hunched over, catching their breath, but they wore proud expressions. No one had taken it lightly. They couldn't afford to.
Abel gathered the team in a huddle.
"Listen," he began, pacing slowly in front of them, "this is not just pre-season.
This is our season starting right here. I'm not looking at names. I'm looking at actions.
You want to be in the lineup tomorrow? You prove it today. You want minutes on the pitch? Earn them."
He paused, scanning their tired faces.
"Tomorrow, we face Brasília Futebol Clube. I want you to play with intensity. I want goals. I want dominance.
Show them who we are before the season even starts."
There was a collective nod. The message was clear.
The team bus hummed quietly as it rolled back to the hotel.
Most players leaned back against their seats, lost in thought, nursing minor aches, stretching hamstrings, sipping sports drinks. No one spoke much.
As they reached the entrance, the team filed off the bus, one by one.
But just outside the main doors, a young boy stood nervously, holding a notepad and a pen. He clutched it like a lifeline.
He wasn't there for just any autograph—his eyes were fixed on Gabriel Silver.
"Gabriel!" the boy called.
Gabriel turned, surprised. He'd been halfway into the lobby when he heard his name.
When he walked over, the boy's eyes widened.
"Can I have your training shirt, please?" the boy asked, breathless. "Please?"
Gabriel blinked. Of all things, his sweaty training kit?
He hesitated for half a second, then smiled. "You sure? It smells like three hours of running."
The boy laughed nervously, nodding. Gabriel peeled it off and handed it to him. The kid beamed, like he'd been handed a trophy.
"Thanks, Gabriel," he said.
"No problem," Gabriel replied. "Wear it with pride, alright?"
The boy nodded again, clutching the shirt like treasure.
Back in his room, Gabriel sat on the edge of his bed, his suitcase still half-open, his boots on the floor beside him.
The hotel lights were dim. His phone buzzed occasionally with notifications—messages from friends, former teammates, maybe family wishing him luck. But he didn't check them.
He stared at the ceiling, heart still beating slightly fast—not from exertion, but from excitement.
Tomorrow could be the day. His debut. The first real step in a journey he had dreamt of since he first kicked a football on a dirt pitch back home.
He knew it wouldn't be easy. He knew the spotlight was heavy.
But tonight, under the dim hotel lights, with his legs sore and heart full, he allowed himself a small smile.
Because tomorrow, the world would get its first real look at Gabriel Silver.
And he was READY