Miami was calm that evening, but inside the hotel where Palmeiras were staying, there was a quiet tension humming through every hallway.
It wasn't nervousness — not exactly. It was that kind of energy that comes only when something important is about to happen.
The preseason friendly against Inter Miami was scheduled for tomorrow night at DRV PNK Stadium, but everyone knew it didn't feel like a simple friendly.
When Lionel Messi was on the pitch, nothing ever felt friendly.
Abel Ferreira sat alone in the small meeting room the staff used for tactical reviews. The light was dim, the air conditioner humming softly.
His laptop screen showed the final version of tomorrow's match plan — movement arrows, pressing triggers, the new corner routines they'd practiced over and over. He rubbed his temples and leaned back in his chair.
The past two weeks in training had been intense. Abel wasn't a man who believed in leaving things to chance.
He'd corrected every mistake that had cost them unnecessary goals last season — defenders caught out of position, lazy marking during set pieces, lapses in concentration during transitions. The one-on-one drills had been brutal.
Players left the pitch drenched in sweat, lungs burning, but with sharper instincts than ever before.
He thought of his defenders — Gómez, Murilo, Mayke — and smiled faintly. They'd learned fast.
He'd shouted at them, yes, but also encouraged them like a father trying to mold his sons into men ready for war.
Then his mind drifted to Gabriel.
The young midfielder had something — energy, hunger, and that raw, restless spark Abel had seen in very few players.
Abel had confirmed in the press conference earlier that Gabriel would start tomorrow.
The journalists had raised their eyebrows, surprised. Giving a 15-year-old a start against a team featuring Messi, Busquets, and Alba — that wasn't the kind of decision every coach would make.
But Abel believed in moments.
Some players waited for them; others created them. He could tell which type Gabriel was.
In his room two floors above, Gabriel lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The soft hum of Miami nightlife filtered through the window — the distant echo of music, cars, laughter — but inside his head, there was silence.
He had been like that for almost an hour, his phone lying face-up beside him on the bed, screen still glowing faintly with the last message from a teammate in the group chat:
Sleep early, brother. Tomorrow's your day."
Tomorrow's your day.
The words echoed in his mind. He closed his eyes and saw flashes — not memories, but possibilities.
The stadium lights, the pink jerseys of Inter Miami, the sea of fans, and somewhere among them, Messi.
Gabriel felt his pulse quicken just thinking the name. It felt unreal.
The same player he'd watched as a boy on television, trying to copy his dribbles in the backyard, was now going to be on the same pitch — not on a screen, but real, breathing, moving, right there.
He remembered the dream he'd had three nights ago.
It was strange, almost prophetic. In that dream, he was on a dark pitch, and Messi appeared out of nowhere, walking slowly toward him with the ball at his feet.
The Argentine smiled and said just one line before disappearing into the mist:
"Don't wait for the moment. Start creating it."
Those words had stayed with him. They weren't just dream words — they felt like something he needed to hear.
Gabriel turned to his side, grabbed his phone, and opened the contacts list.
He scrolled until he found *Mãe. He hadn't called in days — maybe weeks.
Between training, travel, and recovery, time had blurred together. He pressed the call button.
The phone rang twice before his mother answered.
"Gabriel! My son! Finally, you remembered your mother."
Her voice carried warmth and laughter, that familiar rhythm of home that always made him relax.
"Mãe," he said, smiling. "I didn't forget. I've just been training hard. We play tomorrow, remember?"
"Ah, yes! The big match. The one with Messi, right?"
He laughed softly. "Yeah. That one."
His mother's tone shifted, gentler now. "You sound nervous."
"Not nervous," he said. "Just… thinking. It's Messi, you know? I used to watch him on TV when I was a kid.
Now he'll be right in front of me. Abel said I'll start."
"That's wonderful, meu filho. But listen to me." She paused. "When the match starts, don't think about Messi.
Don't think about who he is or what he's done. If you start feeling his presence, you'll lose your own.
Focus on the ball, focus on your goal. He's human, just like you."
Gabriel nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I know, Mãe. I'll remember."
"Your father's not home," she added. "He had a business trip.
He'll be back tomorrow. I told him about the match; he said he'll watch the replay if he misses it live."
"And Lucas?"
"Your brother?" She laughed. "He's right here. Wait, I'll put him on."
A rustle, then a younger voice came through, full of excitement.
"Bro! You're really playing against Messi? No way!"
Gabriel laughed again. "Yeah, man. It's real. You'd better stay up and watch."
"Of course I will! You'd better score or at least get an assist. Show the world who you are!"
"I'll do my best," Gabriel said. "This is a big opportunity. I won't waste it."
They talked for a few more minutes — about family, about home, about the little things that made him feel grounded.
For a moment, he wasn't Gabriel the footballer; he was just Gabriel, the boy from Curitiba who loved the game.
When the call ended, the room felt quieter. But not empty.
He opened his social media app, thought for a few seconds, then typed:
"Tomorrow is another opportunity — one that I've been given, and one I won't waste. I'll give everything for the fans, for my team, for VERDÃO
He hit the post, put the phone face down, and exhaled.
Downstairs, Abel Ferreira walked through the hotel corridor, checking rooms like a teacher doing rounds before a big exam.
He didn't say much, just nodded to the players he passed, reminding them quietly: "Sleep early. Hydrate. Visualize tomorrow."
When he reached Gabriel's door, he hesitated for a moment, then knocked.
Gabriel opened it, looking surprised. "Mister?"
Abel smiled faintly. "Can I come in?"
"Of course."
The coach stepped inside, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room — tidy, neat, just the way he liked his players to live.
"I saw your post," Abel said after a moment. "Good message."
Gabriel chuckled. "I meant it."
"I know you did." Abel walked to the window and looked out at the Miami skyline, lights shimmering against the dark ocean.
"Tomorrow is important, Gabriel. But not because of Messi. Not because of the headlines.
It's important because it's another test — for you, for us. Preseason or not, every match reveals something about who we are."
"I understand, Mister."
Abel turned back toward him. "You've trained well. You've listened, improved.
Your focus in one-on-ones has been sharp, your movement in set pieces precise. Don't let the occasion change you. Trust your work."
Gabriel nodded. "I will."
"Good." Abel smiled again — a small, rare smile. "Sleep well, garoto. Tomorrow, make them remember your name."
When the coach left, Gabriel sat again on the edge of his bed, feeling a mix of pride and pressure swirl in his chest.
He knew Abel didn't give compliments easily. That meant something.
He turned off the lights. The darkness wrapped around him, but his mind refused to quiet down.
He kept seeing flashes of the match — the kickoff, the ball rolling, Messi drifting between lines, Busquets dictating tempo, Alba sprinting down the flank.
And then he imagined himself — intercepting a pass, driving forward, making something happen.
He remembered Messi's words from the dream again: Don't wait for the moment. Start creating it.
That was what he was going to do.
Outside, Miami pulsed with its usual rhythm — cars on the causeway, the distant buzz of nightlife, the ocean breeze brushing against the palm trees. But in the hotel, time seemed to slow.
One by one, the players' rooms went dark. Abel finally shut his laptop, closed his notebook, and whispered a small prayer for clarity and courage.
He knew preseason matches didn't count for trophies, but they counted for something deeper — confidence, identity, proof that their system worked even against world-class opposition.
Tomorrow would test that.
Gabriel, half-asleep now, felt the thin line between dream and reality blur again.
He saw himself walking onto the pitch. The crowd roared, cameras flashing.
He looked across and saw Messi adjusting his captain's armband, calm as ever, eyes scanning the field.
Messi looked at him and smiled — not mockingly, but knowingly.
Then the whistle blew.
Gabriel's eyes snapped open.
He smiled to himself in the dark.
Tomorrow, the world would wake up to the clash between the Big Green and the Herons.
To everyone else, it would just be a preseason game in Miami.
But for Gabriel, it was something much more — a moment to prove that dreams, no matter how distant, could be turned into reality with hard work and courage.
He closed his eyes again, this time letting sleep take him fully.
His last thought was a simple one — not of fear, not of fame, but of gratitude.
For the chance.
For the game.
For tomorrow.