The sun had only just begun to rise over Barra Funda when the first whistle cut through the cool morning air.
The kind of dawn that makes the city feel softer than it really is.
The grass still carried the weight of the night, dew clinging stubbornly to each blade.
When boots pressed down, they made a low, crisp sound, like paper being gently crushed.
Every step sent tiny droplets scattering, dampening socks and darkening the pitch in uneven patches.
Breath fogged lightly in front of the players as they jogged out.
It wouldn't stay cool for long. São Paulo's heat had a way of creeping in without warning.
Already, sweat began to form beneath training tops, soaking into fabric until it clung heavily to their backs.
The smell of wet grass mixed with fresh kit and effort hung in the air.
Cameras lined one side of the training ground, lenses glinting as they captured every stretch, every shout, every misplaced pass.
A handful of early fans had found seats in the small stand—retirees, a father with his son still in school uniform, two teenagers holding scarves.
They weren't loud, but they were present, and that presence mattered.
It reminded everyone that Saturday, the 16th of February 2025, was just two days away.
Two days until the season began.
In the middle of the pitch stood Abel Ferreira, arms folded across his chest, eyes sharp and scanning.
Beside him, his assistant mirrored the posture, occasionally leaning closer to whisper something that made Abel's lips curl into a brief smile.
No one could hear their conversation, but there was satisfaction in their body language.
Perhaps it was the fluidity in the passing drills. Perhaps it was the sharpness in the press.
Or maybe it was something simpler: the feeling that this group had grown.
Last season had been solid, but not perfect. There had been moments of brilliance and moments that left scars.
This season felt different. Hungrier.
Near the touchline, Gabriel Silver crouched to lace his boots tighter.
He pulled his socks up high, almost to his knees, the way boys did when they wanted to look taller, stronger.
His shoulders squared as he stood. There was something childlike in the gesture—like a primary school kid insisting he was the best player in the school team.
But in his eyes, there was no childishness. Only fire.
"Ball!" he shouted before even joining the rondo.
He sprinted onto the grass, dew splashing behind him.
The rondo was already tight and quick—short, sharp passes, one touch, sometimes two.
Victor Roque received the pressure and flicked it instantly toward Gustavo Gómez. Gabriel lunged to intercept.
Gómez barely looked at him. With a calmness that comes from years of commanding defenses, he angled his foot and slipped the ball cleanly between Gabriel's legs.
For a split second, time froze.
Then Gabriel's momentum betrayed him.
His planted foot slid on the wet grass, and he went down hard, sliding nearly five meters away from the circle, arms flailing slightly before he came to a stop on his side.
Laughter exploded across the pitch.
Even Abel Ferreira couldn't suppress a grin.
The small crowd in the stand clapped and whistled, shouting Gómez's name.
Gabriel lay there for a moment, staring at the sky as if questioning every decision that had led him to that exact second.
Then he rolled over and pushed himself up, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Gómez jogged over, extending a hand.
"You see?" he said, laughter still clinging to his voice. "How is it? This is what you do to us every day. Tormenting us."
Gabriel grabbed his hand and stood.
"And you still didn't win the ball," Gómez added, nudging him back toward the rondo.
They both laughed, the kind of laughter that only comes in teams where respect runs deeper than pride.
A long, sharp whistle pierced the morning again.
Instantly, movement shifted. The sound gathered players together as effectively as it dismissed them.
Balls rolled to a stop. Cones remained scattered like silent witnesses.
Mannequins stood upright and unmoving, their yellow plastic bodies gleaming faintly in the rising sun.
The squad formed a semicircle around Abel.
He took a few seconds before speaking, letting the silence settle.
His eyes moved from face to face.
"Today," he began, his voice steady, "is another opportunity."
No shouting. No theatrics. Just authority.
"Another day to add something to your performance. Small things matter. Details matter."
His gaze lingered briefly on the newer faces.
"You have improved. All of you. The new players too."
Without meaning to, several heads turned toward Gabriel Silver.
He felt the weight immediately. He exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back.
He knew he wasn't the only new signing, but attention had a way of finding him. Expectations followed.
Abel continued.
"This season, respect will define us. Respect your teammates. Respect the staff. Respect the referees."
His tone hardened slightly. "When the referee whistles—even if you think he is wrong—you do not react.
The captain speaks. You walk away. We will not lose matches because of unnecessary cards."
The message was clear. Discipline wasn't optional.
"We compete in everything," he added. "The league. The Libertadores. Every competition. We compete to win."
The word win didn't need emphasis. It carried its own weight.
A quick whistle followed, and the players were divided into two sides.
The selection wasn't random. Everyone could feel it.
This was close—very close—to what would line up against Botafogo on Saturday.
Formation: 4-2-3-1.
Last season's structure. Reliable. Flexible.
Gabriel found himself positioned just behind Victor Roque, in the pocket where creativity meets responsibility.
Gómez commanded the back line with quiet authority, while Carlos Miguel stood in goal, gloves already damp from the grass.
The whistle blew.
Intensity rose instantly.
Press high. Win the ball. One touch. Move. Transition fast.
When possession was lost, there was no pause—immediate pressure.
Close space. Cut passing lanes. Hunt in packs.
Gabriel received between lines, turned sharply, and slipped a through ball into Roque's path. Goal.
Minutes later, he drifted left, drew two defenders, and squared for Facundo Torres to finish low into the corner.
Sweat now ran freely down faces. Shirts clung completely to torsos. Shouts overlapped—calls for passes, instructions, warnings.
On the opposite side, Andreas Pereira refused to fade.
One sharp turn at the edge of the box and a curling strike beyond Carlos Miguel.
Later, a late run into the area, meeting a cutback for the first time.
Two goals. A reminder that competition within the squad was real.
The strongest side led 7–2 when Abel finally ended it.
Gabriel had scored once. Assisted three—two for Roque, one for Facundo.
His lungs burned, but it was the good kind of pain.
The kind that tells you you're alive in the right place.
The final whistle echoed longer than the others.
Training was over.
Players bent over, hands on knees, catching breath.
Some lay flat on the grass, staring upward. The dew was long gone now, replaced by the warmth of the morning.
Conversations returned, softer this time. Jokes. Light shoves.
A towel thrown playfully at someone's head.
Abel and his assistant stood together again, speaking quietly.
There was satisfaction—but also calculation. Adjustments would come. They always did.
As the squad began to walk toward the dressing room, Gabriel slowed his steps.
He glanced back at the pitch.
The cones were still there. The mannequins too.
Grounds staff were already preparing for the next session.
In two days, the stands would be full. The cameras would multiply.
The noise would be relentless. Every touch would be judged. Every mistake is magnified.
But this morning belonged to them.
He could almost see it already—the stadium lights, the anthem before kickoff, the ball rolling for the first time this season.
His name was announced over the speakers. The roar.
He wasn't just dreaming anymore.
He was living at the beginning of it.