Freestyle
Sun, Sand, and Shadows
The sun strikes me like a blessing as I step out onto the golden shores of Rio de Janeiro, its rays warm against my skin, the light reflecting like diamonds off the sea. The beach hums with life—children laughing, waves crashing in rhythm, the faint thrum of music spilling from distant radios. A moment of peace, for once.
I wear black-tinted sunglasses, leaning back in a lounge chair, pretending—just for today—to be someone else. Not the rising star. Not the one who made the world gasp with a 400km/h shot. Just a boy recovering. Watching. Listening.
Then, a shadow eclipses the sun.
I lower my glasses slightly and see her.
A girl stands above me, haloed in sunlight. Eyes shaped like foxes, shimmering with the rare gleam of olamond—not quite gold, not quite green. Her nose is defined, elegant. Lips a soft curve, medium-thin, curling into a confident smile. Her figure is sharp and sculpted, hourglass curves with strong thighs, and she's wearing a light blue swimsuit top and black shorts, skin bronzed by the sun.
She looks down at me like she already knows the answer to her next question.
"You wanna play?" she asks, tilting her head toward the net set up near the surf. "Foot-volley. Loser buys açaí."
I feign confusion. "Never played before. Just here on holiday."
Her grin spreads wider. "That so?" She extends her hand. "C'mon. Even tourists gotta learn eventually. Football's the heartbeat here. In Brazil, it's not just a sport—it's how we breathe."
I take her hand, her skin warm and sand-speckled, and let her pull me up. She doesn't let go as she leads me toward the court. Music drifts closer now—samba, drums, basslines carried on ocean air. My bare feet press into the sun-heated sand, and I glance around.
On the opposite side of the net are three guys, toned and barefoot, already calling her name. I hear it clear now.
Angelina.
She's a local favorite.
"Did you finally find someone?" one of the boys teases.
Angelina grins. "Maybe. He's a mystery."
I nod at them, then step onto the sand. The game begins.
Movement and Masks
The ball is light, floating in arcs across the net. They use their shoulders, heads, chests, and feet. All elegance. All rhythm. I join in—barely moving, only trapping with my knee, soft touches with my foot, slow passes.
Deliberate.
I could dominate. But not yet. Not here.
Every touch is a reminder that I'm recovering. That even now, every breath is a step closer to war.
We lose, of course. They cheer. Angelina laughs and gives me a sideways glance.
"You held back."
"I was surviving," I say with a small smile. "Barely."
She narrows her eyes but says nothing. Instead, she leans close and murmurs, "There's an event tonight. A match. Not just any match. You'll want to see it."
She hands me her phone.
I enter my number.
"Don't disappear," she says, and turns before I can answer—sprinting off with the grace of a dancer.
Nightfall Legends
Back at the hotel, I let the day settle over me like a dream.
Massage therapy calms the ache in my muscles—still sore from the overload weeks ago. The physio says I'm healing fast. I tell him it's because I'm built different. He laughs. I don't.
Then night comes.
I step out of the hotel in fitted black slacks and a clean linen shirt. But she—Angelina—is already waiting at the venue entrance, wearing a baby blue dress that shimmers like sea-glass under the moon. Her hair falls in waves, catching city light as if she were born to glow in crowds.
"You clean up well," she says, looping her arm through mine.
"You always look like that?" I ask.
She laughs. "Only when it matters."
We step into a crowd that's alive. Drums. Chants. A thousand voices layered in celebration.
Inside, a private arena opens up like a coliseum under stars. And the names playing tonight?
Not rumors. Legends.
Ronaldo (R9), Neymar Jr., Ronaldinho, Marcelo, Kaka—each one an icon. Each one a myth carved into the heart of football. Carlos, the thunder-footed left-back, sits on the bench as coach, arms crossed, grinning like a father watching gods at play.
I sit beside Angelina. My heart races.
The game begins.
And it's... magic.
A God Among Men
Neymar dances past defenders like they were mist. Marcelo's outside-foot crosses bend physics. Ronaldinho's smile never fades, not even as he humiliates an opponent with a no-look sombrero flick. And then—
Kaka.
He glides. That's the only word.
The ball obeys him. It sticks like gravity, hugs his every step. He runs faster with the ball than most do without it. He reads the game like it's already been written and he's just acting it out.
I don't breathe. I only watch.
And I store it. Every movement. Every angle.
Every step.
Destiny in Flesh
Later, backstage in a velvet-lit lounge with local food stalls and murmured praise still echoing outside, I find myself walking alongside Angelina again, plates in hand.
Then someone walks past.
Wet hair. Drenched in sweat. A towel over his shoulder.
He turns. Angelina turns too.
"Papa!" she squeals.
He laughs and pulls her into a warm, wet hug. "You always smell like sweat," she says. "And why are you hugging me like this in front of my friend?"
Then his eyes lock with mine.
Kaka.
In the flesh.
He raises a brow. "So… you're the one with my daughter?"
I meet his gaze. "If it meant learning from you, I'd leave her in a heartbeat."
He pauses.
Then laughs.
Angelina groans. "You always do this. Every time. I bring someone interesting, and you end up stealing them!"
He ruffles her hair with mock innocence. "I can't help it. I am interesting."
I watch him. Even in his calm, his posture holds legacy. The way he stands says: I know what I've done, and I'm still not done teaching.
The Flame Rekindled
That night, hours later, I sit in the silence of my hotel room. Rio hums outside the window like a heartbeat far away.
I stare at the photo on my phone: Me. Angelina. Kaka.
Captured in one perfect frame.
I trace the edges of the image with my thumb.
Then I whisper to myself, "I will devour it all."
His elegance. His control. His ability to run with the ball like it was a piece of his body. The seamless movement. The calm under chaos. That will be mine.
One day, I'll face him—or his legacy—and I won't watch from the crowd. I'll challenge it.
But not yet.
Now, I recover. I rebuild. I step into the next chapter of the war.
Bayern München awaits.
And this time, I won't just join.
I'll take over