"how… you just… scored on ALISSON!!!" Ronaldo covered his mouth. "This is impossible!"
The fire in my eyes couldn't look away from the goal. I felt a sudden rush of blood coming to my head, it was like my aggression over powered my body.
Alisson's eyes widened slightly, like he'd just found something interesting. Then he tipped his hat again, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Let's see if I can help you activate it," he continued. "Shoot again."
By now, the crowd had grown. People from the other side of the pitch, people who weren't even here before, they all pushed in, forming a circle around us.
I stepped forward, resting my foot lightly on top of the ball, feeling it shift under my sole. My breathing slowed, but everything else sped up.
"I'll wipe that smile off your face," I muttered, barely audible.
Alisson heard it anyway.
His grin widened.
"Aggro style, Spring."
He started bouncing on the line, light on his feet, shifting side to side, like he could explode in any direction at any second.
I stepped into it, my body leaning forward instead of rising, my leg swinging through faster, sharper.
"Aggro style: BUBBLE ELECTRICITY."
The air around my leg felt different. Heavy, but sharp at the same time. Like pressure building in a storm just before it breaks. My muscles tensed, tighter than they ever had, every nerve screaming at once.
Electricity crawling up my leg, bursting outward through the point of contact. Not real, not something you could see clearly… but everyone felt it.
"What?!" someone shouted from the crowd.
It didn't spin normally. It wobbled.
Alisson's eyes widened.
For the first time since I met him, He hesitated. Just a fraction. But it was enough.
He pushed off anyway, but hard, reading the initial line of the shot But the ball shifted.
Mid-flight. Like it skipped through the air in tiny bursts, each movement slightly off from the last. Left—no, right—no, both.
The ball snapped downward at the last second, slamming into the ground just inside the box before violently popping back up.
I stood there, my leg still slightly raised from the follow-through, my body frozen in place.
"…So that's what it looks like," he muttered.
He pushed himself up, dust clinging to his shirt, but he didn't brush it off this time. His eyes were locked onto me again, but there was no smugness left.
"Impressive kid." A deep voice echoed from the back of the ground.
He stepped forward slowly, and people moved without being asked, parting just enough to let him through.
He was tall. Taller than most of the guys here. Athletic, but not in the loud way, nothing exaggerated, nothing forced. Just… built right. Like his body had been shaped for football and never forgot it. Dark, wavy hair slipped out from under his cap, brushing against his forehead. A light layer of facial hair framed his jaw.
He stopped a few feet in front of me, eyes locking onto mine.
"Carlos Demi…" The name spread quietly, like a ripple.
I'd heard it before.
Everyone had.
A former pro for Botafogo.
One of those players your uncle argued about in barbershops and street corners. The kind of name that came with stories.
And now he was standing right in front of me.
Carlos Demi's gaze dropped briefly to the ball at my feet.
"That last shot…" he said, voice low, steady. "You didn't understand it."
He took another step closer.
Close enough now that I could see the small details, the faint scars, the way his eyes didn't flicker, didn't wander.
"You felt it," he continued. "But you didn't control it."
Carlos raised a hand slightly.
"Tell me, kid," he said. "When you struck that ball… what were you thinking?"
I held his gaze.
Then answered honestly. "…Nothing."
"Exactly."
He stepped back slightly, folding his arms.
"That's where talent begins," he said. "And where most players fail."
The crowd had gone quiet again. Even Alisson hadn't moved, standing off to the side, watching like this mattered more than anything that just happened.
Carlos glanced toward the goal, then back at me.
"That's why I knew it was an aggro style. Aggro Styles aren't tricks," he said. "They're instincts pushed to their limit. Emotion, intent… control."
"That's good," Carlos said quietly. "You should feel that."
He turned slightly, beginning to walk past me then stopped.
"…If you want to actually become something," he added, not even looking back now, "you'll need someone to teach you how to use it."
Then he glanced over his shoulder, just enough for one eye to meet mine again.
"Well?" he said.
A beat.
"You coming, or are you just another street player with a flashy shot?"
My grip tightened slightly at my side.
Behind me, Noa leaned in fast. "Gabigol… you're not seriously."
I didn't take my eyes off Carlos.
Because something about this moment felt familiar.
Like standing in the street all those years ago.
"…Guess I'll see what you've got," I said.