Dudu wasn't stupid. Rai already knew that, but in the practices that followed, the confirmation came with the precision of someone studying his enemy before attacking.
The number 10 stopped shooting. Stopped provoking with his body. He started doing something worse: editing.
During Wednesday's scrimmage, whenever Rai was well-positioned, Dudu wouldn't pass to him. Whenever Rai was surrounded, Dudu would fire the ball at him, throwing him into the fire—the ball arriving with two defenders on top of him, no room, no way out. And whenever the play died, Dudu already had his line ready, tossed into the air like someone who wasn't talking to anyone and was talking to everyone:
“What's up… the tactical number 10 over here isn't showing up.”
Rai understood. The game wasn't just about the ball. It was about narrative. Dudu was building a version of the story in which Rai was the problem—the guy who overthought, passed too much, and never finished anything. And with every practice, every line thrown into the wind, that version grew more solid in the other boys' minds.
Because a lie repeated with confidence becomes the truth to anyone who has nothing else.
Rai didn't answer. He didn't take the bait. He played it simple, passed and moved, opened lanes, called for the third man. The team pushed up together almost without realizing it—and that was the Maestro being born. It wasn't about commanding with your voice. It was about commanding with the ball.
But the Maestro had a problem. He lived in the same body as the Wizard.
At the next practice, Sergião set up a small-sided game. Smaller field. Less space. More truth.
Dudu came in with a quiet fury.
“Come on, ‘Maestro.’ Make the team pass.”
Rai breathed and called on the Gift just a little. Not to see everything. Just enough. Fine lines appeared: possible triangles, a dead space near the sideline, a defensive midfielder stepping half a pace forward.
Rai passed first-time. Got it back. Called for the third man. The team pushed up together.
Then Dudu tried the move. He forced a pass to Rai with two defenders on top of him. It wasn't a pass. It was a trap.
Rai received it. His old body remembered the streets. His new body remembered the talent. And the Wizard's magic appeared.
A short touch. A shoulder dropping the wrong way. The ball vanishing for half a second as if it had been pulled by an invisible thread. The two defenders ran straight past him. The eyes around them widened. The entire little field went, “Ooooh!” at the same time.
Dudu froze. His smile turned rigid.
Rai broke free… and tried to do it again. Only now, instead of dribbling to create space, he dribbled to prove himself. The line the Gift showed him was a simple pass. A killer one. But instinct demanded one more flourish.
He went for the second dribble too late. Ran into the challenge. Fell.
The world didn't go silent. It got loud. And unfair.
Dudu was already there, talking loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“There you go. Told you. Try to get fancy and you wreck the team.”
Rai got up slowly, brushing the dust off his shin. The Gift crackled faintly behind his eyes—not showing arrows. Showing a warning. Weight. Choice. Consequence.
He had the magic. What he lacked was tying it to the Gift.
Sergião whistled and stopped everything.
“Again.”
Dudu spread his arms.
“Coach, this way—”
Sergião pointed at him, curtly:
“Shut up and run.”
Practice continued. And Rai, for the first time since he had come back, understood something that thirty-five years of life had never taught him: the Wizard and the Maestro couldn't fight inside him. The Wizard was the dribble, the magic, the thing that made the crowd scream. The Maestro was the pass, the rhythm, the thing that made the team win. They lived in the same body, but they wanted different things.
The Wizard wanted to be seen. The Maestro wanted to win.
And until the two of them understood each other, Dudu would be right.
That night, in the little room, Rai lay staring at the ceiling stained with damp. The Gift was quiet, but the question wasn't: when to dribble and when to pass? When to be the show and when to be the game?
He didn't have an answer. Not yet.
But he knew the answer would decide everything.