The System Makes Me a Player

Luquinhas received it again in midfield, turned his body, and left Rodrigo behind once more. He advanced and gave a low pass to Diego, who returned it with a first touch.

The touch was perfect. The ball went back to number 10.

This time, Oliveira couldn't anticipate.

Luquinhas crossed, aiming for Biel.

But Márcio appeared first.

He dove with his head, deflecting the ball out of the box.

The entire stadium rose to its feet in applause.

"Nice one, Márcio!", shouted Kazana, the captain, pointing at him.

Dante quickly looked at Kelvin, who smiled back with a proud gaze.

They didn't need to say anything. The look was enough.

Zenkai looked frustrated. Biel kicked the ground, Diego shook his head, showing even more irritation.

Luquinhas stared intently at Oliveira, as if trying to solve a riddle.

On the next play, the opposing team tried something different.

Biel dropped deeper, drawing Dante with him, and Diego moved more centrally. Luquinhas stayed further back, almost as a pure playmaker.

"They're trying to confuse us", warned Kazana. "Don't fall for it!"

But the danger was only beginning.

Zenkai started a quick passing sequence, one touch after another. Biel passed to Luquinhas, who returned it with a backheel. The stadium murmured in awe.

Diego received and faked the shot. Oliveira jumped forward, but the striker rolled it to the side again.

It was the same pattern. The same trick.

Except this time, the shot didn't come from Biel.

It came from Luquinhas.

A sharp, low, deadly strike.

Murilo dove — but the ball deflected off Márcio and went up.

The trajectory changed completely.

The entire stadium stood up.

And then — toc.

The ball grazed the crossbar and went out.

A collective silence took over the field.

Until Kazana started clapping and shouted:

"That's it! They're at their limit, boys! Stay strong!"

The Sanu players quickly regrouped.

Murilo took the goal kick with power, and the ball flew to midfield, where Ian controlled and held it.

He turned, looked at Kelvin, and launched it forward.

Number 11 received it on the left wing and accelerated, escaping the marking.

The counterattack was on.

Kelvin carried it forward, waited for the right moment, and rolled it to Dante coming from behind.

Dante didn't shoot — he held the ball, looked up, and sent a trivela pass to Kazana inside the box.

The captain rose, headed firmly, but the goalkeeper made a miracle save.

The rebound fell to Felipe.

He shot.

The ball hit Mateus's chest, and the dry thud echoed like a slap in the tense silence of the stadium. Felipe held his head in disbelief. It was the perfect chance, and it slipped away by centimeters.

Before anyone could react, Mateus launched it forward with a long, high kick that crossed midfield and found Luquinhas on his chest. Zenkai's number 10 controlled it as if the ball were glued to his foot. The touch was light, smooth, and before Dante could approach, he was already turning, shielding the ball with the elegance of someone who knows exactly what's about to happen.

"Close him down!", shouted Samuka from the stands, completely fired up.

But Luquinhas didn't wait.

With a short touch, he escaped the first pressure, spinning on his axis and slipping between Ian and Rodrigo. The crowd rose, a collective murmur spreading through the stands — everyone could feel something extraordinary was about to happen.

Dante tried to intercept the next pass, but Luquinhas, with a quick dribble, slipped past him. Dante barely touched the ball, but it didn't change direction.

The Zenkai boy didn't seem to run — he glided.

Every touch, every movement was a perfect calculation between force, timing, and rhythm.

"Don't let him breathe!", shouted Rafael again.

But Luquinhas was unleashed.

A backheel flick to Biel, who returned it with another quick touch, and the ball came back to him in motion. Rodrigo came to challenge, firm and determined to stop the play, but number 10 gave a short feint, cutting to the side with the inside of his foot, making Sanu's midfielder slip to his knees.

A roar burst from the stands.

"What was that, Luquinhas!"

Márcio quickly retreated, trying to position himself between him and the box. Kelvin was also tracking back on the left, while Kazana spread his arms, shouting instructions to the defense.

But Luquinhas didn't look at anyone. He just kept going.

The next touch was bolder — a short stepover, then a full spin over the ball. He left Márcio behind and opened space at the top of the box.

Now only two remained: Oliveira and Kelvin.

"Hold him!", yelled Kazana.

Luquinhas lifted his head, looked at Oliveira — and smiled.

It wasn't a mocking smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what was coming next.

He accelerated.

A short touch with the right, another with the left, then another change of direction. Oliveira lunged, planting his foot into the ground. Luquinhas stopped, grass flying under his boots, and the ball got stuck between them for a brief instant that felt like minutes.

Diego was closing in from the right, raising his arm for the pass.

"Here, Luquinhas!", he shouted.

And it came.

A low, precise pass, slipping over Oliveira's head. Diego controlled it on the first touch, already inside the box.

The whole stadium fell silent.

Oliveira turned immediately, still trying to regain balance. Diego raised his foot, preparing the shot. Murilo spread his arms wide, eyes locked on the ball.

But the shot never came.

Diego twisted his foot and gave a light tap to the side.

Oliveira was completely fooled. He leapt to block the nonexistent shot, falling to the ground under the weight of his own movement.

And then, it all made sense.

Luquinhas was already arriving.

The ball rolled back to him, racing toward it. Number 10 tried to control it — but the touch was off. The ball bounced awkwardly in front of him.

Even so, he didn't hesitate.

With his back to the goal, and Oliveira still on the ground, Luquinhas improvised.

A backheel touch.

Simple. Subtle. Deadly.

The ball rolled low, passing between Kelvin's legs and heading straight for the left corner.

Murilo stretched to his limit, his fingertips brushing the ball.

But it was too late.

The net rippled.

"GOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!".