“You’d get your chances,” Neymar said immediately, instinctively defensive of the club.
“You’d train with Messi, Xavi, Iniesta.
You’d develop faster here than anywhere else in the world.”
“That’s not what I asked, Ney.” Léo’s tone was flat, completely stripping away the glamour Neymar was trying to sell.
“You are going to Barcelona carrying a Copa Libertadores title and a Golden Ball.
You conquered an entire continent, and even you are going to have to bleed for every single minute you get on that pitch.”
Silence stretched over the line.
Neymar hadn’t kicked a competitive ball at Camp Nou yet, but the Spanish press and the boardroom politics had already shown him the gravity of Messi.
He knew Léo was right.
“I just started,” Léo continued, laying out the arithmetic with cold precision.
“La Masia has multiple wonder kids who have been waiting for first-team minutes since they were twelve.
If I go to Barcelona right now, I’m a project.
I’ll sit on the bench for years waiting for a Copa del Rey rotation.”
“I’d look out for you,” Neymar argued, though the absolute certainty had leaked out of his voice.
“I sat on a bench in America because of politics,” Léo said quietly.
The words carried a heavy, immovable weight.
“I promised myself I would never do it again.
I don’t need Barcelona right now.
I need minutes.”
Neymar exhaled loudly into the receiver.
The dream of reuniting at Camp Nou dissolved against the hard brick wall of Léo’s pragmatism.
“Porra.
Since when did you get so smart?” Neymar muttered.
“I’m always smart.”
“You’re a stubborn idiot, you know that?” The warmth finally bled back into Neymar’s voice, accepting the defeat.
“Fine.
You’re right.
Your call, your career.
But Léo—” He paused, the theatrical performance switching back on.
“Tomorrow you’re playing Santos away.
The club that made me.
If you don’t absolutely destroy them, I will personally revoke your status as my brother.
I’ll issue a press statement.”
Léo laughed, a short, sharp sound.
“You’re actually sending me after your old club.”
“Santos doesn’t have me anymore.
If you can’t beat them now, that’s embarrassing for both of us.
Do your job.”
“Watch me.”
Léo hung up.
Before he could slide the phone into his gym bag, Wagner name lit up the screen.
The meeting took place in Carlos Belmont’s office on the third floor of the administrative building.
The room smelled of old paper and stale coffee, framed match programs from the nineties lining the back wall.
Wagner sat across the desk from Belmont and Max Vezoli.
The silence in the room was heavy, loaded with conversations that had paused the exact moment Léo touched the doorknob.
“Léo.” Belmont gestured to the empty chair beside Wagner.
“Good timing.
We’ve been going through the situation.”
“I gave him the outline on the way in,” Wagner said, adjusting his watch.
“Several clubs have made inquiries.
Serious ones.
The Sudamericana performance accelerated the timeline.”
Léo sat down.
He looked at the three men.
Belmont maintained a measured, corporate expression.
Vezoli sat with his arms crossed over his chest.
Wagner projected careful neutrality.
They were all waiting to see how a seventeen-year-old would react to the news that the titans of European football were knocking.
“Which clubs?” Léo asked.
“Léo—” Wagner started.
“Actually.” Léo held up a hand.
“It doesn’t matter which clubs.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“I have one condition.
Guaranteed playing time.
First team, competitive minutes.
If a club can’t put that in writing, I’m not interested.”
The room went entirely still.
Vezoli uncrossed his arms.
“That’s exactly right.” The old coach’s voice carried the absolute finality of a man who had already won an argument in his head.
“He needs match experience.
Not a youth team placement.
Not a development loan with vague promises.
Competitive first-team minutes.
If that’s not on the table, Léo stays here and we revisit in January.” Vezoli pinned Belmont with a hard look.
“At least in São Paulo, he plays whenever he’s fit.”
Belmont nodded slowly.
The sporting director had watched too many careers wither in the void between raw talent and actual opportunity.
He knew better than to push back.
Wagner clicked his pen, making a note on his legal pad.
“I’ll frame the negotiations around that condition.
No guarantee, no conversation.” He looked up at Belmont.
“Carlos, I’d ask the club not to make this difficult.
Whatever happens, São Paulo will have favorable secondary terms.
Léo’s ownership structure is clean.
Nothing like the third-party mess we dealt with on Neymar.
This can be straightforward.”
“We’ve been in business together a long time, Wagner.” Carlos Belmont stood and extended his hand across the desk.
“You have our word.”
What none of them said aloud—but what all of them understood—was that the guarantee Léo demanded was the one thing Europe’s elite were entirely unwilling to give.
Barcelona wouldn’t promise a starting role to a teenager who had played a handful of professional matches.
Neither would Real Madrid.
The clubs that could actually guarantee him football were not the clubs currently blowing up Wagner’s phone.
That was fine.
The stage Léo needed wasn’t the Camp Nou or the Bernabéu.
Not yet.
He needed grass, aggressive defenders, and enough consecutive starts to forge his training ground instincts into unbreakable, pressurized reflex.
There was a version of his career where Barcelona happened in two years, and in that version, he walked through the front door having earned his spot.
And if none of the European clubs blinked?
If the summer window closed?
Then he would tear Santos apart tomorrow.
And he would do it again the match after that.
The 2014 World Cup was a year away.
Brazil was hosting.
The country that had produced Pelé, Garrincha, Ronaldo, and Ronaldinho was already buckling under the weight of an approaching tournament that felt less like a sporting event and more like a national mandate.
If Léo Costa was going to make a case for a yellow shirt—his father’s dream, the harder path—the campaign started right now.
He didn’t need to be anywhere but here.
On July 8th, the team bus rolled south toward Santos.
The concrete sprawl of São Paulo gave way to the steep, winding descent of the Serra do Mar, the distant shimmer of the coastline bleeding through the morning fog.
Because both clubs occupied the Estado de São Paulo, they had drawn the short straw on travel—four hours by road instead of a quick flight.
The cabin was quiet, thirty players collectively choosing sleep over the anxiety of the upcoming ninety minutes.
Léo wore his headphones, staring blankly at the seat in front of him.
No music played.
Beside him, Aloisio shifted in his seat.
The striker stared out the window for twenty minutes, tapped his knee rapidly, and finally turned.
“Hey.” Aloisio nudged Léo’s shoulder.
“Is it true?
The European clubs?”
Léo pulled an earbud out.
“It’s not certain yet.”
“Come on, man.
Wagner’s been pacing the halls on his phone since Tuesday.
The whole building knows.”
“Then the whole building knows exactly as much as I do.” Léo looked at him.
“Don’t believe everything you hear in the canteen.”
Aloisio grinned, but let the deflection slide.
He looked back out the window for a long moment.
When he turned back, the easy humor was gone from his face.
“Uh…
Léo.
You were in America the last two years, right?”
“Yeah.”
Aloisio rubbed the back of his neck.
“My agent called me this week.
A Chinese Super League club has been making inquiries.
About me.” He swallowed.
“The salary they’re talking about is…
it’s not a small number.”
Léo turned fully toward him.
Aloisio picked at the seam of his tracksuit bottoms, refusing to meet Léo’s eyes.
“I just wanted to ask.
You know.
Since you’ve lived abroad.
What’s it like?
Leaving Brazil behind”