Léo didn’t answer right away.
The coastal highway unspooled beyond the bus window.
The steep descent of the Serra do Mar lay behind them, replaced by the flat industrial sprawl of Santos stretching toward the Atlantic.
Léo considered the question.
Aloisio had earned a real answer, not a deflection.
Aloisio possessed an unguarded honesty most players sanded down after a few years in the professional grind.
His talent wouldn’t make European scouts frantically call their directors at midnight, but it was consistent.
In Brazil, consistency paid.
“If you don’t have a long-term vision,” Léo said, his gaze fixed on the passing cargo containers, “and what you need right now is financial security—then go.
Try it.” He turned to meet Aloisio’s eyes.
“But if you think you can still develop as a player, the Chinese Super League isn’t where that happens.”
Aloisio chewed on the inside of his cheek, then gave a single, slow nod.
He already knew the answer.
He just needed to hear it out loud.
The bus rolled on.
Danny had been live for twelve minutes before kickoff.
His breakfast sat half-eaten beside his keyboard, ignored as the chat scrolled frantically.
“Costa is in the starting lineup, guys,” Danny said, pointing a pen at his monitor.
“Number twenty-one.
São Paulo are in the black away kits today.
Now, before anyone demands a prediction, I want to explain this fixture.
Santos and São Paulo aren’t just rivals.
It’s a state derby.
The home side has a massive psychological edge.
Same food, same weather, no airports.
Santos will come out swinging.”
Danny what’s the score gonna be he literally calls every score right 4-1 Danny call 4-1 again
“I am not calling the same score twice.
That’s statistically irresponsible.” He leaned into the mic.
“But I will say Santos 2-1 is my read.
Home ground, desperate for a result after losing Neymar.
They’ll go for the throat early.”
Danny’s gonna be wrong for the first time in his life he’s gonna be wrong and it’s gonna be beautiful
“Keep that energy.” Danny pointed a finger at his webcam.
“I want all of you to remember this moment.”
Down on the pitch at the Vila Belmiro, the whistle blew.
The century-old stadium sat tight against the Santos waterfront, its steep upper tiers leaning aggressively over the grass.
Pelé had built his legend here.
The concrete had memory.
Santos played with the frantic urgency of a team trying to replace a ghost.
Since Neymar’s departure to Barcelona, Willian José had inherited the attacking burden.
He was a year older, technically sound, but lacked the explosive, improvisational flair of his predecessor.
His first touch of the match sent a heavy shot sailing well over the crossbar, burying itself in the empty upper rows of the away end.
“Yikes,” Danny winced.
Willian José does NOT have the Neymar gene at least the fans in row Z got a souvenir
The stadium reacted before the broadcast cameras caught up.
A low rumble in the home end swelled into a deafening roar.
Twenty thousand people identifying a native son.
Neymar sat in the VIP box wearing a plain white t-shirt.
When the cameras finally found him on the jumbotron, he raised a hand, flashing a brilliant smile.
The noise spiked.
Elderly fans rose to their feet.
Teenagers pressed against the lower-tier fencing, screaming his name.
“Neymar is in the stands!” Danny shoved his chair back.
“Guys—Neymar flew back from Europe to watch his brother!
This is a whole thing!
This match just got a documentary!”
NEYMAR CAME FOR COSTA I’M CRYING the São Paulo Twins reunion tour he literally flew back from Spain for this
Neymar waved again.
He slipped easily into his public persona, wearing the adoration like a perfectly tailored suit.
Slowly, the crowd’s attention drifted back to the pitch.
Which was when São Paulo won the ball.
Denilson secured possession in the center circle, took one scanning touch, and drove a pass forward.
Léo received the ball back-to-goal.
A Santos center-back pressed tight against his spine.
Léo didn’t trap the pass.
He dropped his right boot, letting the toe catch the underside of the leather to flick it upward.
In the same fluid motion, he pivoted, his heel striking the airborne ball to arc it cleanly over the defender’s head.
The ball floated into open space.
Léo was already sprinting past the disoriented defender to collect it.
Up in the VIP box, Neymar sat forward.
WHAT DID HE JUST DO that wasn’t football that was DANCING Danny are you okay
Danny stared at the screen for two full seconds.
“I have no words.
I have been covering this sport for six years.
I have no words.”
666666666 he’s showing off because Neymar is watching he absolutely IS showing off because Neymar is watching
The sombrero flick drew three white shirts toward Léo.
The top of the penalty arc opened up.
Léo killed the dropping ball with the outside of his left boot, adjusting his angle, and drove directly at the center-backs.
A sharp drop of the shoulder left.
The defender bit.
Léo cut right, bursting through the gap.
The angle for a shot existed, narrow but viable.
But Luis Fabiano was tearing across the six-yard box.
Léo slipped a low, weighted pass perfectly into Fabiano’s stride.
Fabiano hammered the shot first-time.
It smashed against the crossbar with a violent, metallic crack, rebounding directly back into the penalty area.
“NO—there’s still—COSTA—”
Léo was already there.
He had accelerated the moment the ball left Fabiano’s boot, tracking the trajectory of the rebound.
He met the ball on the half-volley and buried it in the bottom corner before the Santos goalkeeper could even scramble to his knees.
1–0.
“GOAL!
GOAL!
GOAL!” Danny shouted, knocking his water bottle off the desk.
“COSTA!
HE READS THE REBOUND AND PUTS IT AWAY BEFORE ANYONE ELSE IN THAT STADIUM EVEN REACTS!”
Fabiano literally could not score a one-on-one and Costa still made it a goal Costa is not a human being he is a highlight reel with legs
Léo sprinted toward the corner flag, raising both arms to the pocket of traveling São Paulo fans roaring his name.
In the VIP box, Neymar stood clapping.
His polished, public smile dissolved into genuine, boyish laughter.
He dropped back into his seat, shaking his head at Wagner Ribeiro.
“That’s what he does,” Neymar said.
“Every match.
He just does that.”
Six consecutive appearances and a goal in each one.
The statistic would headline the morning papers and flood Danny’s chat.
By nightfall, it would land on the desks of every European sporting director who had called Wagner’s phone.
The match ground into the tactical attrition of the second half.
High in the stands, Wagner and Neymar watched the pitch.
“He needs Europe,” Neymar said.
“He needs minutes,” Wagner replied.
“Which is not the same thing.”
“He needs both.” Neymar watched Léo sprint back to close down a Santos counter-attack.
The teenager tracked back with the same ruthless intensity he used going forward.
“He’s ready.
He might have been ready a year ago if—” He cut himself off.
They both knew the rest of that sentence.
“São Paulo plays in the Audi Cup in August,” Wagner said.
“Munich.
Bayern hosts, alongside AC Milan and Manchester City.
It’s a commercial tournament, but the right eyes will be in the stadium.”
Neymar raised an eyebrow.
“You think that’s where the deal gets done?”
“I think that’s where he proves it to the people holding the checkbooks.” Wagner rested his forearms on his knees.
He had been in this business long enough to know the difference between a player whose stats looked good on paper, and a player who commanded the grass in real time.
“Once they see him against European defenders, the conversation changes.”
Neymar was quiet for a moment, watching the flow of the game.
“Wagner.” He turned, his expression hardening slightly.
“Answer me straight.
Is São Paulo making this difficult?
Are they pressuring him to stay?”
Wagner met his gaze.
“The club approached me three days ago.
Privately.
They offered me three million US dollars as a kickback to persuade Léo to sign a new contract.
Extended term.
A six hundred million reais release clause.”
The chanting of the Santos ultras filled the silence in the box.
“I turned it down,” Wagner said flatly.
Neymar stared at the agent for a long second.
Then he let out a short laugh, clapping a hand on Wagner’s shoulder.
“Of course you did.” Neymar grinned.
“You know that’s why Léo and I both trust you, right?
Because you don’t take the bait.”
Wagner looked back down at the pitch.
Léo had just cleanly stripped a Santos midfielder and was already driving a pass up the wing.
“He’s going to need that trust,” Wagner murmured.
“The next few months are going to get brutal.”