The glory of the first victory still tingled on Elismar's skin when the coach, with his clipboard that seemed to dictate everyone's fate, announced the next round.The win over the Asphalt Serpents had changed the Tigres' status. They weren't the joke anymore; they were the underdog, the team everyone wanted to see if it had just been luck.
"Alright, folks! The afternoon schedule continues with the second-round matches!" the coach announced. "Next game on the main court… Gentle Tigers versus the Concrete Dogs!"
If the name Asphalt Serpents had caused a murmur, Concrete Dogs triggered a heavy, almost funereal silence. Even the music playing seemed to lower its volume.The Dogs weren't just a team; they were an institution. Last year's champions. A team that didn't play futsal — they practiced demolition. The legend of the 12–0 final was told in the hallways like a horror story.
Elismar's blood ran cold. He looked at his teammates. The gleam of recent victory had faded from their eyes, replaced by sheer panic.
"C-Concrete Dogs?" stammered Ryan, seeming to shrink by five centimeters.
"That's Betão's team," whispered Piter, his voice trembling with fear. "Their striker. Rumor is he uses a futsal ball as a pillow. And that he ate the last one that popped during practice."
"I saw them play once," said Lester, swallowing hard. "They don't dribble. They run over people."
Elismar felt the weight of leadership drop on his shoulders. How could he motivate them against a force of nature? He himself was terrified. The win against the Serpents now felt like a fluke, a drop of luck in an ocean of incompetence. Facing the champions right after felt like a punishment, not a reward. The coach had to be kidding.
He stepped away from the group, his mind spinning, stomach churning. That's when he felt a hand on his arm. It was Clara. She pulled him under the shade of a mango tree, away from curious eyes.
"Your face is pale," she said, concern in her blue eyes.
"That's because I think I saw my own ghost waving at me from that court," he confessed, his voice a desperate whisper. "Clara, they're the champions. Not just a good team — the team. We barely beat one. How are we even supposed to survive these guys?"
Clara held his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. "Listen. Who said you have to win?"
That confused him. "What do you mean? It's a game."
"No. This is a different battle," she explained, her voice intense and strategic. "Against the Serpents, you needed to prove you could score a goal. Against the Dogs, you need to prove you can't concede one. Today's goal isn't to win. It's to draw. A 0–0 against these guys is worth more than any blowout win. Got it? The goal is to survive. To show your wall doesn't break."
Her logic was a lifeboat in his sea of panic.A draw.Not losing.It was an achievable goal. Difficult, nearly impossible, but tangible.
"Survive…" he repeated, the idea solidifying in his mind.
"Exactly," she confirmed. And then, she gave him a peck on the lips. It wasn't a kiss of passion — it was a seal of confidence. "Now go out there and be their wall."
Elismar returned to his team with a new posture. The fear was still there, but now it had a purpose.
"Gather up!" he called. "Change of plans. Today's strategy is one word: defense. I don't want anyone crossing midfield unless it's a miracle. Our area is sacred ground. Piter, you're not a striker today, you're a second defender. Your job is to hit and be a post in front of the box. Lester and Ryan, you're the guard dogs on the wings — bite their heels. And Markin…"
Everyone looked at the goalkeeper, who was sweating buckets.
"Markin, today you're not a goalkeeper. You're a giant target. And your job is to not let the ball get past you, no matter what. Use your chest, belly, head, whatever it takes. Today we don't play to win — we play to not lose. A draw today is our biggest victory."
The team looked at each other. The idea of not needing to attack — of only defending — was strangely comforting. It was a clear goal.
The whistle blew. The game began. The Concrete Dogs were exactly as the legend described: big, strong, and completely lacking subtlety. Betão, the striker, looked like he'd been sculpted from granite.
In the opening seconds, they charged forward. The ball reached Betão. He shielded it with his body, and Piter, trying to mark him, bounced off like he'd hit a wall. Betão turned and fired. The ball slammed into Markin's chest, knocking him backward — but he held on. The sound was so loud the whole crowd groaned in sympathy.
"Nice one, Markin! You're a wall!" shouted Elismar.
The game was a one-way massacre. The ball rarely passed midfield. Elismar ran from side to side, sliding, blocking passes, feeling every collision. He wasn't playing futsal — he was in a trench.
"Outta the way, toothpick!" one of the Dogs yelled at Ryan, who, despite his fear, threw himself in front of a pass and deflected the ball.
"We're just warming up, you lucky punks!" growled Betão, after Piter blocked him again.
The first half ended 0–0. The Tigres dragged themselves to the bench, exhausted like they'd played three matches in a row.
"They… don't… tire out," panted Lester.
"We're doing it," said Elismar, breathing hard. "Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes of pain. Then we can collapse. Let's go!"
The second half was even more intense. Frustrated, the Dogs started firing shots from everywhere. Every shot was a bomb. And with every bomb, a Tigre body was in the way. Elismar blocked one with his thigh and felt it go numb. Piter took one to the back that knocked the air out of him.
The tensest moment came with three minutes left. After a series of passes, the ball landed cleanly at Betão's feet inside the box. One-on-one with Markin. Betão didn't go for finesse. He wound up to tear the net apart. Markin shut his eyes, stretched out arms and legs, trying to be as big as possible.
POW!The ball hit Markin square in the stomach. He collapsed, breathless, ball clutched to his belly. He'd made the save. The ref stopped the game. Markin couldn't get up. His teammates rushed over.
"You okay, man?!" Elismar asked, truly worried.
Markin, face red, managed a thumbs-up before finally gasping for breath. He was the hero of the match.
The game resumed. Final minute. The Dogs had one last corner. The ball was launched into the area. Elismar jumped higher than anyone and headed it away.The final whistle blew.0–0.
Silence fell over the court. The Concrete Dogs stared at the scoreboard, stunned. The Gentle Tigers dropped to the floor, too exhausted to celebrate.They hadn't won. But they had survived. And in that moment, survival was everything.
They got up, limping, and hugged each other. The champion team walked past them, throwing glares of contempt."Lucky nobodies," spat Betão.
Elismar didn't care. He looked for Clara in the crowd. She was there, smiling, a look of pure pride.
There were no more games that day. The mission was complete. One win and one draw against two of the strongest teams. No one would believe it.
He said goodbye to his friends and went to find Clara."We did it," he said, voice hoarse from exhaustion and yelling.
"I never doubted," she replied, and gave him the sweetest kiss of the day.
The walk home was slow, every muscle in his body protesting. He got home and found his mother, who already knew the results.
"My son! I heard! You tied with the champions! That's a huge victory!" she said, hugging him carefully.
"It was, Mom. It was rough. I don't think I've ever run that much in my life."
After a shower and dinner, he collapsed in his room. Mão Leve and Bola de Pelo jumped on the bed, sensing their owner's exhaustion.
"We tied," he whispered to them. "Zero-zero. The most beautiful nil-nil in football history. I think Markin's gonna need a new belly. And me… I think I could sleep for a whole week."
He closed his eyes before finishing the sentence. He didn't dream of goals or trophies.He dreamed of silence. The blessed silence of a successful defense, of a mission accomplished.And that was more than enough.