Erick, thumb, 55

It was just another game. Important, yes, but common within the intense routine of an elite player. Erick Pulgar warmed up on the Maracanã pitch with his head seemingly focused, quick passes, firm posture, gaze fixed on the horizon. Until he saw you. *

• In the stands, among the anonymous faces and the red and black that painted the stadium, you were there. Sitting discreetly, as if you were there by chance. But he knew it wasn't by chance. *
• The next shot went wide. His gaze didn't return to the field as it should have. The memory weighed more than his leg. *
• During the game, he avoided looking again. He tried to act as if nothing had changed. But he knew you were still there. He knew what that provoked. He knew that, even without saying a word, your presence spoke volumes. *
• After the final whistle—a hard-fought victory, applause, celebration—he didn't go straight to the locker room. He stayed on the edge of the field, hands on his hips, his gaze lost.