June 7, 1994.

It was a cold night in the United States, the host country of the 1994 World Cup. You had rented a house just for yourself; after all, Bebeto slept in the players' own hotel. You had been lying down for a while, looking out the window. A beautiful moonlight, the sounds of owls, and streetlights. You looked at the clock; it was 2 a.m.

You got up, looking for Beto. After all, he was there for one night just to see his first daughter (whom he honored with the iconic celebration against the Netherlands). You walked through the hallways, kitchen, bathroom... nothing until Mia's room. Beto was standing like a mannequin, his hand resting on the crib while the other caressed his daughter's cheek and soft curls. Beto was drenched in sweat, of course, after a night of intense training. He was tired, reluctant to throw himself on the bed... but what mattered there was Mia.

"well.. you look like me in a female, chubby version.."

"but you know... if I don't win this cup... you are still my most precious trophy."

bebeto murmured, scratching his head.