Monday mornings at the training center were usually slower—video analysis, recovery, a few tactical drills for the reserves. But today, the mood was different. Livelier, sohow. Not noisy, exactly, but... crackling.
Thiago noticed it even before stepping onto the grass.
As he walked through the main corridor, towel slung around his neck, he passed a group of younger academy players crowding a phone. Soone was watching a highlight clip, volu low, but the gasps weren’t.
"Did you see that goal?""He spun the defender and nutgged the keeper—sa touch."
Thiago didn’t even need to ask.
Neymar.
The na was in the air now, more than ever. Santos’ golden boy had scored again the night before—this ti a brace in the Copa São Paulo. One of the goals had already gone viral on local youth-football forums. Another step, another spark.
"Thiago!" A staffer waved him into the AV room. "Team review’s starting."
He turned away from the huddle and stepped into the dim film room, shaking the thoughts from his head. Today was about Guarani. Not Santos. Not Neymar. Not the noise.
Video Review Session
Eneas stood by the projector, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. The analysts clicked through key plays from the match. Mistakes. Positives. Montum.
At minute 53, a fra froze—Thiago’s assist. The mont the ball left his foot, cutting low across the six-yard box.
"Pause there," Eneas said.
The room stilled.
"This run. This angle. That’s how you punish a soft press. Quick, not rushed. Notice the timing of the pass—not before the defender steps, not after he recovers. On the edge."
He turned.
"Thiago. Comnt."
Thiago leaned forward slightly. "I saw the fullback cheating inside. The striker had space at the back post. I didn’t aim for the feet—I aid for the line he’d reach."
Eneas nodded once. "That’s football intelligence. The kind that doesn’t show in highlight clips."
A few players chuckled lightly—Rafael smirked. Thiago didn’t react.
He wasn’t chasing the highlight reel.
---
After the session, they headed to the field for light fitness work and low-intensity rondos. Thiago moved with a loose rhythm, engaging in short pass chains, floating through drills with precision.
But sothing hovered just behind his concentration.
A shadow in the shape of a number: 11.
At water break, Rafael approached, bottle in hand.
"You’ve seen the Neymar clips?"
Thiago looked up. "Yeah."
Rafael sat beside him. "Don’t let it get in your head."
"I’m not."
"You are." His tone wasn’t sharp. Just honest. "I’ve seen it before. Young players chasing ghosts. You’re not in a foot race with a viral clip."
Thiago didn’t reply imdiately. Just wiped his brow, then said quietly, "But people will think I’m second-best before I even get the ball."
Rafael shrugged. "Maybe. But second-best in what? Goals? Nutgs? Followers?"
Thiago t his eyes.
"Football," Rafael said, "isn’t one spotlight. It’s a hundred lamps turned on at different tis. Play your part."
Then he stood and jogged off.
Thiago remained seated a mont longer, staring at the distant empty net. Then he got up and rejoined the circle.
Later That Evening
Thiago returned to his dorm late, sweat cooled on his neck and back. The silence of the room welcod him. Camila hadn’t ssaged yet. João had sent him a short clip of their Vila Cup days with a dumb caption—"Rember when we thought that was intensity?"
He grinned. Replayed it. Then sighed.
The mont stretched.
He opened the System.
System Notice
Objective: Register 3 Goal Contributions in Campeonato Paulista (1/3)
Match Minutes: 90
Pass Accuracy: 87%
Dribbles: 4
Key Passes: 2
Reward Unlocked 1 Acceleration 1 Vision
Club Confidence: 86/100
Two stat boosts in one match. The System hadn’t done that before.
He let the numbers settle in his mind. Slowly, he was seeing the way things connected. The way choices on the field could reshape his attributes, not just his minutes.
He didn’t log out. Just shut the screen.
---
Tuesday Morning
Thiago made the call to his mother after breakfast, as promised.
"Oi, filho!" Her voice ward the line instantly. "I saw the update on the website—assistinho bonito!"
He smiled. "It was just a cross."
"Oh please. That wasn’t ’just a cross.’ Even your sister scread and scared the cat."
He laughed. "Is Clara there?"
"She’s brushing her hair. Wants to dye it purple."
Thiago winced. "Tell her no. Please."
"I already did. She said she’ll ask you next." A pause. Then softer: "We’re proud, you know."
"I know."
Another pause.
"You’re staying humble, right?"
Thiago smiled. "Trying."
---
The next few days focused on preparation for their upcoming match against Ituano. A mid-table team with a compact defensive shape and a surprisingly aggressive right wing.
Thiago trained hard. Polished movents. Short rotations with Rafael in confined zones. Worked on timing his runs behind a collapsing midfield line. There were no fireworks—just inches, honed tighter every day.
At one point, Eneas pulled him aside after a small-sided drill.
"You’re reading shape now. Not just movent."
Thiago tilted his head. "Is that good?"
"It ans the next level is coming. When you start shaping shape—manipulating it—not just reacting."
He nodded. Quiet, focused.
---
Camila t him near the southern gate of the training facility. It was nearly 7 PM, a warm hue in the sky. She wore a simple hoodie and jeans, hair tied up, no makeup.
They walked a little loop around the campus, quietly.
"You looked tired on the call," she said.
"Just thinking."
"Neymar?"
He blinked. "How did you—?"
"I see what’s trending too. People are comparing already."
Thiago didn’t answer. They walked a few more steps.
She looked sideways at him. "You don’t need to beat him."
Thiago scoffed. "If I don’t, I’ll always be—"
"You’re you." She touched his wrist. "If you grow trying to be him, you lose twice. Just grow like you do."
He didn’t reply, but the words folded into sothing deep in his chest. A warmth. Not comfort—but grounding.
They sat on a bench. Stars rising above the trees.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Still think I’m a football nerd?" he asked.
She laughed lightly. "You’re worse. You’re a football monk."
Nightti
Back in his dorm, he lay in bed, eyes wide open. The idea of Neymar still lingered—not as jealousy, but as pressure. As potential. As a mirror.
He closed his eyes and imagined a match between them. Neymar on one wing. Himself on the other. Different styles. Sa pitch.
He didn’t imagine winning.
But he imagined staying on the field.
Standing his ground.
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