The morning broke with a thin veil of fog clinging to the Paliras training grounds, a cool breath on the grass as if the earth itself were holding its breath. Thiago stood at the far edge of the pitch, boots already laced, eyes scanning the damp blades under his feet. There were no voices yet, no drills, no laughter—only his own heartbeat ticking against the soft wind.
The dream still echoed in him. Shadows, fog, chasing a silhouette he could never catch. He hadn’t seen the figure’s face, but he knew the na. Neymar.
Thiago checked the System.
SYSTEM:
Coach Impression: Holding steady
Club Confidence: 87 / 100
No new stat rewards
He dismissed the interface with a blink and a breath. No reward. No need for one yet. The real gain, he reminded himself, was in the repetition.
By 8:00 a.m., the squad trickled in—so laughing, so yawning, so limping slightly from knocks. Thiago nodded to Rafael, who returned it with a small smile, and gave a short wave to Matheus, the reserve right-back who had beco a quiet ally. Nando arrived late, again. He didn’t look tired—he looked annoyed. When his eyes t Thiago’s, there was no malice. Just sothing heavier. Like they both knew sothing was coming.
The session began with warmups, but Eneas cut it short. Instead of small-sided rondos or jogging circuits, he led the group into a full-pitch positioning drill. Each line spread wide, coached into sharp tactical roles, shape compression, counter-press reset. The structure of playoff matches.
"The next two weeks are everything," Eneas said flatly, clipboard in hand. "We are not guaranteed a knockout berth. Guarani are two points behind. We slip, we drop. You want to play in April? Earn March."
It wasn’t a motivational speech. It was a warning wrapped in truth.
Thiago played wide left in the first simulation, working with Rafael and Matheus in a rotating triangle. There was no ball—only movent. Positioning. He imagined the weight of the ball even when it wasn’t there. He kept his hips open, called rotations early, dropped when Matheus surged.
"Good," Eneas said once. Only once. But it rang loud.
Later in the scrimmage, the ball ca. Thiago received in a tight pocket, back to goal. He held it a second longer than usual, drawing in the defender, then released a flick behind his standing foot into space. Matheus darted. Cross ca in. Blocked.
No cheer. But Rafael jogged past and muttered, "Perfect timing."
Then the squad rotated.
Thiago found himself on the right this ti, facing Nando in a mirrored drill. The two didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their duel was silent—positional, instinctual. Nando stepped high? Thiago delayed his run. Nando cut inside? Thiago tracked the shadow before it ford. For a few passes, they mirrored each other like twin blades drawn from different forges.
But the mont that stuck ca late in the drill.
Thiago received the ball under pressure, feinted a drag-back, then darted into the half-space. Nando followed—but not fast enough. Thiago split the line and delivered a diagonal to Rafael, who broke through and finished past the keeper.
Eneas blew the whistle. "Reset. Left side, again."
No celebration. No glare. But Nando, walking back to his line, shot Thiago a look.
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t praise. It was a warning.
Lunch was quieter than usual. Players drifted through the cafeteria in ones and twos. Thiago sat with Rafael again, but conversation stalled. They were all feeling it now—the nearness of judgnt. One loss could change everything.
After the al, Thiago ducked out for physio. The routine work: ankle band stabilization, resistance work for hamstrings, checking shoulder tightness. As he lay on the table, the physio flipped through a file.
"You’re logging more kiloters than most," he said without looking up. "Not a bad thing. But don’t burn the muscle to feed the fla."
Thiago didn’t answer. He just nodded.
By late afternoon, he received a ssage from Camila.
Camila:Tired yet, soldier?
He smiled for the first ti all day.
Thiago:Every day. But still marching.
Camila:I’m coming next weekend. Mom’s birthday. Can we et?
Thiago:Yes. Sunday?
Camila:Good. Sowhere quiet.
Thiago:Deal.
The idea of seeing her in person again felt like an island in a storm. It wasn’t romance in the air—it was clarity. A human tether. A reminder that life wasn’t only press drills and tactical resets.
Evening approached. Thiago stood on the edge of the training ground again, not to practice, but to watch the under-17 squad training on the neighboring field. They moved with chaos, laughter, mistakes. He saw a boy miss a shot wildly and collapse in theatrical despair. The coach laughed. There was still joy in it for them.
He sat on the grass and ssaged João.
Thiago:Rember when you dribbled the ref by accident?
João:That was skill, not accident. I was making a point.
Thiago:You tripped over your own feet two seconds later.
João:Still counted as one dribble and one self-assist.
The banter eased the pressure. Thiago leaned back on his elbows and watched the city glow behind the fence line. Then he stood, stretched, and returned to the gym.
He didn’t overdo it this ti. Just resistance bands. Lateral slides. Core tension drills. Thirty minutes and done.
On his way out, he passed Eneas again—this ti near the staff entrance. Their eyes t.
"You move like you’re solving puzzles," Eneas said quietly. "Not every player does. Most of them just try to force the lock."
Thiago didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if it was a complint or a warning. Maybe both.
That night, the dorm was unusually quiet. Nando had gone out. Rafael was asleep early. Thiago lay in bed with the lights off, watching the city pulse through his window.
He thought about Neymar again.
About the highlight reel that had gone viral that morning—Neymar sending a seasoned right-back spinning in circles, ending the move with a nutg and a dinked assist. The comntators called it "the dawn of sothing special."
Thiago didn’t argue with them. He felt it too. That sharp sting of comparison that ca not from envy, but from proximity. They were the sa age. The sa country. Almost the sa path. But Neymar was flying, and Thiago was still clawing upward.
But even so—he believed.
He believed in the slower burn. In the grind. In the hidden work. In what Clara once called "the light beneath the stone."
He checked the System one last ti before sleeping. No new ssages. No changes.
Just the lingering glow of that 1 stamina earlier. Proof that so things build slowly. Quietly.
And soon—soon—there would be a match against Bragantino.
Another test.
Another brick in the path he was building. Step by step. asure by asure.
Tomorrow, the work would continue.
But tonight, he let the silence settle like a blanket over his chest.
Eyes closed.
And sowhere behind them, the dream returned—no longer just chasing shadows.
But running toward them
Reviews
All reviews (0)