Amsterdam – Ajax Training Complex, De Toekomst
The walls of the conference room were lined with club legends—photographs of Cruyff mid-pirouette, Van Basten’s volley frozen in ti, Bergkamp gliding past defenders as if the ball were magnetized to his feet. But today, the focus wasn’t the past.
It was the future.
Martin Jol stood at the head of the long oak table, his broad fra casting a shadow over the match report spread before him. The Dutchman had only recently taken over as Ajax’s head coach, his gravelly voice still fresh in the ears of the assembled staff. Though preseason was weeks away, the air in the room crackled with urgency. His index finger tapped twice against the table, a sharp *tap-tap* cutting through the low murmur of conversation.
"Alright," Jol said, his voice carrying the weight of a man used to command. "Let’s talk about the Brazilian kid."
A younger analyst, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of an open laptop, adjusted his glasses before speaking. The glow of the screen reflected in his eyes as he pulled up a series of heat maps and touch statistics.
"We’ve been tracking him since March," the analyst began, "but after the Paulista final, his na exploded across every major scouting network in Europe. Two goals and an assist in the second half alone—all three decisive in the match." He clicked a key, and a highlight reel played on the screen behind Jol: a wiry, dark-haired teenager weaving through defenders before curling a shot into the top corner. The room fell silent for a beat.
Jol exhaled through his nose, his gaze fixed on the footage. "He’s raw," he admitted, rubbing his chin. "But there’s fire in him. And composure. Not many seventeen-year-olds can do that in a final."
An assistant coach, a forr Ajax midfielder with thinning blond hair, leaned forward. "He’s versatile. Left wing is his natural side, but he cuts inside like a modern inside forward. The way he reads space—it’s instinctive." He gestured toward the screen. "We can polish him here. Develop him properly. He fits Ajax DNA."
Another analyst, a woman with a no-nonsense ponytail and a tablet in hand, chid in. "No professional contract in Brazil. His youth deal expired, and Paliras hasn’t secured a new one. He’s free this sumr. We’d only owe developnt compensation—very affordable."
Jol’s eyebrow arched. "What’s the competition?"
The first analyst hesitated, then scrolled through a list. "Dortmund. Lyon. Osasuna. A few French mid-table clubs—Lens, maybe Nice. They’re all watching." He paused. "But we should be *acting*."
Jol’s expression darkened. He pushed away from the table and walked to the whiteboard, where *Thiago Silva* was written in bold black marker. Beneath it, a hastily scribbled note: *Left-footed. Dribbler. Finisher.*
"Get his full match tapes," Jol ordered, turning back to the room. "Not just highlights. I want to see how he defends. How he reacts when the ball’s not at his feet. Does he track back? Does he press?" He pointed at the assistant coach. "And get in touch with his agent. Properly. If Dortmund want him, they won’t wait."
The room nodded in unison. Orders given.
As the eting broke up, Jol pulled aside his chief scout near the coffee machine. "What’s his weak foot like?" Jol asked quietly, stirring two sugars into his mug.
The scout flipped through his notepad. "Prefers his left, but his right isn’t a liability. Reminds of a young Robben in that way - just keeps cutting inside onto his strong side."
Jol smirked. "And we know how that turned out for Chelsea."
"Exactly," the scout nodded. "But this kid’s got better close control in tight spaces."
Ajax didn’t just want to be in the conversation.
They wanted to win it.
---
Dortmund – Brackel Training Ground
The hum of conversation and the distant thud of footballs against training bibs echoed through the corridors of Borussia Dortmund’s training center. But inside the manager’s office, silence reigned.
Jürgen Klopp sat behind his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. The projector screen displayed a freeze-fra of Thiago—mid-sprint, mouth open in a shout, eyes locked onto the ball with the intensity of a predator sighting prey. The Paulista final had done more than impress.
It had convinced.
Željko Buvač, Klopp’s long-ti assistant, stood beside the screen, arms crossed over his chest. His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of excitent.
"He’s not just a dribbler," Buvač said. "That second goal in the final? From distance, under pressure—most kids would’ve passed or hesitated. He didn’t flinch."
Klopp’s gaze didn’t waver from the screen. "He reminds of Rosický," he mused. "Back when he was still at his best with us. That sa elegance, but with bite. Always looking to break lines."
Buvač nodded. "And still a kid. He’s not done growing."
Klopp exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked under his weight. "No pro deal in Brazil, right?"
"None," Buvač confird. "Paliras let his youth contract expire without securing a senior deal. We can sign him on a free—just developnt compensation."
Klopp’s lips twitched. "Which ans every club with a scouting departnt will co sniffing."
"They already are," Buvač said, pulling out his phone and scrolling through a list. "Ajax. Lyon. Even Osasuna’s making noise. Marina’s inbox is flooded."
Klopp stood abruptly, his chair rolling back with the motion. "Then we go first," he declared. "Not just with words. With money."
Buvač raised an eyebrow. "You want to offer a fee?"
"One million euros," Klopp said firmly. "Straight to Paliras. Not because we have to—but because it shows we respect their role in his developnt. A gesture like that cuts through a lot of noise."
Buvač allowed himself a small smile. "You want to play the long ga."
Klopp’s grin was sharp. "I want to win the right ga."
He turned away from the screen and snatched a file from his desk, flipping through pages of scouting notes before handing it back to Buvač.
"Set up a call with his agent," Klopp ordered. "And get it through to the kid himself. I don’t want him hearing this from middlen or scouts. He hears it from ."
Buvač nodded. "You want it live?"
"Live. Phone, video, whatever we can get. I’ll make ti."
The two n shared a glance—one of those silent understandings built over years of trust.
Then Klopp smiled, just a little.
"Let’s show him what Dortmund’s future really looks like."
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