Limitless Pitch
Chapter 48 – Sweat and Silence

Chapter 48: Chapter 48 – Sweat and Silence

Thiago arrived at the training ground thirty minutes before the session started. Not early enough to be noticed, not late enough to be forgettable. The pitch glistened with dew under the soft light of morning, and the cones hadn’t even been set yet. The world felt still—except for the quiet engine in his chest that never quite turned off anymore.

He jogged a slow lap around the pitch. Loose strides, arms tucked close. He wasn’t warming up his body—he was telling it: We’re here again. Do it again.

By the time the others filtered in, the sky had cleared. Rafael greeted him with a short nod, while Nando tied his laces without looking up. Some of the older players, the seasoned first-teamers, stood in little clusters, chatting about the upcoming fixture against Red Bull Bragantino. But when the coaches blew the whistle and movement began, hierarchy dissolved. Everyone ran the same drills, bled the same effort.

Thiago lined up as a left winger in the first half of tactical positioning work. The opposing squad mirrored them. It was a senior versus reserves shape—but Thiago wasn’t really a reserve anymore, and everyone knew it.

The ball rotated quickly. Thiago’s task was simple: find space, receive, link, rotate. He did exactly that—quietly, efficiently. One clean turn near the halfway line, a release pass into the overlapping fullback. No flair. Just shape. Just substance.

Eneas paused the drill midway through the sequence and pointed.

"Hold it there. Look at Thiago’s position. That’s what I mean by pressure-ready. Not flash. Stability."

A few glances shifted Thiago’s way. Not admiration. Not resentment. Recognition. He absorbed it without breaking focus.

Later, during the attacking phases, he played narrower, like a wide playmaker. He collected a pass from Rafael in a tight pocket, checked twice, then rolled a through ball that slipped between the lines. The striker missed the finish, but Eneas gave a short clap anyway.

When training ended, Thiago didn’t linger. He changed in silence, nodded to the staff, and headed back alone.

In the hallway, Nando’s voice caught up to him.

"You saw the Neymar video?" he asked flatly.

Thiago slowed. "Which one?"

"New one. The flick over the defender and volley. From yesterday’s friendly."

Thiago didn’t respond. He had seen it. The clip was everywhere—on the academy screens, on TV in the dining hall, probably playing in a dozen scouts’ phones across the country.

"I think he’s gonna debut for the Santos senior team before the end of the season," Nando added. "Maybe even this month."

Thiago nodded once. "Probably."

Nando studied him. "You’re not bothered?"

"Does it matter?"

Nando didn’t answer. He just smirked and kept walking.

Back at the dorms, Thiago lay on his back, towel beneath his head, legs up the wall. It was a recovery trick Rafael had taught him—move the blood, ease the fatigue. But Thiago wasn’t thinking about recovery. He was picturing Neymar’s run, the weightless glide into the volley. He imagined himself on the same pitch. And still, Neymar ahead.

He sighed. Then called up the System.

SYSTEM

Minutes Played (Season): 416

Goal Involvements: 4

Coach Confidence: Moderate

Club Confidence: 87 / 100

No upgrades. No bonuses. Just the data. As if the System itself was saying: Not yet.

Thiago closed the window. His stomach growled.

That evening, Camila messaged:

"How’s the machine today?"

He smirked.

"Rusty."

She replied within seconds:

"I like you rusty. Means I’m talking to a human."

He sent her a voice note instead of typing:"You still coming up this weekend?"

There was a pause. Then her voice came through, soft and teasing.

"Only if you score. Otherwise I’ll go hang out with someone who plays real football."

"Like João?" he shot back, amused.

"João would just dribble backwards and complain about the pitch."

They laughed together across the distance. And for a moment, everything that loomed over him—Neymar, expectations, silence—fell quiet.

Later that night, he headed down to the gym. It was half-lit, machines humming in low intervals, as if the building itself was breathing with him. He worked alone again—short sprints, resistance drills, ball control repetitions. Sweat poured from his shirt by the end of it, clinging to the collar like a reminder that he was still here. Still trying.

Eneas entered at some point. Watched for a few minutes. Then turned and left.

No words.

But they weren’t needed.

Thiago knew this was the climb.

No one would drag him up the mountain. Not the System, not the coach, not Camila’s affection. No scout would stumble into his dorm and hand him destiny.

It had to be taken, one repetition at a time. One unglamorous sprint at a time. One overlooked pass at a time.

He showered late. Fell asleep later. Dreamed of a pitch soaked in fog, where shadows chased shadows, and he couldn’t tell which one was Neymar’s.

But in the dream, he never stopped running.