Limitless Pitch
Chapter 49 – A Shadow Ahead, A Flame Beneath

Chapter 49: Chapter 49 – A Shadow Ahead, A Flame Beneath

The morning broke with a thin veil of fog clinging to the Palmeiras 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 name. 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—some laughing, some yawning, some 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 become a quiet ally. Nando arrived late, again. He didn’t look tired—he looked annoyed. When his eyes met Thiago’s, there was no malice. Just something heavier. Like they both knew something 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 movement. 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 came. 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 came in. Blocked.

No cheer. But Rafael jogged past and muttered, "Perfect timing."

Then the squad rotated.

Thiago found himself on the right this time, 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 formed. For a few passes, they mirrored each other like twin blades drawn from different forges.

But the moment that stuck came 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 judgment. One loss could change everything.

After the meal, 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 kilometers than most," he said without looking up. "Not a bad thing. But don’t burn the muscle to feed the flame."

Thiago didn’t answer. He just nodded.

By late afternoon, he received a message from Camila.

Camila:Tired yet, soldier?

He smiled for the first time all day.

Thiago:Every day. But still marching.

Camila:I’m coming next weekend. Mom’s birthday. Can we meet?

Thiago:Yes. Sunday?

Camila:Good. Somewhere 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 messaged João.

Thiago:Remember 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 time. Just resistance bands. Lateral slides. Core tension drills. Thirty minutes and done.

On his way out, he passed Eneas again—this time near the staff entrance. Their eyes met.

"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 compliment 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 nutmeg and a dinked assist. The commentators called it "the dawn of something special."

Thiago didn’t argue with them. He felt it too. That sharp sting of comparison that came not from envy, but from proximity. They were the same age. The same country. Almost the same 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 time before sleeping. No new messages. No changes.

Just the lingering glow of that +1 stamina earlier. Proof that some 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. Measure by measure.

Tomorrow, the work would continue.

But tonight, he let the silence settle like a blanket over his chest.

Eyes closed.

And somewhere behind them, the dream returned—no longer just chasing shadows.

But running toward them

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