Limitless Pitch
Chapter 53 – Between Breaths

Chapter 53: Chapter 53 – Between Breaths

The city stirred with weekday routine as Thiago slipped out of the dormitory before sunrise, the soles of his training shoes whispering against the concrete path. The world was still half-asleep—street vendors hadn’t yet set up their carts, the usual hum of morning traffic was muted, and the sky clung to the last remnants of indigo before surrendering to dawn.

No cameras followed him here. No spotlight tracked his steps as he made his way toward the smaller training pitch, tucked behind the main stadium like a well-kept secret. Just the hum of São Paulo life—the distant rumble of a garbage truck, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the rhythmic clatter of a bakery’s shutters rolling up—and the echo of footsteps that belonged to no one but him.

The morning air held the cool scent of dew and dust, the kind of freshness that only existed in these stolen hours before the sun climbed too high. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, grounding himself. His muscles were still recovering from the match—tight, but responsive, like coiled springs waiting to be released. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the faint ache in his deltoids, the lingering stiffness in his hamstrings. Good pain. The kind that reminded him he had pushed himself.

He felt the weight of the performance still clinging to him, not as exhaustion, but residue. Like smoke after a fire. The 3–2 comeback was already being clipped into reels online, framed in headlines, dissected by pundits who hadn’t been there when he’d dug his fingernails into the game and refused to let go. But none of that concerned him now. The noise of the outside world was just that—noise.

Before his first drill, before even tying his boots, he checked the System.

The interface responded to his silent cue, flickering softly into the corner of his vision like the memory of a light he’d never turned off.

SYSTEM STATUS

Level: 15

EXP: 2 / 600

Skill Points Available: 10

Attributes:

Pace: 74

Dribbling: 72

Shooting: 66

Passing: 69

Physicality: 70

Mentality: 70

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control: 73

Trick Execution: 64

Stamina: 71

Vision: 71

Decision-Making: 70

Acceleration: 74

Composure: 60

Active Quest:

Chain Reaction – Contribute to 6 more goals before the end of the Campeonato Paulista.

Reward: +1 Vision, +1 Ball Control, Perk: Anchored Presence

He blinked it away. The numbers were clean, ascending, real. But they were only markers. Not proof. That would come again on the pitch.

His foot met the ball. First touch. Light. Sharp. The leather kissed his instep, rolling obediently beneath his command. He exhaled, then began—tight dribble repetitions, weaving between imaginary defenders, the ball a loyal shadow. Lateral footwork drills followed, quick cuts and pivots that left phantom opponents grasping at air. Short sprints with sudden stops, his breath coming in controlled bursts, sweat already pricking at his temples.

In the far corners of the pitch, other early risers emerged: assistant physios carrying foam rollers and resistance bands, equipment staff hauling bags of balls, a goalkeeper or two working on footwork drills in silence.

No Eneas. Not yet.

Good.

Thiago didn’t want to be observed today. He wanted to sweat without eyes, to train between breaths, where no one could measure his progress but himself.

An hour passed before he slowed, his shirt clinging to his back, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears. He slumped onto the grass with a bottle of water, tilting his head back as he drank. The sun had climbed higher now, painting the field in gold, and the distant sounds of the city waking up filtered through the air. His heart rate spiked and fell like waves, the rhythm of exertion and recovery. Still no audience. Just him.

He thought of Camila’s call again. The way her voice had lowered when she said, "You were there. Every moment." As if she could see not just what he did, but why. As if she knew that football wasn’t how he escaped—it was how he told the truth.

A truth without words.

He stood up. Started again.

Later that afternoon, team training began. Official, timed, structured. And different.

Eneas had moved Thiago into the "green vest" rotation. Not a winger. Not a reserve. Core drills with the main starting lineup—Rafael, Nando, the defensive midfielders, the senior backs. Each rep was faster now. Less forgiving. The passes came sharper, the challenges rougher, the expectations higher. But he didn’t flinch.

In one sequence, Rafael lofted a diagonal ball, arcing it toward the edge of the box. Thiago tracked it, his body already adjusting before the ball even descended. He brought it down in stride, his touch feather-light, then cut inside with a quick feint, leaving the fullback stumbling. A split-second decision—shoot or pass? He saw the striker’s run, the gap between the two central defenders. His pass bent through the space like a key sliding into a lock. The shot fired off the striker’s boot—just wide, but the intent was there.

Eneas didn’t clap. But he did mark it on his clipboard.

During cooldown, Nando passed him a towel. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. And Thiago nodded back.

That night, the dorm was loud—some of the younger players bunched around a phone, watching highlights from European matches, their voices rising and falling with each near-miss or spectacular goal. João texted him a meme of his third goal labeled: "When she says she likes quiet guys." Thiago chuckled, replying with a silent thumbs-up gif.

Then he turned the lights off early.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, arms behind his head. Thoughts drifted—to Clara, who would probably try drawing another version of his third goal, her crayon strokes capturing the motion in her own chaotic way. To his mom, who probably kept telling neighbors she "knew it all along," her voice thick with pride. To Camila, whose promise of a weekend visit now felt closer than the next fixture, her presence a quiet constant in the whirlwind.

Then, back to Neymar.

The clips were everywhere—Neymar skipping through defenses, making seasoned pros look like juniors, scoring with the kind of effortless grace that seemed almost unfair. The praise was deafening, a never-ending chorus of "generational talent" and "once-in-a-lifetime player."

He didn’t hate it. He couldn’t. Neymar was brilliant.

But the shadow cast by brilliance could still feel cold.

Thiago closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

He wouldn’t catch Neymar in the next game. Or the next month. Maybe not this year. But he could still become undeniable. Not as a star—but as something rarer:

Consistent.

The kind of player who earned his breath.

The kind who didn’t break.

The kind who burned.

Outside the dorm window, the night pressed against the city, a blanket of stillness settling over the streets. Inside, Thiago’s heart beat steady. Not fast. Not slow.

Just ready

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