Thiago woke to soft rainfall against the dormitory windows. The victory against Mirassol was still fresh, but so was the soreness along his calves, the raw edge of his lungs, the images of every movement — not as celebration, but as review.
He stretched slowly, trying to recapture the fluidity he had controlled on the pitch. A full ninety minutes. An assist. Praise from Eneas. And still, no eruption in the press. No bold headlines. Just a quiet rise, noticed by the ones who mattered. But beneath it all, something twisted slightly — not bitterness, not doubt. A shadow.
By the time he reached the training facility, the rain had softened to mist, and the team was already filtering into recovery mode. Rafael caught his eye, raised a water bottle in salute, and offered a subtle nod — approval, the kind that didn't need words.
Nando arrived later, earbuds in, eyes sharp. He didn't speak to Thiago. But for the first time, his silence didn't feel like dismissal. It felt like calculation.
Recovery session.
Coach Eneas kept the tone light, but deliberate. Pool therapy. Mobility stretches. Video playback. Thiago sat in the back corner of the film room, hood drawn up, legs folded. On the screen, clips rolled: player movement, overlapping channels, pressure breaks, failed passes.
And then, one clip paused. His assist — the curled ball from the left wing to the striker who nodded it in.
"This," Eneas said, tapping the screen, "is not just a good ball. It's a read. He waited. Created the shape. Executed under pressure. That's tempo shaping."
Rafael leaned back, arms crossed, satisfied.
Thiago kept his expression neutral, but inside, a flicker of warmth. He didn't need to be the headline. He needed to be irreplaceable.
But then another clip played — Neymar. From Santos' last match against Santo André. A backheel nutmeg. A skip past two defenders. A goal off balance.
Someone in the back let out a low whistle.
"Different rhythm," Eneas said, not unkindly. "Chaos weaponized."
The room went quiet.
Thiago stared a moment longer, heart ticking. Not envy. But gravity. That would be his shadow. Not Nando. Not even Rafael. Neymar. The name would grow louder.
And Thiago would still have to be himself — solid, structured, rising.
Lunch came and went quietly. He ate next to Caio, who had finally secured a guest pass for the dining hall. No discussion of agents today. Just food. Just watching.
"He's coming fast," Caio said eventually, referring to Neymar without naming him.
"I know."
"But there's time. You're being noticed. Slowly, but cleanly. A few whispers from journalists after Mirassol."
Thiago raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing published yet. But they've seen the numbers. They're waiting to see if it's a wave or a pattern."
Thiago chewed his rice carefully. "And if it's a pattern?"
Caio smiled. "They'll call it overnight success. And ignore all this."
In the afternoon, Thiago stepped into a different kind of training — not tactical, not physical.
He met with Dr. Fontes again.
This time, she didn't ask him to talk. She handed him a page.
"Describe what confidence feels like — not looks like, but feels like. Don't use metaphors. Be exact."
He stared at the page. Pen in hand.
He wrote:
"When I take a first touch and don't think about the second.
When I know I can turn before I check my shoulder.
When I fail, but it doesn't shake me.
When I play the game, not the pressure."
He slid the paper back.
Dr. Fontes smiled faintly. "Good. Do you think confidence grows linearly?"
He shook his head. "No. It spikes. Drops. Comes back."
"Do you think Neymar's confidence is always real?"
That question sat between them.
Thiago thought of the highlights. Of the crowd gasping. Of the interviews, the spotlight, the swagger.
"No," he said finally. "But his belief is real. Even when the confidence dips, the belief doesn't."
Fontes nodded. "So what are you building — confidence, or belief?"
Thiago didn't answer. Not yet.
Later that evening, Thiago walked out onto the empty secondary pitch. Lights still on. The air smelled of wet grass and faded chalk. He wanted to move — not to train, not to impress, just to feel the game again. Just to reconnect.
He jogged the edges, then shadowed cuts toward the box, practicing channel shifts, tight turns. No ball. Just footwork. Repetition. Precision.
He didn't notice Nando until the third time around.
The older player stood near the benches, arms folded, watching.
"You don't stop," Nando said.
"Neither do you."
Nando nodded. "You think you're ahead?"
"No. But I think I'm closer."
Silence.
Then Nando said, "Santos has a match on Sunday. Scouts are going. Everyone's going to talk about him again."
"Neymar."
Nando didn't flinch. "Yeah."
"Let them talk."
"You really think they'll talk about you too?"
Thiago looked up at the empty stands, then back at Nando.
"Not yet. But they will."
Nando didn't respond. He just walked away.
At night, Thiago sat on his dorm bed and pulled up the System.
Match Data – Palmeiras vs. Mirassol
Assists: 1
Key Passes: 3
Successful Dribbles: 5
Tackles: 2
System Rating: 7.9
Coach Impression: Positive
Club Confidence: 84 → 85
Still no pop-up. Still no flashy reward. Just the slope. Steady.
He shut it down and video-called Camila. Clara appeared first, holding a juice box upside down.
"She thinks straws are swords now," Camila said from the background.
"Clearly a tactical genius," Thiago replied, smiling.
Camila finally stepped into view. Hair tied back, shadows under her eyes. "You look tired."
"Played the full match."
"I saw." She paused. "You were clean. Not flashy. But clean."
He blinked. "You watched?"
She nodded. "Caio sent a stream."
They didn't speak for a moment. Just silence.
Then she said, "Next weekend… I'll be in São Paulo. For a competition. Debate team."
His chest stilled. "Can I see you?"
"Of course." She smiled, soft and real. "I want to."
He nodded, voice tight. "Yeah. Me too."
And just like that, something clicked into place. Amid the pressure, the shadow, the growth — a thread held.
He ended the call and looked again at the photo of Clara on his desk. Behind it, her banner. Faded now.
"Vai, Thiago."
At midnight, he wrote in his notebook.
"Neymar's flash.My precision.His noise.My tempo."
He paused.
"I won't beat him at his game.But I'll make them remember mine."
And with that, he closed the page. Tomorrow would bring drills. Then another match. And then, maybe, her. Camila.
And somewhere, Neymar would rise.
But Thiago?
He would build.
Step by step.
Still water.
Sharp edges.