The next morning arrived heavy with São Paulo's humidity, the kind that stuck to skin before sunrise. Thiago stood beneath the awning outside the Palmeiras dormitory, waiting for the shuttle to the training ground. His kit bag weighed more than it should have. Not because of gear—he carried the same boots, the same socks—but because his mind felt crowded.
He had played well again. Not exceptionally, not brilliantly. But well. Structure, movement, balance. Everything Eneas wanted. He'd made the smart passes, kept composure, and even earned subtle praise from the coaching staff. It was the kind of performance that was supposed to build confidence.
But as he scrolled through sports headlines on his phone while waiting, reality tilted the scales.
"NEYMITE STRIKES AGAIN: Neymar Jr. Scores Double in Santos' Comeback Win""Is Neymar Already the Paulista's Best Teen Talent?""From Vila Belmiro to the World – Neymar's Surge Begins"
Thiago stared at the headlines, thumb frozen mid-scroll.
He had seen clips of Neymar's latest display—fluid movement, audacious stepovers, a chipped assist, and a curling finish that silenced the away crowd. The 16-year-old had made his senior debut earlier in the year. Now, in early March 2009, he was turning matches, dictating tempo, commanding the spotlight. Everything Thiago had been taught to build toward, Neymar seemed to already own.
The bus ride was quiet. Rafael sat beside him, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. Occasionally, the silence between them pulsed with unspoken thoughts. Rafael finally broke it.
"You've seen the clips?"
Thiago nodded.
"He's different," Rafael said. "But not untouchable."
Thiago didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he agreed.
Training that morning was a blur of heat and repetition. The team was prepping for their next league fixture against Oeste FC—another side known for disciplined midfield blocks and tactical fouling. Eneas emphasized precision in transitions and sharp passing under pressure.
Thiago floated through the drills. He followed every instruction, hit every passing target, but his thoughts kept drifting. To the articles. To Neymar. To the sense that while he was learning how to walk the path, someone else was already sprinting ahead.
Rafael noticed the drift. During a break between drills, he walked over and clapped Thiago's shoulder. "You're not him," he said quietly. "You don't have to be."
Thiago turned. "But that's who they'll compare me to."
Rafael gave a long sigh. "Then let them. Just make sure you're writing your own story when they do."
Later that day, Eneas posted the team sheet for the weekend match.
Starting XI: Nando (LW), Rafael (CAM), Lopes (ST)...
Substitutes: Thiago (W/F), Florentino, Beto, Marcel...
He didn't react immediately. Just stared. He was in again. Another match, another chance—likely off the bench—but this time, it felt heavier. Not because of pressure. But because now, the gap between him and the spotlight felt visible. Measurable.
He went through his usual routine—stretching, recovery jog, a quick meal in the cafeteria—but it all felt muted. Even Camila's text, a sweet, short message about finally having a weekend free to meet him, didn't quite register at first.
Camila: "Free this Sunday :) Want to meet? I'll be in São Paulo around lunch. My treat if you pick the spot."
He smiled faintly. That, at least, still grounded him.
Thiago: "Yes. 1pm. There's a park café near Liberdade. It's quiet. You'll like it."
Camila: "Good. Don't be late, superstar."
He pocketed the phone. A sliver of brightness cut through the fog.
The weekend fixture arrived quickly. Pacaembu was half full—enough to give the match presence, not pressure. Oeste came as advertised: combative, compact, disruptive. In the first half, Nando struggled to get behind their right-back. Rafael dropped deeper to help circulate, but Palmeiras lacked incision. It was still 0–0 when the halftime whistle blew.
Thiago stayed sharp on the bench, bouncing his legs, watching intently. The assistant coach gave a subtle signal at minute 52. "Be ready."
Minute 60, Eneas gestured. "You're on. Replace Rafael. Shift Nando central. Work the left. Tighten your angles. Get under their skin."
As Thiago pulled on the #17 shirt, he felt the camera glance his way. Just briefly. But it was there.
He entered into a messy rhythm. Oeste had begun wasting time, pressing with bodies rather than structure. The match had thinned into tactical skirmishes—interceptions, small-space traps, second balls. Thiago used his fresh legs to run onto a wide switch from the midfield and pulled two defenders with him before cutting inside. A shot was blocked. Another cross earned a corner. Small wins. No breakthroughs.
At minute 75, Nando found a rare gap and earned a foul outside the box. Thiago stood near the ball as the referee placed the wall. He looked to the bench. Eneas pointed toward the far post.
He took the kick—not to score, but to test. A looping delivery curled over the last defender, almost met by Lopes but nudged wide. Applause trickled. The commentators noted: "17 making a case. Quietly."
The match ended 0–0.
Back in the locker room, Rafael clapped him on the back. "Solid. You played smart."
But Thiago didn't feel smart. He felt…unfinished.
Come Sunday, he met Camila at the park café. She wore a navy blouse and jeans, a small pendant with Clara's name engraved dangling just above her heart. They sat at a corner table beneath the trees, sipped guava juice, and ordered light sandwiches. Her laugh warmed the air more than the sun did.
"You've been too quiet," she finally said.
"I've been thinking," he admitted.
"About?"
"Neymar. The matches. What comes next."
She leaned forward. "You're not him, Thiago. You're you. And I like you. Even if the whole world shouts his name."
Her words didn't erase the shadow—but they softened it.
Later, she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper.
"It's not a banner. But Clara drew it."
It was a crayon sketch of Thiago standing beside a giant ball with wings. In messy kid-handwriting, it said: "My brother makes football fly."
He stared at it, blinked twice. Then smiled.
That night, in the dorm, he checked the System.
Match Played: 30 minutes
Touches: 21
Pass Accuracy: 91%
Key Passes: 2
Dribbles: 2/3
Final Rating: 7.3
Coach Impression: Solid
Club Confidence: 85/100
No fanfare. But no regression either.
He didn't close the window immediately. Instead, he scrolled back through past ratings, past notes, old match data. Line by line. Performance by performance. A digital trail of footsteps through the months.
He wasn't Neymar.
But he was still climbing.
And that—quietly, stubbornly—mattered.