Monday began with sunlight creeping through the blinds of the Palmeiras dorms, the hum of sprinklers outside layering against birdsong and soft cleat-steps on gravel. Thiago lay awake before his alarm, staring at the ceiling, the fading warmth of Camila's smile still burned into his thoughts like an afterimage. Sunday had been easy, warm—the kind of rare calm he didn't often allow himself to hold onto. But today, calm had no place.
He rolled out of bed and checked the System. Not expecting a surprise, but hoping, quietly.
System Update
Match Rating: 7.9
Minutes Played: 90
Key Passes: 3
Dribbles: 5 (5 successful)
Club Confidence: 85
Attribute Gains:
+1 Vision
+1 Stamina
Note: Performance consistency increasing. Small gains accumulate.
Next Tier Benchmark: 88 Club Confidence.
He stared at the numbers for a moment longer than usual. Vision. Stamina. Neither flashy. But both pillars. The kind that make a career.
Breakfast was quiet. Rafael gave him a knuckle-tap on the shoulder as he passed with a tray full of sliced papaya and two boiled eggs.
"You were good Saturday," Rafael said as he sat across from him. "Not flashy. But good."
Thiago nodded. "I'm trying to keep tempo. Be useful."
Rafael leaned in. "Usefulness becomes value. Don't ever forget that."
The week's training sessions opened up like a series of layered maps—more tactical than usual, more positionally demanding. Eneas and his staff were drilling situational responses into muscle memory: recovering shape during counters, shifting overloads, third-man runs. Thiago rotated between full wing drills and interior support play, sometimes playing with the first unit, sometimes dropped to test second-string transitions.
He noticed, with quiet satisfaction, that his positioning choices now drew fewer corrections. A glance from the assistant coach, a brief thumb-up from Eneas—these things registered. Not loud praise, but recognition all the same.
Still, the pressure never dulled.
On Wednesday, in a small-sided game, he misread a passing lane and surrendered a counter. The next ninety seconds burned. He tracked back like a madman, reclaimed the ball with a clean standing tackle, then beat his man on the return push—but the mistake still churned in him.
After the session, he sat alone on the bench, unwrapping his shin guards in silence.
"Good recovery," Nando muttered as he passed, water bottle in hand.
It wasn't kindness. Just a statement. But Thiago accepted it.
That night, alone in his dorm, Thiago finally tapped on his contact list and dialed a number he hadn't called in weeks.
Three rings. Then her voice, worn and warm. "Oi, meu filho."
"Mãe," he said, breath softening. "It's been a while."
"You always call after you do something big. So what was it this time?"
"Just… played ninety. It felt different. Better."
He heard the scrape of her cooking spoon in the background. Clara's voice rang out faintly, yelling something about missing her boots.
"She wants to wear those old ones again," their mother said with a chuckle. "Told her they're too small, but she says they smell like your game."
Thiago chuckled too, leaning into the phone. "Tell her I'll bring a fresh pair next time. She can hang the old ones."
They talked for twenty minutes. About nothing and everything. About the heat in Rio. About Clara's latest chalk drawings on the building wall. About a neighbor who'd taken to blasting Corinthians games at full volume. It wasn't football talk, not really—but it reminded him why he kept going.
Before they hung up, his mom added, "When you feel tired, remember what it cost to even get here. Let that make you steady."
Thursday afternoon brought a surprise—an unexpected message from João.
João: You're really in the senior group now, huh?
Thiago: Getting minutes. Trying to stay in it.
João: I saw the Mirassol game. That cross was elite.
Thiago: Thanks. You still with the U17s?
João: Yeah, rotating now. Coach says I need to sharpen tracking.
Thiago: You'll get there. Your final third instincts are too good to ignore.
João: Just don't get too famous to remember me when I'm on the bench watching you on TV.
Thiago smiled and wrote back:
Thiago: You were the first to pass me the ball in Vila Cup. I'll never forget that.
He set his phone down, warmth bleeding through his fingers.
Friday's final pre-match training was focused. Eneas walked the group through drills with surgical sharpness. Guarani awaited them on Sunday, and while the opposition wasn't heavy on flair, their midfield was gritty and hard-pressing.
Thiago played the left channel during shape work. His timing was sharp, his release clean. There were no standout moments—but perhaps that was the point. His game was maturing into quiet control.
Rafael walked with him afterward, slinging an arm over his shoulders.
"Eneas likes your tempo. So does the midfield coach."
"I can feel it," Thiago replied.
"You know what that means?"
"That I can't slip now."
Rafael grinned. "Exactly."
That evening, Thiago lay on his bunk with the lights off, headphones in, scrolling through old training footage. Not for nostalgia—just study.
He watched Neymar's Santos clips. Slow feet. Then blur. Impossible passes. Joy in chaos. It felt effortless.
Thiago didn't envy it. But it pressed on him. The difference. The gap.
Still, he didn't shut the video off. He let it play. Measure by measure.
Before bed, he checked the System once more. No new update yet, but one line blinked from a recently unlocked tab:
Upcoming Objective: Achieve 3 direct goal contributions over next 4 matches
Reward: +1 Vision, +1 Acceleration, +1 Ball control
He closed the interface. Tightened his blanket.
Some dreams don't need soundtracks. They need silence. Edges. Push