The week passed in repetition. Wake. Train. Eat. Film. Sleep. And again.
For Thiago, the calm was misleading. His performances had stabilized—coaches no longer praised every clean pass, nor scolded every missed switch. He was no longer the new kid flashing potential. He was expected.
The matches had started to feel heavier. Not because of difficulty, but because of expectations pressing down with silent weight. He'd played in three straight matches, rotating between full 90s and second-half entries. Steady. Useful. No errors. But the question lingered in his mind after each final whistle:
Had he made a difference?
Their next match was an away trip to São Bento, mid-table and physical, but with a vulnerable backline if pressed correctly. Eneas had been clear during the briefing:
"We don't need flashes. We need control. Anyone chasing the highlight can sit this one."
The statement landed like a stone. It wasn't directed at Thiago—but it still stuck to him.
On the bus to Sorocaba, Thiago sat alone. The lights overhead flickered slightly, neon strips lining the aisle like quiet runway lights. He stared out the window, eyes unfocused, while his thoughts ran laps.
He thought of Neymar again. The clip from the Santos match had gone national. Sports channels had run segments on "the next Ronaldinho." Journalists were already using words like "special," "inevitable," and "generational." He was sixteen.
And Thiago? He was playing well. Consistently. Earning 7.5s and 7.8s. Fulfilling tactical roles.
Not inevitable. Not generational.
Just there.
He didn't envy Neymar—but he felt something heavier. A creeping dread that he might never be seen the same way. That no matter how perfectly he timed his movement, how clean his crosses were, how smart his pressing shape became—it wouldn't matter. Because someone else was already filling the space at the top of people's minds.
He didn't know when the tears started—just one or two. But they came quietly, unnoticed under the buzz of wheels and the whisper of road.
No breakdown. Just slow pressure, quietly cracking the seal.
He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. Dreamed of an empty stadium where every seat had Neymar's name on it.
The next day, matchday, he woke early. No nerves. Just a sense of stillness. He checked his phone—two messages.
One was from João:
"Bro. You've been playing clean. Don't let the noise shake that. They only hear drums when they miss the violins."
The other was from Clara. A voice note:
"Ti! I made a drawing of you with fire shoes. Mama said I shouldn't draw fire on people but you're fast so it makes sense. Don't lose."
She giggled at the end.
He listened to it three more times. Then tucked the phone into his bag and made his way to the morning prep.
In the changing room, Eneas read out the starting eleven.
Thiago: left wing.
He nodded once. No reaction. No nerves. No thrill. Just readiness.
The match began under overcast skies. São Bento started strong—direct, physical, hammering long balls into the channels. For the first 20 minutes, Thiago barely touched the ball.
But he stayed in position. Shadowed his zone. Held his width.
In the 27th minute, the opening came.
A recycled clearance landed at Rafael's feet. He turned out, found Thiago hugging the touchline. One touch. Two. Cut inside. He faked a third. The defender leaned—and Thiago slotted the ball through his legs, burst past, and curved a low pass toward the penalty spot.
It was almost perfect.
The striker connected—but a São Bento defender managed a block at the last instant. The rebound was wild. Out for a corner.
No goal. But the bench stirred.
He didn't celebrate. He just jogged back into position.
Later in the half, he tracked a long switch to the opposite side. The fullback had bombed forward and left a gap behind. Thiago sprinted diagonally to cover, intercepted the pass with a sharp lunge, and cleared into midfield.
It earned a small clap from one of the assistants.
That was the match. No fireworks. No headlines.
But at full-time, it was 1–0. Palmeiras. A goal from a set-piece. Three points. And Thiago's name circled once on Eneas' notes—not for a goal, not for an assist—but for controlling space that prevented a counter.
He checked the System quietly that night:
Match Minutes: 90
Pass Accuracy: 85%
Key Passes: 1
Dribbles: 3
Club Confidence: 87 / 100
No rewards unlocked.
Just progression. No fireworks.
But maybe, he thought, the point wasn't to be the fire.
Maybe it was to be the heat that stayed after.
He closed the System and pulled out Clara's voice note again. Pressed play. Let her laughter fill the room like music he didn't know he needed.