The day after the late equalizer, the headlines barely mentioned Thiago. The sports pages focused on Nando's chip—the one that forced the rebound—and Rafael's captaincy under pressure. His name was there, just not spotlighted. A footnote to the action. Another promising youngster in the Palmeiras machine.
He didn't mind. Not fully. Not anymore.
Thiago arrived at the training ground two hours early. Not to prove anything, not even to get ahead—he needed rhythm. He needed to feel the ball again. He brought his boots, laced clean, no dirt from yesterday's match, and stepped onto the empty auxiliary pitch. The city skyline still blinked in slow pulses behind the fencing. The ground crew hadn't even finished spraying the lines yet.
He worked alone. First touches. Tight dribbles. Cones to simulate defenders. He worked with silence. Thoughtless, fluid. Only when his legs began to sting did he pause, pull off his bib, and sip water from the bottle he brought himself. Rafael hadn't arrived yet. Neither had Nando. Just him, the dew, and the sunrise.
Coach Eneas spotted him from a distance. Said nothing. Just a nod through the windowed corridor.
The official session started late. The team gathered on the main pitch. It was a recovery day for most. But Thiago chose extra rotations. Eneas allowed it. So he drilled while others stretched, shadowed plays while the physios handed out ice packs. Nando walked past him once, shoulder brushing. No words exchanged. Just the usual static.
The next match was three days away—an away trip to Ituano, a team that defended in deep trenches and countered with ruthlessness. A team that would not give you beauty, only ugliness. Thiago had been on the bench the last time they played. This time, he knew he'd start.
And something in him burned at that thought.
That night, Thiago called his mother. It had been too long. Her voice was warm and cautious.
"You're not eating enough," she said halfway into the call.
"How do you know?"
"Because your voice sounds thin. And you only called because you're feeling something. Tell me."
Thiago leaned against the cold tile of the dorm hallway. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple.
"I'm working hard," he finally said.
"I know. But hard doesn't mean heavy."
He didn't respond right away. Her voice drifted into silence. Then she added, "Clara misses your voice."
"Tell her I'll send a video tomorrow."
"Send one with you smiling."
"I'll try."
When the call ended, he stood there for a moment longer, the echo of home pressing around him. Then he walked back inside and lay on his bed, body tired, mind louder than he wanted.
The System remained silent until he checked it himself. No bright fanfare. Just another day.
System Update:
Match Involvement: 1 (Key Equalizer Sequence)
Coach Confidence: Stable
Club Confidence: 86/100
The next morning brought João back into his life.
"Bro!" João's voice burst from the phone speaker. "That was you in that pass sequence, right?"
Thiago grinned for the first time in two days. "Which one?"
"The one they clipped online—where you split two defenders with your hips before feeding Nando. Damn."
Thiago chuckled. "It didn't lead to a goal."
"So? That's like… elite tempo reading. I showed my coach, man. He told me to 'move like the #17.' You're a meme in my training group now."
Thiago leaned back on his dorm chair. The walls were blank but his chest felt full.
"How's your team doing?" he asked.
"Still grinding. São Paulo U-17s are monsters this year. But we're second."
They spoke for another ten minutes. Laughed like boys. When the call ended, Thiago opened his notebook and jotted something down:
Calm under noise. Lead by decision, not explosion.
He closed it and began his nightly stretching.
The trip to Ituano was long. Dusty highways and old roads, players leaning on each other in half-sleep. The squad stayed overnight in a hotel near the outskirts, and the game was scheduled for early evening. Thiago stared out the window during the ride. In the distance, locals played barefoot futsal under floodlights made from taped bulbs. It reminded him of everything he loved. Not the cameras. Not the academy. Just the game.
Matchday came with little buildup. No press. No hype. Only staff and traveling fans in the stands. Eneas handed Thiago the starting bib and clapped his back once, nothing more.
"Feel it," he said. "Shape it."
The game was brutal. Ituano's block was low, six men parked in front of the box, hacking down any rhythm before it bloomed. The first half offered nothing but scrapes. Thiago saw one half-opportunity on a break, slipped the ball wide, and took a late boot to the ankle for his trouble.
At halftime, Eneas' voice was calm. "You can't finesse space open. You've got to hammer it. Move more inside. Trade roles with Rafael for five minutes."
He nodded. The second half opened more.
Thiago began drifting central, pairing with the attacking mid, then fading wide again before defenders could track. At minute 58, he received the ball at the edge of the box, feinted left, cut right, and fired low. Keeper saved. Corner.
Then again at 63, he slipped past the line after a slick triangle with Rafael and Lopes. This time, his shot cracked off the bar. So close the crowd gasped.
But he didn't flinch.
He kept pushing. Not chasing the highlight—just trusting his breath. Trusting the work.
In the 71st minute, Rafael was fouled at the edge of the box. Thiago hovered, but didn't take the free kick. He offered the dummy run instead. When the wall jumped, Rafael cut it short, and Lopes deflected the shot into the net.
1–0. Palmeiras.
Eneas gestured for calm. Thiago nodded.
They closed the game in the remaining minutes with possession and pressing. No drama. No fire.
But as Thiago walked off the pitch, shirt soaked, legs sore, Rafael caught him at the tunnel.
"You didn't score. But you bled them thin."
Thiago shrugged. "Next time."
"No," Rafael said. "You learned them. There's a difference."
In the locker room, Thiago checked the System.
System Update:
Time Played: 90 min
Shots: 3 (1 on target, 1 off bar)
Dribbles: 5 (3 successful)
Key Passes: 4
Final Match Rating: 7.8
Coach Confidence: Rising
Club Confidence: 87/100
He closed it quickly. Didn't need to stare at numbers.
The next time would come. The spark was forming—not with a scream, but with a steady flame.
And when the goals came, they'd arrive all at once.