The sun in São Paulo crept past the edge of the dormitory window, casting a slow, golden line across Thiago's sheets. He lay awake, not from restlessness but from rhythm—the kind that comes after a match where every breath had to count. His legs ached, not in pain, but in honest fatigue. There was no soreness in failure, only in exertion. He had given everything yesterday, and it showed.
As he stood up, he didn't reach for his phone. He didn't need it. With a subtle command in his mind, the familiar flicker of the System interface faded into view—like glass etched with light in the corner of his vision.
SYSTEM UPDATE:
Match Rating: 7.4
Impact Contribution: Moderate
Goal Involvements This Season: 4
New Stat Reward: +1 Stamina
Coach Impression: Holding
Club Confidence: 87 / 100
He blinked the window away. The +1 to stamina felt earned. Useful. But he didn't smile. Not yet. His goal involvements were climbing, and he was starting to feel it—the shift from potential to presence.
Downstairs, the cafeteria buzzed with murmurs about the next fixture. Word had spread: Palmeiras would be facing Red Bull Bragantino in a televised game. A different kind of opponent. Younger legs. Faster transitions. More eyes watching. Another test.
Rafael joined him at the table, sliding in with a roll and scrambled eggs.
"You looked sharper yesterday," Rafael said. "Not chasing. Just… breathing into the game."
Thiago chewed slowly. "Still didn't decide it."
"You don't need to decide every match," Rafael replied. "You just need to keep knocking. The door's already creaking."
They ate the rest of their meal in companionable silence.
Later that morning, Thiago made his way to the recovery room for a light regen session. Foam rolling, band work, joint mobility drills. Nothing too taxing, but enough to keep the blood moving. He watched Nando on the opposite mat, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed but not relaxed. He hadn't spoken to Thiago since the last game—not cold, not rude. Just… holding space.
The rivalry had stopped being personal. Now it was tactical.
After recovery, Thiago took the opportunity to walk back toward the dorm alone. As he reached the corridor, he called João.
They talked about training, old teammates, and the time João got a yellow card for celebrating before he scored.
When the call ended, Thiago leaned against the wall and sighed. He hadn't realized how much he needed to feel part of something outside the pressure loop.
That night, he made a call he'd been putting off.
"Oi, mãe?" he said, voice low.
Her warmth hit him immediately. "Meu filho! You've been hiding from me!"
He chuckled, shame curling at the edge of his voice. "Not hiding. Just… tired."
"You're always tired. I saw the highlight. The volley—looked like you borrowed someone else's legs."
"Just work," he said.
"Work with joy," she reminded him. "Work like it's food. But remember you're not starving anymore. You can taste it now."
They talked about Clara, school, how she was trying to braid her hair like Camila's, and how their neighbor tried to convince her to sell one of Thiago's childhood balls online.
"Don't let her!" Thiago laughed.
"I told her I'd throw it at her head."
When he hung up, his chest felt lighter. The ache that had been building in his sternum for days softened.
Later that evening, he sat in the dorm window, knees up, watching the lights of the city stretch into the distance. He thought of Neymar again. Of how the clips kept surfacing—that flip flap against São Paulo, the dummy that sent two defenders into the grass. The attention was growing. Not for Thiago. Not yet.
He didn't resent it. He understood it. But it chipped at something inside him—a stone that wouldn't quite smooth.
So he rose.
And trained.
Not on the pitch, but in the shadows of the gym, long after most of the squad had turned in. He set cones. Practiced his first touch. Tight dribble patterns. Quick release passes against the wall. One-twos with nothing but air and resolve.
Eneas passed by once—just long enough to see him move. He said nothing. But the pause lingered.
By midnight, Thiago returned to his room. Hands blistered, calves burning.
He didn't call up the System this time.
He already knew what it would say.
Tomorrow, the work continued. But tonight, he had earned a sliver of stillness.
One step closer.
To himself.
To the next match.
To the fire building behind the scenes.
To the player he knew he could be.