The whistle cracked through the morning chill.
Thiago's boots bit the turf as he surged through the first sprint cone, the air still thick with dew. The January sky was barely lit — that dim grey before the sun decided whether it was rising or not. Palmeiras training ground didn't wait for the sun. Neither did Eneas.
"Reset!" the coach barked.
Thiago dropped into formation without a word. It was his third lap through the transition drill, and his legs were just starting to hum with heat. Not burn — just alert. Alive. The way he liked it.
Three-touch buildup. Wide pivot. Cut-in. Layoff.
Again.
And again.
No music. No joking. No banter today.
Especially not from Nando.
The older winger had said exactly zero words since they stepped onto the pitch. He wasn't lazy. He hit his marks. He made his rotations. But every pass he gave Thiago was half a second late, or just wide enough to dull the rhythm. Not sabotage — just salt in the cuts.
Thiago said nothing.
He didn't need to. The point had already been made last match. A 2–0 win. Another set of clean minutes from him. Nothing flashy. But enough. Enough that Coach Eneas had pointed at Nando's name with a frown during the post-match tape session, then nodded at Thiago when the sequence replayed in slow motion.
The implication was clear.
And Nando wasn't stupid.
"Water," Eneas called.
Thiago jogged off the line. His body was awake now — loose but taut, like a coiled wire. Rafael tossed him a bottle. The older midfielder didn't say anything either, but his eyes lingered.
Approval? Pressure?
Didn't matter.
Caio was waiting near the gear bins, hoodie up, a clipboard in hand he didn't belong holding. How he always got on the training field without an ID badge was still a mystery.
"Three drills, six touches, two rotations," Caio said without greeting.
Thiago sipped his water.
"And?"
"No missed cues. But nothing vertical either."
"Coach didn't call for vertical."
"Coach isn't the one who's gonna sell you, irmão."
Thiago wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
"You're watching me or writing a report card?"
"Both."
Caio pulled out a folded page — one of his now-routine match printouts. This one had red arrows and a thick circle drawn over the left half-space.
"You're hesitating after the third pass. You keep turning back into traffic instead of switching."
"I didn't have support."
"You had Nando."
Thiago snorted.
"He wouldn't pass if I lit myself on fire."
Caio shrugged. "That's not a tactical excuse. It's an emotional one."
Thiago didn't answer.
He looked back at the pitch, where the next group was starting their reps.
Caio lowered his voice.
"You know what scouts see when you hesitate? Weakness. Not patience. Not vision. Weakness."
Thiago's jaw tensed.
"I'm not weak."
"Then don't play like you're waiting for permission."
The whistle blew again.
Water break over.
Thiago tossed the bottle and jogged back to position.
Behind him, Caio called out.
"You need an agent."
Thiago didn't turn.
He already knew this argument wasn't over.
The final whistle of the session came like a dropped hammer.
Players dropped to a jog, some peeling off toward the recovery zone, others heading for the ice tubs. Nando peeled his bib off with a jerk and disappeared into the locker room without a glance.
Thiago stayed on the pitch, jogging half-laps. Not because he was told to — but because his feet needed it. Still pacing. Still searching.
He finished one circuit and slowed just past the halfway line.
Coach Eneas stood there, clipboard in hand, eyes fixed not on Thiago — but on the formation cones being gathered in the distance.
"Coach," Thiago said.
Eneas didn't look up.
"You ran better today," he said flatly. "Touch was cleaner."
Thiago waited.
Silence.
Finally, Eneas added, "But I need more courage near the box."
"I played the pass."
"You played the pass," Eneas repeated, now looking at him. "But you didn't own the play."
The wind lifted slightly, tugging at the corner of the coach's notes.
"You think you're here to impress me?"
Thiago didn't move.
"You're not," Eneas continued. "You're here so I don't have to think about you when I'm picking the eleven. If I remember you too much, that means you're not automatic yet."
He snapped his clipboard shut.
"I don't want fireworks. I want inevitability."
Thiago nodded.
It was the closest thing to praise Eneas had given him in two weeks.
The coach started to walk past, then stopped.
"One more thing."
Thiago turned.
Eneas didn't look back.
"That thing with Nando. Clean it up."
"I didn't start it."
"You didn't stop it either."
Then he was gone.
Thiago stood there, staring at the empty pitch, the cones now stacked like bones at the edge of the grass.
The silence lingered.
Not judgmental. Just observant.
Like it was waiting to see what he'd do next.
Caio was already leaning against the metal gate when Thiago left the pitch.
He wore the same oversized windbreaker, hood down now, bag slung across his shoulder. There was a folded printout in his hand and something unreadable in his expression.
"You're moving cleaner," he said as Thiago approached. "Coach looked half-impressed."
Thiago grunted. "Still not automatic."
"He say that?"
"Basically."
Caio didn't smirk this time. He pushed off the gate and fell into stride beside Thiago as they walked toward the dorms.
"I talked to someone this morning," Caio said.
Thiago glanced over. "Who?"
"Her name's Raquel Mendes. Works with a small agency — not sharks. Local, focused on youth talent. She's legit. Ran ops for a few academy deals before. She's got paperwork on three players who made U-20 appearances last year."
"I'm not U-20."
"Not yet."
Thiago stayed silent.
Caio kept going. "She doesn't want to rush anything. But she asked to meet. Said she'd keep it casual — no signings, no signatures. Just… observe. Talk."
Thiago let the silence stretch.
They turned the corner of the dormitory path. The scent of chalky detergent drifted from the laundry building nearby. Thiago's legs ached. Not tiredness — just saturation.
"Why now?" he finally asked.
"Because you're not invisible anymore," Caio said. "And the next few months? It's gonna start getting messy. Scouts are sniffing around. Local agents are already showing up at training ground fences. If you don't plant your own flag now, someone else will do it for you — and badly."
Thiago stopped walking.
"I'm not ready to sign anything."
"I know."
"I don't want pressure."
"You already have it."
Caio held out the folded printout — a forum thread screen-capped from a Palmeiras youth discussion group. It was a post speculating Thiago's ceiling, his playing style, comparing him to names he didn't even want to think about.
Underneath, someone had written: "Like a less explosive Neymar."
"That's where we are?" Thiago muttered.
"Not because it's true. But because the comparisons are starting."
Caio looked at him seriously now.
"You want to be the next someone, or the first Thiago da Silva?"
Thiago didn't answer.
Not because he didn't know — but because the answer felt heavier now. More public.
Caio took the silence for what it was.
"Raquel's in town this week. I'll set it up. Nothing formal."
"I want Camila to be there," Thiago said suddenly.
Caio raised an eyebrow. "You want her opinion?"
"I want someone who knows how I think."
He nodded. "Alright. I'll loop her in."
They stood in silence at the door of the dorm building.
"You're not playing the next game," Caio said after a moment. "Right?"
"Bench. Maybe fifteen minutes."
"Doesn't matter. It's not about highlights. It's about the read. She wants to see how you process."
Thiago nodded.
Then asked, quieter, "Do I need this?"
Caio didn't blink.
"No," he said. "You need what comes after this."
Then he turned and walked off.
Thiago stayed there, holding the paper, the words blurring as the weight settled in.
He wasn't in Neymar's orbit yet.
But orbits move fast.
And no one remembers the ones that don't shine.