Thiago arrived at the Palmeiras training ground well before dawn's first light. Not because he wanted to outwork everyone, but simply because he craved the calm before the storm—when the air was still and the grass damp, and no one expected brilliance just yet. The early-morning hush felt like a gift: an echo chamber where he could hear himself breathe and plan his next step.
Not far behind him, Nando jogged onto the pitch. No words, no overt show of rivalry, just the steady rhythm of another player who understood what was at stake. Their glances met once, both unsmiling, and there it was: an unspoken competition simmering beneath polite professionalism.
When Coach Eneas called them together for the morning's first drill, the tension in the group was palpable. Thiago clipped on his bib and slid into position, as did Nando—two players on converging trajectories, one based on quiet growth, the other on harder, louder determination.
The first series of drills was a test of nerve and precision: quick-feet ladders followed by tight circles of passing, undercut by demands for split-second decisions. They mirrored each other, matching step for step, shoulder for shoulder, but with a difference: Thiago trusted his instincts; Nando forced his movements, as if trying to prove he'd earned them.
In one of the passing triangles, Thiago made a slight miscue—too early, too soft. He snapped into action, pivoted sharply, pushed the ball neatly to Rafael, and reignited the drill in motion before the coach even noticed. It wasn't flashy, but it showed control. On the opposite corner of the pitch, Nando let a similar error stand for a beat too long before recovering—needed permission from perfection, not trust from pain. Coaches noticed. Thiago felt it, like heat from smoldering embers.
Later, during a full-pitch rondo, Thiago spotted an opening and exploited it: a sequence of sharp touches, one-two combinations with a midfielder, a flicked shot that grazed the keeper's gloves, and a rebound finish that fizzled just short—but earned Coach Eneas's quiet praise: "Nice sequence." Thiago bottled the feeling—bridled it into a drive for more.
Lunch came next. Inside the cafeteria, surrounded by the usual hum of jerseys and crate-sounds, Rafael slid into the seat beside Thiago with a plate of rice and beans.
"Good flow this morning," Rafael said, voice low. "You're seeing the same lanes quicker. Confidence showing."
Thiago nodded. "Still cautious."
Rafael gave a slow smile. "That's fine. Be precise before bold."
On the other side of the room, Nando tossed a sideways glance but shared no comment. Their rivalry was a slow burn—an undercurrent more powerful than a shout.
After lunch, the dorm quieted and Thiago made space for a late videocall with Caio. On the screen, Caio's smile flickered to seriousness as soon as Thiago appeared.
"They're talking," Caio began without boilerplate. "Morning meeting watched a clip of your rondo play. They tagged it under 'decision-making' and 'clean execution'."
Thiago leaned forward. "Good."
"Respect is good," Caio said cautiously. "But you've got minutes more, and a guy like Neymar? He's two steps ahead in highlights. They're scouting every move."
Thiago's heart ticked—no panic, just the cold tap of reality.
"How soon?" he asked.
"Another agency calling coach soon. Film from Paulista, plus yesterday's output."
Thiago sat silent, absorbing it.
"I'm not ready to sign anyone," he finally said.
Caio nodded. "No agent should rush you. But if your value speaks, you should at least know who will listen. You want it controlled."
Thiago met his gaze. "I will. Soon."
They signed off quietly, and he shifted into recovery mode. The afternoon offered something new: a session with Dr. Fontes, a sports psychologist who let Thiago roam his thoughts rather than solving them.
"Tell me what unsettles the silence," she said when he sat across her desk.
He studied the sterile walls before replying. "I like it quiet. But the quiet eats up momentum if I'm not careful."
"That's awareness," she said. "Do you feel a threat?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Not personal. But around it. Neymar's surge. Nando's fire. The agency whisper. I'm in a tightening gap."
"So stay steady," she suggested. "Write down today's accomplishments—the small plays—and three ways you want to move them forward. Set the tempo internally, not let it be forced."
Later, he scattered his scribbles across a notepad: "Successful rondo sequence; early lane recognition; precise cross attempt." And three intentions: "Execute under pressure; push decision cycle faster; allocate recovery focus."
In the evening, his phone lit up with a video call from home—Camila on one end, Clara draped across the sofa, the chalk banner half-falling behind them.
"How do the boots smell?" Clara asked, holding up the old street pair Caio had cleaned and returned.
"Like roots," Thiago said, and Camila laughed.
"She wants to wear them," Camila explained.
He gave a quiet smile. "I'll bring an extra pair."
They talked about simple things: Clara's drawings, Camila's study schedule, their mom's recipe experiments. No mention of football. Just home.
After the call, Caio texted: Agent still an option. No rush.
Thiago read and pocketed the phone. He wasn't ready to decide—but the question throbbed in his mind like a pulse.
Late night, in the dorm, he opened his System interface—no alerts, no fireworks, just progress:
Training Rating: 7.2.
Coach Impression: Upward.
Club Rating: 80/100.
No red flags, no pop-ups. Just tomorrow's opportunity in pixelated form.
He thought of the rondo, of Nando's silent competition, of Neymar's highlight reel, and of home—Camila's laughter, Clara's banner, the boots passed down. He replayed the rondo move in his mind: the small drag, the crisp touch, the rebound shot. Held it in his body. Breathed it into sleep.