Thiago stepped into the early morning mist that hovered outside Palmeiras' training ground like a specter—silent, expectant. March had settled into its rhythm: scorching sun by day, cooler air by dawn. He walked slowly down the tunnel leading to the main pitch, boots crunching softly on the gravel. This felt different. Not yet overwhelming. But distinct. Like every inhale carried gravity.
He'd grown since his debut—confidence had baked into his stride—but nothing had altered how he prepared. His warm-up buddy Rafael was already stretching at the edge of the pitch, gaze fixed on the grass. Thiago joined him, rolling his hips deliberately, loosening ankles until his calf muscles loosened like stretched elastic.
Around them, the team buzzed with clipped energy. Assistant coach Eneas paced the perimeter, nodding encouragement but saying nothing. The match today wasn't a derby—it was Palmeiras vs. Guaratinguetá, a mid-table Paulista clash—but the stakes felt real. Over the past two matches, Thiago had earned praise without exploding into headlines. Today would test whether polish could bloom into performance.
The morning session was all structure. Drills towered over players like scaffolding: passing ladders, high-intensity rondos, shape retention, positional rotations. Thiago moved through each smoothly: crisp layoffs, square passes threaded in stride, overlapping arcs into space. Coach Eneas hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, occasionally tapping a note when Thiago showed smart angle or quick recovery.
In the lane drill—three players, two-touch rotations—he followed Rafael's lead: one touch to move, second to distribute. At minute ten, he received a pass on the half-turn, foot angled to exit the drill. He held the ball a breath too long. The coach raised his whistle but didn't blow. "Quick scan, then go," his coach murmured as Thiago reset. He knew: tempo was life.
During cool-down, he jogged a lap and mopped his brow with a towel. Caio caught his eye from the bleachers, phone tucked away, curious but reserved. As players gathered under the shade of the dressing room, Eneas stood and addressed them: "Tempo tonight. Guaratinguetá will hang numbers in midfield, fight hard, force us wide. We have to be sharper. Thiago—you're in the eighteen. Stay ready."
The words landed like an affirmation. Thiago nodded. Inside, he felt the ember ignite—that subtle recognition that he was part of the plan.
Post-training, the squad walked quietly to their recovery room: ice baths, ankle-length compression socks, protein shakes with muted odes of water and banana. Thiago took a seat, legs submerged, and closed his eyes. Nothing temperature can't fix. He focused on breath. Lunge, release. Inhale, exhale.
Caio appeared again, smoothie in hand. "Good tempo?" he asked. Thiago offered a thumbs-up without speaking.
Later, breakfast was served in the cafeteria. Grains, eggs, fruit. Thin juices—and he drank sparingly, avoiding the rush. He ate alongside Rafael. The veteran winger nodded when Thiago took the seating beside him. "Big step," Rafael said quietly. "Coming off the bench twice, now part of it. Take it steady."
Thiago thought of the advertising whispers: "Future of the wing." But he ignored them at that table. Instead, he thought of footwork on dusty Rio terraces. He traced that memory motorically with his tongue behind his teeth.
The locker room was charged by mid-afternoon. Kits draped neatly over benches, names printed tidy. Thiago slid into his spot. His kit bag lay on the floor—boots laced, socks stored, bib ready. He placed a small framed photo of Clara on his locker shelf. Just a reminder. Not distraction.
Nando sat across, head down, taping his socks. There was tension—unspoken, crackling. Not hostility. But caution. They were teammates today, yet everything had a track: minutes, trust, acknowledgment.
Thiago closed his eyes for a moment. Mental run-through. Breathing steady. Picture the ball coming to his feet at the 50th minute. First touch, hold, scan. Move. Pass. Don't force.
Eneas entered with calm authority. "Keep it tight. Stay inside ball. Don't chase wings. If we see green inside, you're the link." He scanned the room. "We believe. This isn't a moment. It's a pathway." He tapped the squad. "Sharp corners. Defend as units. Every shift needs traction. You know the drills."
No fanfare. Just clarity. Thiago felt steel in his chest. Not pressure. Poise.
Walking onto the pitch at 18:45 felt different than against Corinthians. The stands were quieter—just enough hum to remind him he wasn't practicing. The grass looked luminous under the lights. He patted his shins, pulled at his shorts, adjusted the bib on the bench until it lay flat.
He glanced at the Guaratinguetá squad training across—numbers on chests, chatter low, determined. He recognized their movements: low-block structure, midfield trap pressure, long diagonal counters.
The referee began the coin toss. Captains nodded. Palmeiras won. Thiago exhaled.
Warm-up sprints—five, then three, then one short burst. Each shift: planted foot, forward pass. He felt everything in his feet: grass, cleat grips, muscle length. Nothing raced. Just pure rhythm.
As final match countdown beeped, he walked the perimeter, glancing at staff, video screen, and scoreboard. 0:01 to go. He blanked his mind. It was about cycles, touches, opportunities. Nothing else.
The whistle sounded. 1st minute. Two passes. Nothing explosive. But stable. Palmeiras rotated gently, testing wide channels, searching for weakness. Guaratinguetá collapsed shape, not falling apart.
Minute 7. Cross to left wing. Thiago watched from bench as Nando received. Ball lost. Counter launched. Fullback sprinted across to intercept. Clearance. Calm bridge.
Minute 12. Palmeiras won midfield. Rafael wrong-footed. Ball skimmed to Lopes in midfield who attempted quick switch inside. Blocked. Clearance.
Thiago studied slots: between midfield stacks and the wing. Time slowed enough for him to note them.
Minute 18: Another possession cycle ended in final third—slot wide left, open corridor behind the fullback. He could see it. First involvement tomorrow. Not today.
Ref whistled for boards. Subtle reminders from staff: "Move it. Slow doesn't change shape."