Thiago returned to the pitch three nights later with the memory of his half-game performance sharpening each step. The empty locker room before warm-ups felt heavy with stillness—helmet hum, cleats squeaking on the tiles, towels hanging limp. He pulled on his kit in silence, head down, letting the anticipation build without feeding it.
Tonight's match was against Mirassol, a side known for their counter-press and aggressive wing play—a suitable test for his evolving role. He laced his boots with care, pulling them snug, recalling Eneas's praise of his channel work. He slid a photo of Clara against the locker's mirror and brushed the edge of its frame for luck.
By 7 PM, the stands were warming up. They weren't full, but voices rose in small pockets of enthusiasm. Perfect. A foundation of energy to work from.
In the tunnel, Rafael met him with a nod. "Ready?"
Thiago met his gaze. "Ready."
Rafael offered a small smile. "Do it again. But tonight, be first to move when it opens."
He swallowed them both into the pitch's hush. The match's first 15 minutes were cages—Mirassol pressing, midfield congested, fullbacks neither staying nor stepping. Thiago restricted himself to safe position and quick movement—offsiding the fullback's trap, retreating to the touchline, offering angles but refusing temptation.
At minute 18, Mirassol cleared the ball into midfield. Palms tight, Thiago dropped into the pocket as planned. The ball came with pace — one touch, swivel, and drag into space. He released a low cross aimed at a sprinting striker—just a second late, but sharp enough to draw an interception and a corner. Eneas glanced at him, then scribbled on his board.
Twenty-three minutes in, Thiago blended off-pattern again—this time drifting inside before a long switch. From the 30-yard line, he struck a curving cross-field ball that split two defenders and reached the wingback. The cross from there produced no goal—but it pushed Mirassol's shape sideways, created a corridor, rippled expectation. The bench tightened.
The half wore on. They exchanged opportunities but no goals. By halftime, Thiago had logged 26 touches, one key cross, and a ball recover in midfield.
In the locker room, Eneas didn't raise his voice. He just stated: "Mirassol's press cuts two options: counter or switch. You dealt with the switch. Now next." He tapped a clipboard line: "Draw press, tuck inside, rotate into exit."
Thiago's heart rose—the instruction became a challenge, not a request.
Rafael pulled him aside. "Tonight's rhythm was yours. Keep pacing it." He cut him a look—respect wrapping around caution. Thiago nodded.
Second half began with a rush—Mirassol firing shots from breaking midfield, Palmeiras scrambling clearances. But Thiago settled quickly.
Minute 51: Long ball from defense. Midfielder flicked it forward. Thiago hustled to chase, first touch off, held by the chest, the second set up a low flick across the box—dangerous, alive—though unconverted. The bench stirred.
Minute 57: Mirassol again cleared, launching a break. Thiago recognized it, pivoted from the flank into midfield, sprinted central, slid into the pass path—stealing the ball seconds before the striker could trap it. A life-saving intervention. A quiet cheer around him.
Minute 62: Anakinesis. Ball back to him at the wing. He dropped inside this time, near half-space, and shielded it until a midfielder stepped into view. He delivered a crisp pass to a runner whose shot rattled the bar. That moment—three previous touches, two shifts in depth, one result—spoke the arc of his evolution.
At minute 67, the breakthrough came. He set it up.
Florentino intercepted Mirassol's pass in midfield, stepped forward—then passed wide to Thiago. He dropped his shoulder, spun past the fullback, and curled a cross into the penalty area. The striker's header looped past the keeper and rippled nets. Bench erupted.
Thiago exhaled softly. Nothing dramatic. Just structure leading to success.
Over the next 20 minutes, the game opened, but Palmeiras stayed disciplined. Thiago curated his involvement with precision—overlaps, mid-block shifts, a final foul won at minute 89.
When the whistle blew, the scoreboard read 1–0. A victory sculpted by balance—poise and pressure.
In the locker room, noises echoed but weren't loud. Assistant coaches patted players. Eneas walked straight to the board, then to Thiago.
"Two clean half-spaces, one goal involvement, defensive recovery. Right path."
He paused, eyes steady.
"Consistent. Keep that. This path doesn't make noise—but it ends matches."
Thiago recognized the praise buried in understatement.
He pulled off his shirt slowly—revealing chest heaving with quiet energy. Nando clapped from across the room, voice clipped. Still distant—but respect glinted in his eyes, not warmth, but acknowledgment.
He caught Clara's voice message that night, when he decoded its low buzz:
"You did a goal pass like a boss. Mama said you moved like a cat, slow until it mattered."
He smiled. Pressed play again—her soft giggle overshadowing half a sentence, the echo of youthful wonder.
He closed the System:
Minutes: 90
Pass accuracy: 88%
Key passes: 3
Dribbles successful: 5
Rating: 7.9
Club confidence: 84/100
He went to sleep.
No bells.
No flash.
Nothing but the steady hum of growth closing in around him