Limitless Pitch

The sunrise was still stretching over the skyline, bleeding gold and pink across the horizon, when Thiago hit the pitch. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the damp, earthy musk of morning dew. The stadium loomed empty around him, its towering stands casting long, skeletal shadows over the field.

No cameras.

No staff.

Just him, the grass, and the dull echo of yesterday still heavy in his chest.

His lungs burned. His calves screamed. But he didn’t stop.

Laps first—tight, brutal sprints across the width of the field and back, each footfall sending up tiny sprays of moisture from the turf. The rhythmic slap of his cleats against the ground was the only sound in the silence. Then quick-feet drills, his movements sharp and mechanical, the agility ladder laid out like a trap he had to escape. Resistance band sprints followed, the elastic biting into his waist as he fought against it, every muscle in his legs trembling with exertion.

Headers off the wall—thud, thud, thud—the ball rebounding like a metronome counting down the seconds until exhaustion took over. One-touch volleys, his instep connecting with a satisfying crack each time. Cuts from the left wing into phantom shots, his body twisting mid-air as if an invisible defender were closing in. And over and over again: step-overs into crosses, jabs inside then fake-outs back wide. His breath came in ragged bursts, his vision tunneling until all he saw was the next touch, the next movement.

Muscle memory wasn’t enough—he was trying to replace thought with motion.

To replace her.

Camila’s kiss still lingered like the last breath of a memory he couldn’t exhale. Her perfume haunted his hoodie, that soft vanilla-and-jasmine scent clinging to the fabric no matter how many times he washed it. Her fingers—once threading into his during every bus ride, every quiet moment between training sessions—now felt like a ghost around his ribs, tightening whenever he let his guard down.

So he trained until even the ache gave up.