Chapter 80 – Crossroads
The morning dawned soft and golden, spilling through the jacaranda trees of Pinheiros like liquid honey. Thiago sat at a wrought-iron café table, its surface cool beneath his fingertips, still groggy from last night’s celebrations. A chilled bottle of water beaded with condensation in his grip, droplets tracing slow, meandering paths down the glass like tears of joy. The plastic wristband from the victory party clung stubbornly to his wrist, its edges frayed from nervous picking during the long, sleepless hours.
Every muscle in his body sang a chorus of exhaustion—his calves throbbed with the memory of relentless sprints, his lower back ached from carrying the weight of expectation, even his jaw felt sore from laughing too hard, too long, with the abandon of a champion. His eyelids, heavy as lead, burned with the grit of too little sleep, but this was the sweet fatigue of triumph, the kind that settled in your bones like warm embers after a roaring fire.
Then he saw her—Marina—cutting through the café crowd like a shark through calm waters.
She moved with predatory grace, her tailored blazer hugging her frame like a second skin, the morning sun glinting off her designer sunglasses. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, so tight it stretched the skin around her temples, giving her an air of relentless focus. She navigated the obstacle course of waiters and tables with effortless precision, sidestepping a tray of steaming pão de queijo without breaking stride, her stiletto heels clicking against the cobblestones like a metronome counting down to some unseen deadline.
"Morning, superstar," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him with the smooth confidence of someone used to owning every room she entered. She removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were sharp, calculating—wide awake despite the early hour.
Thiago blinked slowly, his vision still blurred at the edges from fatigue. "You’re not tired?"
She smirked, the expression carving a faint dimple into her cheek. "Sleep is for players who didn’t just make headlines in three countries." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her manicured nails tapping an impatient rhythm against the polished surface. "You ready?"
He exhaled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, the rough texture of his skin catching against his lashes. "Depends what I’m saying yes to."
Marina didn’t waste time. She unzipped her sleek leather briefcase with a decisive tug, pulling out her iPad with the reverence of a priest presenting holy scripture. The screen flared to life beneath her fingertips, casting a pale glow across her face as she swiped through a series of documents, each marked with the crests of European clubs—emblems that carried the weight of history, of dreams.