Limitless Pitch

The rooftop café in Jardins didn’t feel like the kind of place a 17-year-old kid from Campinas belonged. White marble tabletops so polished he could see his own nervous reflection in them. Low-slung chairs that looked more like art than furniture. Potted plants spaced just so, like they’d been placed by someone with a ruler and a deep fear of chaos.

And the view.

Christ.

The whole skyline stretched out before them, a jagged tapestry of glass and steel bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon. From up here, even the traffic looked elegant—a slow-moving river of headlights winding between the buildings.

Thiago adjusted his sleeves for the third time. The button-up Marina had insisted he wear was slightly too big in the shoulders, the fabric bunching awkwardly when he moved. He’d never owned a proper dress shirt before this one. His usual wardrobe consisted of club polos, sweat-stained training gear, and the single pair of dark jeans he reserved for family dinners.

Across the table, Marina sat with her legs crossed, her phone face down for once. She looked effortlessly at ease, her sharp blazer and tailored slacks making her seem like she belonged in places like this. Thiago, on the other hand, felt like a kid playing dress-up.

"Relax," she murmured, not looking at him as she stirred her espresso. "This is a conversation, not an interrogation. Just be yourself."

Thiago swallowed. "What if ’myself’ sounds like a kid who’s better at kicking a ball than talking business?"

Marina smirked. "Then that’s exactly what they want."

Before he could reply, a man approached their table.

Late 30s, maybe. Dressed in a tailored black jacket over a black turtleneck, his beard trimmed to that perfect midpoint between stylish and trying-too-hard. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.