Limitless Pitch

The morning after the Puma meeting, Thiago arrived at the Palmeiras training ground when the night security guard was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. The guard barely glanced up from his newspaper as Thiago flashed his ID, the plastic still warm from riding in his back pocket during the bus ride over. The complex stood silent except for the occasional creak of metal as the facility settled in the cool dawn air.

Thiago’s breath fogged slightly as he stepped onto the pitch, the dew-covered grass soaking through his socks before he’d even laced up his cleats. He chose a spot near the center circle where the grass grew slightly thicker, the blades still bent from yesterday’s training session. The sky above São Paulo bled through shades of indigo to pale gold, streetlights winking out one by one across the city’s sprawling silhouette.

He needed to talk to Eneas.

Not after breakfast. Not when the team gathered for film study.

Now. Before the world woke up and demanded things from them both.

Thiago picked at a loose thread on his training shorts, the fabric still damp from last night’s hasty wash. His phone buzzed in his pocket—another message from Marina, no doubt. He’d left three of them unread since midnight, each one making his stomach tighten. The Puma deal had cracked something open, and now the floodgates threatened to burst.

The sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the staff building as the door groaned open. Eneas emerged with two steaming mugs, his usual pressed training gear replaced by a faded Palmeiras hoodie and sweatpants that had seen better seasons. He moved with the quiet certainty of someone who’d walked these grounds for decades, his boots leaving deeper impressions in the soft earth than Thiago’s had.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Eneas asked as he handed over one of the mugs. The ceramic burned Thiago’s palms, but he welcomed the ache.

"Not really." The coffee tasted bitter—Eneas always brewed it too strong, just like Thiago’s father used to.