Limitless Pitch

The air inside the Palmeiras director’s office hung thick with the scent of old wood polish, the kind that had soaked deep into the mahogany desk over decades of use. The air conditioning rattled softly, struggling against the late afternoon heat, circulating a stale breeze that did little to ease the tension in the room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long golden rectangles across the worn Persian rug, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the still air.

Outside, the training grounds stretched in perfect emerald lines, the freshly cut grass releasing its sweet, earthy perfume into the warm air. Groundskeepers moved with slow precision, their rakes leaving behind neat furrows, the rhythmic scrape of metal against earth barely audible through the glass. The distant shouts of the youth team training drifted in muffled bursts, a reminder of the life continuing beyond this tense conversation.

But inside Director Álvaro Cardoso’s office, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

Álvaro sat behind his massive oak desk, a relic from the club’s golden era, its surface scarred by decades of paperwork and the occasional frustrated fist. His thick fingers were steepled in front of him, the knuckles white with tension. A man in his mid-50s, barrel-chested with a presence that usually filled a room, he now seemed diminished by the weight of the conversation. The overhead light gleamed off the smooth crown of his head, highlighting the sweat beading at his temples.

Across from him, Coach Eneas stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest, his silhouette framed by the fading sunlight. His usual composed demeanor was betrayed by the tightness in his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed slowly through his nose. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper today, etched by sleepless nights and the burden of what was coming.

Álvaro exhaled sharply, the sound like a valve releasing pressure, and tossed a report onto the desk with enough force to send a fountain pen rolling off the edge. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp clatter, the sound startling in the heavy silence.

"You’re telling me," he said, each word measured and deliberate, "that we’re losing him. On a free."

Eneas didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, fixed on some distant point beyond the window. "Yes."

Álvaro leaned forward, his leather chair groaning in protest. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and musky—mixed with the faint tang of sweat. "You knew this was coming."

It wasn’t a question.

Eneas turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "I suspected it was coming. You think I’ve been pushing for his pro contract since last year just for my health?"