Chapter 87 – A Promise Kept
The sun had already dipped behind the rooftops of Campinas when Thiago finally pushed open the apartment door. The hinges squeaked their familiar protest, a sound as much a part of home as his mother’s voice. He paused in the doorway, letting the warmth of the apartment wash over him. The air smelled of sautéed garlic and onions, with the underlying scent of the lemon-scented cleaner his mother used religiously on their small kitchen. The TV murmured in the background, some telenovela she claimed not to watch but always left playing for company.
Thiago toed off his sneakers, lining them up neatly by the door where they’d sat since he was a boy. The tile floor was cool beneath his socks, worn smooth in the paths they’d all walked countless times. From Clara’s room came the muffled bass of whatever pop song she was obsessed with this week, the rhythm vibrating through the thin walls.
"Oi, Mãe," he called softly, his voice catching slightly in his throat.
She turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her dark hair pulled back in the loose bun she always wore when cooking. A few strands had escaped, curling at her temples from the steam rising from the pots. "You’re late," she said, but the words held no real reproach. Just the quiet observation of a mother who’d spent years waiting up for him after training sessions.
Thiago ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower he’d taken at the training facility. "I know. Had a meeting. In the city."
She stirred the pot of feijão, the rich scent of black beans mixing with the garlicky aroma of the farofa toasting in another pan. "With Marina again?"
He slid into one of the rickety kitchen chairs, the legs wobbling unevenly against the tile as they always did. "Yeah. And... some people from Puma."
The wooden spoon stilled in the pot. For a heartbeat, the only sounds were the quiet bubbling of the beans and the tinny laughter from the TV. Then she turned fully, wiping her hands on the faded dish towel that lived perpetually over her shoulder. "Puma?" she repeated, her voice carefully neutral. "The shoe company?"
Thiago nodded, suddenly feeling like he was eight years old again, presenting a school project he’d worked especially hard on. His fingers tapped nervously against the chipped Formica tabletop, tracing the familiar grooves and scratches. "They offered me a deal," he said, his voice quieter than he intended. "Two years. Good money."