Chapter 101 – Ground Beneath the Snow
The snow kept falling, but it refused to stick.
Thiago sat hunched by the hotel window, his forehead nearly touching the cold glass as he watched the flakes dance outside. The radiator beneath the window hissed weakly, doing little to combat the winter chill seeping through the panes. A half-eaten protein bar lay limp in his hand, the chocolate coating smearing across his fingers as he absentmindedly squeezed it. Below, the training ground looked like a half-finished painting—patches of frosty white struggling to cover the stubborn green grass beneath.
Every muscle in his body screamed. His quads burned like he’d run up a mountain. His lower back protested every slight movement with sharp jabs of pain. Even his toes throbbed inside his thick socks, a constant reminder of those extra twenty minutes he’d played yesterday when Klopp had unexpectedly kept him on.
And yet—
A stupid grin kept tugging at his lips.
No goal. No assist. Not even a particularly flashy play. But that moment after the final whistle, standing there with his hands on his knees, sweat freezing against his skin, lungs heaving—it had been the most real he’d felt since stepping off the plane in Germany.
A sudden knock at the door startled him.
"Thiago! Team review, downstairs in five!"
The voice was muffled through the wood, followed by the quick shuffle of footsteps retreating down the hall. He didn’t recognize who it was—one of the junior analysts probably, maybe that quiet guy who always carried three clipboards.
With a groan that came from deep in his chest, he forced himself upright. The cheap hotel carpet scratched against his bare feet as he limped to his suitcase, rummaging through the mess of clothes for clean training gear. Every movement sent fresh waves of protest through his battered muscles. But when he finally opened the door and stepped into the bright hallway, blinking against the fluorescent lights, the pain faded to a dull background hum.
The meeting room hit him with a wall of smells—bitter coffee, the sharp tang of muscle rub, and underneath it all, the stale sweat still clinging to some of the players who’d come straight from morning training. Most of the team was already sprawled in chairs, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, others whispering jokes that made their neighbors snort. A few nodded at him as he entered—small acknowledgments, but more than he’d gotten yesterday, more than last week.