Chapter 102 – Warmth amongst the cold
The silence didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
Thiago wasn’t sure exactly when the change had happened. Maybe during yesterday’s warm-up, when Kuba had suddenly clapped him on the back and growled something in Polish that sounded suspiciously like encouragement. Or maybe it was when Hummels - all six-foot-three of him, looking like he could bench press a small car - actually cracked a smile after Thiago slipped the ball between his legs during a rondo drill and muttered, "Cheeky little shit."
Either way, something had shifted.
The training ground glistened under a weak winter sun, the snow finally relenting after days of relentless fall. Patches of ice still clung stubbornly to the edges of the pitch, their jagged edges catching the light like broken glass. The air still carried that sharp, metallic bite of German winter, but there was something else in it now - something lighter, less oppressive.
Thiago sat on a battered plastic crate near the touchline, methodically tightening and retightening his bootlaces. The leather was stiff from the cold, the knots resisting his frozen fingers. Around him, players filtered out of the locker room in twos and threes, their breath forming little clouds in the crisp air. He kept his head down, listening to the snippets of conversation floating past - some in rapid-fire German, others in broken English, all punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.
"You’re going to freeze your balls off if you keep fussing with those laces all morning."
The voice came from above him. Thiago looked up to find Hummels looming over him, arms crossed over his broad chest, one eyebrow arched in amusement. Up close, the defender’s face was dotted with fading freckles from summer training, his blond hair sticking up in sleep-defying angles.
"I’m fine," Thiago muttered, giving the left lace one final tug.
Hummels snorted. "Yeah? Tell that to your toes when they turn black and fall off."
Before Thiago could respond, a pair of gloves came sailing through the air, hitting him square in the chest.
"Extra pair," Kuba said as he walked past, not breaking stride. The Polish winger’s nose was already red from the cold, his breath coming in short puffs. "You run too much. Fingers get cold."