Chapter 116 Tempo
The training ground was still wrapped in the hazy blue light of dawn when Thiago arrived, his breath curling in faint clouds as he stepped out of his car. The air carried that crisp, almost metallic tang of early autumn mornings—cold enough to make his fingers tingle, but not yet bitter enough to numb them.
He was the first one there.
The pitch stretched before him, its surface glistening with dew, each blade of grass catching the pale morning light. Sprinklers ticked rhythmically in the distance, their arcs of water catching the dim glow like strands of silver thread. Groundskeepers moved with quiet efficiency, their boots leaving dark trails in the damp turf as they prepped the field for the day’s session. The scent of freshly cut grass hung thick in the air, sharp and earthy.
Thiago dumped his training bag on the bench, the zipper clinking softly against the metal frame. He tugged his laces tight, the leather of his boots still stiff from yesterday’s wear, and stepped onto the pitch. The turf yielded slightly under his weight, springy and cool beneath his cleats. A moment later, he dropped to the ground, the dampness seeping through his training pants as he began his stretches.
No music. No distractions. Just the quiet symphony of a football ground waking up—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional call of a groundsman, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the sprinklers.
His routine was methodical. Ankles first, rolling them in slow circles, feeling the ligaments loosen. Then hamstrings, his palms flat against the turf as he reached for his toes, the familiar pull radiating up the backs of his legs. Hips next, rotating in deliberate arcs, then shoulders, rolling them forward and back until the stiffness bled away.
When he rose, it was time to run.
Short bursts first—ten yards out, plant, ten yards back. Then diagonals, cutting sharp angles, stopping on a dime, the rubber studs of his boots biting into the turf. His lungs burned in that familiar way, the ache spreading through his chest like liquid fire, but it was a good burn. The kind that reminded him he was pushing himself. The kind that meant progress.
By the time the rest of the squad began trickling out, Thiago was already mid-way through his solo rondos with the rebound wall. The ball thudded against the concrete, each return pass crisp and controlled, his touch light but precise.
"Early bird, huh?" Bender called as he jogged past, his breath fogging in the cool air.
Thiago didn’t break rhythm. "Bird’s gotta earn his worm," he replied, flicking a pass off the wall and catching it on his toe without breaking stride.
Kuba laughed as he approached, tossing his jacket onto the bench beside Thiago’s bag. "Don’t tell Klopp you’re out here grinding early. He’ll make the rest of us show up at 6 a.m. too."