Chapter 117 The List on the Wall
By the time training wrapped, the sun had burned off the morning fog, leaving the air warm and dry. Thiago’s jersey clung to his back, soaked through, his lungs still recovering from the relentless pace of the final small-sided match.
He sat on the edge of the pitch with a few others, legs stretched out, cleats half-untied. Around him, the team’s usual chatter hummed—tired jokes, light complaints, teasing between duos who’d ended up on the losing side. No one took it too seriously. Everyone knew the real competition came tomorrow.
Udinese.
The first leg. The Europa League. At home.
This was where the stakes shifted.
Thiago leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. His chest still rose and fell in shallow rhythm. It had been a good session. Maybe one of his best. He hadn’t tried to be flashy. Just clean. Sharp. Reliable.
He didn’t know if it would be enough.
Klopp hadn’t said anything during training, but Thiago had felt the glances. The subtle way the coach had lingered during drills. The small nods when a pass split the lines. There had been no praise—not out loud. But Thiago had started to learn that Klopp’s silences were sometimes louder than words.
"Alright, bring it in!" Klopp’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.
No hesitation. The players moved instinctively toward him, forming a rough semicircle on the pitch, boots rustling in the grass.
He didn’t hold a clipboard. No tactics board. Just him, standing with his hands on his hips, eyes scanning the group. Calm, but focused. The way he always got before a real match.
"I won’t keep you long," he said. "You’ve earned your showers." That got a few small chuckles. "But we’ve got business."