Limitless Pitch-Chapter 99 – New Colors, Same Fire

The morning air in Dortmund was thick with the damp chill of early winter, the kind that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. Thiago shifted from foot to foot outside the training facility, his breath forming little white clouds in front of his face. The straps of his duffel bag dug into his shoulder, heavier than usual—not because he’d packed more gear, but because of what this trip represented.

Around him, the senior squad players chatted in low voices, their relaxed postures showing how routine this was for them. Marco Reus laughed at something Mats Hummels said, his gloved hands gesturing wildly. The younger squad members hovered near the edges, eyes darting between the veterans and coaching staff, looking both excited and nervous. Thiago knew exactly how they felt.

Preseason wasn’t just about training. It was his first real test wearing Dortmund’s famous black and yellow, his first chance to prove he belonged at this level. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

Marina appeared at his elbow, her sharp heels clicking against the pavement as she juggled a steaming thermos and a bulging folder threatening to spill papers everywhere. "Passport?" she asked without looking up, already scrolling through something on her phone.

Thiago patted his jacket pocket, feeling the stiff little booklet through the fabric. "Got it."

"Good." She finally glanced at him, her dark eyes assessing. "Try not to lose it like you did your boarding pass last month. I’m not explaining to Klopp why we need to delay a flight because you can’t keep track of your things."

"I was jetlagged," he muttered, adjusting the strap digging into his shoulder.

"And now you’re a professional." She snapped the folder shut with finality. "Start acting like one."

The team bus idled nearby, its black and yellow livery gleaming under the harsh parking lot lights. Thiago climbed aboard and claimed a window seat near the back, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as the engine rumbled to life. Through the fogged pane, he watched the Borussia Dortmund crest on the training center shrink into the distance, the towering letters becoming indistinct as the bus turned onto the main road.

His stomach did a funny little flip.

He was really doing this.

The airport bustled with early morning travelers, but the team moved through security with practiced efficiency. Thiago followed the group, his ears straining to pick out familiar words from the rapid-fire German announcements crackling over the PA system. He nearly walked into a sign because he was too busy trying to translate something about gate changes.

In the lounge, he found an isolated chair in the corner and plugged in his earbuds, letting the familiar rhythm of Brazilian funk ground him—not loud enough to block out the world completely, just enough to steady his racing thoughts.

A few senior players glanced his way as they passed. Some offered curt nods. One—the veteran left-back Marcel Schmelzer—even paused to ask if he wanted coffee from the lounge bar.

"Black, two sugars," Thiago said, surprised.

Schmelzer just nodded and walked off.

Progress, however small.

Marina dropped into the adjacent seat with a sigh, her phone already buzzing with a constant stream of notifications. "Flight boards in twenty," she said, scrolling through itineraries without looking up. "Innsbruck first, then Zürich. Forecast says minus three in Austria."

Thiago flexed his fingers inside his gloves, imagining training in that weather. "Perfect beach weather."

"You’ll live," she said dryly, tapping her screen to pull up their match schedule. "First friendly is against Wacker Innsbruck. Don’t expect more than fifteen, twenty minutes if you’re lucky. But be ready."

He nodded, his throat suddenly tight. "I will."

The plane descended through a veil of snowflakes, revealing a winter wonderland beneath the clouds. Innsbruck’s runway glittered under a thin blanket of white, the surrounding Alps standing like silent giants in every direction. Thiago’s breath fogged the window as the team bus wound through pine-lined roads, the tires crunching ominously on packed snow.

Their hotel smelled of lemon polish and expensive linen, the lobby dominated by a massive stone fireplace where real flames licked at birch logs. It looked like something from a Christmas movie.

"Room 214," Marina said, handing him a keycard. "Dinner at seven. Don’t be late."

His room overlooked the training pitch—a perfect emerald rectangle framed by snowbanks, its surface already marked with temporary lines and dotted with equipment. Ground staff in thick jackets moved around the field, setting up portable floodlights at each corner.

He didn’t unpack. Just stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the preparations. Somewhere in the coaching offices, his name was likely scribbled on a lineup sheet. Not in permanent ink. Not yet. But present.

His phone buzzed with incoming messages:

Clara: "Saw the team pics! You look like a lost tourist in that tracksuit. Fix your hoodie before Klopp benches you for bad fashion."

Attached was a photo of him looking slightly bewildered in the team photo, his hood half-up like he’d forgotten about it.

João: "Don’t let some 6’5 Austrian lumberjack break your ankles. Remember—favela kids don’t freeze."

Thiago chuckled, typing back: *Not in Campinas anymore. These Europeans built different.*

Training the next morning was a baptism by ice.

The coaches wasted no time, running them through brutal pressing drills on a pitch that alternated between slick frost and stubborn patches of frozen turf. The ball moved unpredictably, skidding on icy patches or catching unexpectedly in thin snow. Thiago’s first few touches betrayed him, his boots slipping at critical moments.

"Again!" Klopp shouted, clapping his hands. His breath came out in white puffs. "Faster transitions!"

By the third rotation, Thiago had started adapting—shortening his stride, adjusting his center of gravity, reading the uneven bounces before they happened. He found himself paired with Jakub Błaszczykowski, the Polish winger’s quiet intensity a steadying presence. Every pass from "Kuba" carried purpose; every instruction was delivered in concise, heavily accented English.

"Not so wide," Kuba corrected during a crossing drill, demonstrating the proper angle with his hands. "Here. More danger."

Thiago mimicked the movement, then executed it perfectly on his next attempt—a whipped cross that curved away from the goalkeeper’s reach at the last second. Kuba gave an approving grunt and clapped him on the shoulder.

Progress.

That evening in the sauna, Thiago sat between two hulking center-backs, their massive frames glistening with sweat as they debated something in rapid German. When they noticed him listening, one pantomimed a dramatic diving header while the other laughed uproariously.

"Schweinsteiger!" one said, pointing at Thiago and miming the famous German midfielder’s playing style. fгeewebnovёl.com

Thiago laughed and shook his head, pretending to dribble like Ronaldinho instead. The defenders roared with laughter, one nearly slipping off the wooden bench.

At dinner, a lanky reserve winger waved him over to a crowded table. Conversation flowed in broken English and exaggerated gestures, punctuated by shared laughter when translations failed. The walls were coming down, brick by brick.

Game day dawned clear and bitingly cold.

The team gathered in a hotel conference room hours before kickoff, the space smelling strongly of coffee and mentholated muscle rub. Klopp stood at the front, his usual animated self despite the early hour, drawing frantic lines on a tactics board.

"This isn’t a training exercise," he stressed, laser pointer dancing across the board. "It’s about rhythm. About identity. Make mistakes today so you don’t make them when it matters." His pointer hit the table with a sharp click. "But I better not see anyone jogging. Ever."

Thiago sat ramrod straight, absorbing every diagram, every German phrase he could parse. The message was clear: intensity defined Dortmund’s game.

He was on the bench. Expected, but still a small disappointment that settled in his stomach like a stone.

The stadium was modest—a single-tiered affair holding maybe three thousand fans. The air smelled of grilled bratwurst and damp wool as supporters clustered along the railings, their scarves bright splashes of color against the snow-dusted stands. The cold seeped through his jacket as he sat on the bench.

When the whistle blew, Thiago perched on the edge of the dugout, his training bib rustling with every nervous shift. The first half was disjointed—Dortmund led 1-0 but struggled for fluidity. Klopp prowled the technical area, his voice growing hoarse from constant instruction.

At the 58th minute, an assistant coach turned to the bench. "Thiago. Warm up."

His heart hammered against his ribs as he peeled off the bib and jogged the touchline, the cold air stinging his lungs even through deep breaths. His muscles felt tight with anticipation.

Klopp beckoned him over during a stoppage in play.

"Right side," the manager instructed, hands demonstrating movements. "Cut inside on the press. Attack the half-spaces." Those intense eyes locked onto his. "Be brave."

The first touch came immediately—a controlled trap of an errant pass near the sideline, followed by a crisp layoff to Reus. Simple. Effective.

The second involvement was better. Drifting centrally under pressure, he received with his back to goal, spun away from his marker with a quick pivot that left the defender stumbling, and switched play with a raking diagonal pass to the opposite wing.

Then came the moment.

A loose ball at midfield. Thiago pounced first, muscling past a challenger before spotting the striker’s run. His disguised pass split two defenders like a blade, putting the striker through on goal with perfect weight.

The net bulged. 2-0.

Klopp didn’t cheer. Just nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, before turning to bark instructions at someone else.

When the final whistle blew, Thiago’s lungs burned and his legs trembled with fatigue, but his chest swelled with quiet pride. As he trudged off, an assistant coach tossed him a fresh bib.

"Gut gemacht," the man said. Well done.

Two words. But they meant everything.

Back at the hotel, Marina waited in the lobby, her tablet glowing in the dim light. She didn’t look up as he approached.

"Not bad," she offered casually.

"Only a friendly," Thiago replied, though he couldn’t suppress the small, proud smile tugging at his lips.

She finally met his eyes, her expression unreadable. "Still it was a very good performance for a debut."

Upstairs, he collapsed onto his bed, every muscle protesting. His phone buzzed with messages—congratulations from friends back home, a meme from João.

But his mind kept replaying the match in flickering highlights—that missed opportunity in the 72nd minute, the cross that had sailed too long, but mostly that perfect through ball, the way it had sliced through the defense like they weren’t even there.

He hadn’t just survived his debut.

He’d announced himself.

And as he lay there staring at the hotel ceiling, snow beginning to fall outside his window, one thought circled relentlessly in his mind:

This was only the beginning.

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