Limitless Pitch-Chapter 75 – Burn It Into Muscle

The sunrise was still stretching over the skyline, bleeding gold and pink across the horizon, when Thiago hit the pitch. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the damp, earthy musk of morning dew. The stadium loomed empty around him, its towering stands casting long, skeletal shadows over the field.

No cameras.

No staff.

Just him, the grass, and the dull echo of yesterday still heavy in his chest.

His lungs burned. His calves screamed. But he didn’t stop.

Laps first—tight, brutal sprints across the width of the field and back, each footfall sending up tiny sprays of moisture from the turf. The rhythmic slap of his cleats against the ground was the only sound in the silence. Then quick-feet drills, his movements sharp and mechanical, the agility ladder laid out like a trap he had to escape. Resistance band sprints followed, the elastic biting into his waist as he fought against it, every muscle in his legs trembling with exertion.

Headers off the wall—thud, thud, thud—the ball rebounding like a metronome counting down the seconds until exhaustion took over. One-touch volleys, his instep connecting with a satisfying crack each time. Cuts from the left wing into phantom shots, his body twisting mid-air as if an invisible defender were closing in. And over and over again: step-overs into crosses, jabs inside then fake-outs back wide. His breath came in ragged bursts, his vision tunneling until all he saw was the next touch, the next movement.

Muscle memory wasn’t enough—he was trying to replace thought with motion.

To replace her.

Camila’s kiss still lingered like the last breath of a memory he couldn’t exhale. Her perfume haunted his hoodie, that soft vanilla-and-jasmine scent clinging to the fabric no matter how many times he washed it. Her fingers—once threading into his during every bus ride, every quiet moment between training sessions—now felt like a ghost around his ribs, tightening whenever he let his guard down.

So he trained until even the ache gave up.

The dew soaked through his socks, the dampness creeping up his ankles like cold fingers. His shirt clung to him like another layer of skin, the fabric plastered to his back and chest. His left foot started to drag in his cuts; his hip felt tight, a dull throb building with every sharp change of direction. But he pushed through it. Let it blister. Let it burn. If heartbreak couldn’t be stitched, maybe it could be sweated out.

He went down in a slide—chasing a loose ball he’d overhit himself. The turf scraped against his thigh as he skidded, grass stains smearing up his leg in jagged streaks. He stayed down, breathing in the earthy scent of dirt and field paint, his pulse hammering in his skull. The sky above him was a pale, cloudless blue, indifferent to his exhaustion.

"Alright, man. Enough."

Thiago blinked, still facedown, as footsteps approached—familiar, unhurried.

Rafael.

The older midfielder crouched beside him, sweat-darkened curls spilling over his forehead, a half-eaten banana in one hand. His training jacket was unzipped, revealing a faded Palmeiras shirt beneath, the emblem worn from years of wear.

"I’ve seen you grind before, but this..." He motioned around the field with the banana, taking in the scattered cones, the discarded resistance bands, the water bottle abandoned near the sideline. "This isn’t training. This is self-punishment."

Thiago pushed himself up, breath ragged. "I need it."

"No, you need sleep. Food. Maybe someone to slap some sense into you." Rafael tossed the banana peel toward the trash, missed, didn’t care. "She didn’t walk away because she didn’t care. She walked because she did."

Thiago looked up sharply, his dark eyes flashing with something between shock and irritation. "How di—"

"Oh, c’mon," Rafael cut in, voice dry. "It was obvious you were wrecked over Camila. You’ve been running yourself into the ground since she left."

Thiago didn’t respond.

Rafael sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubble. "Look—I’ve had my heart broken, too. Hell, I played a whole damn season in Série B like a zombie because I couldn’t get over a girl who left me for a guy with a surfboard and a podcast." He shook his head, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "But you? You’re on the edge of something big. Bigger than Palmeiras. Bigger than this league."

Thiago finally sat up, arms resting on his knees, his fingers digging into the damp turf.

"I thought she’d be there," he said quietly.

Rafael’s voice softened. "And maybe, in another life, she would’ve. But this life? This one’s for football."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up.

"You done bleeding?" Rafael asked, eyeing the fresh scrapes on Thiago’s legs.

Thiago nodded once.

"Then come on. We’ve got recovery in twenty. Eneas’ll rip your hamstrings if you try to run full-speed again tomorrow."

As Thiago got up, brushing dirt from his shorts, his phone buzzed in the grass.

Marina’s number.

He hesitated for half a second before answering.

"Thiago, it’s Marina," came the clipped, businesslike voice of his agent. "Hope I’m not interrupting something."

"No. Just finished training."

"Good," she said briskly. "Because I’ve got news."

His heartbeat quickened.

"There are offers on the table. Spain, Italy, and France, as expected. One from the Dutch league—decent development environment. Nothing final yet, but the interest is strong."

Thiago wiped sweat from his brow, pacing slowly near the sideline. The morning sun had climbed higher now, casting sharp shadows across the field.

"And there’s something else. Puma’s reached out. Early stages, but they’re scouting rising talent in Brazil for a new youth partnership. You’re on their shortlist."

Thiago stopped mid-step.

"Puma? Like—sponsorship?"

"Yes. If this progresses, it could be your first major endorsement deal. I’d like to meet face-to-face and go over the offers. Contracts, brand clauses, timing, everything. Today if you’re free."

"I can be," Thiago said.

"Good. I’ll text the location. Bring yourself. And maybe a clean shirt."

The call ended.

Thiago stood in silence, the sun now fully risen, warming the field beneath his feet. He felt hollow still—but it was a quieter emptiness. No longer storming. Just space. Room for what came next.

He walked back toward the dormitory, Rafael falling in beside him, still munching the last bit of banana.

"You good?" Rafael asked.

"Not yet," Thiago said. "But I will be."

Two hours later

Thiago leaned forward, elbows on the small café table, his muscles still tense from the day’s brutal training. The café was tucked into a quiet corner of São Paulo, all exposed brick and soft jazz humming in the background. Across from him, Marina Vale was the picture of composure. Slim black turtleneck, tortoiseshell glasses perched on her nose, a sleek leather folder open in front of her. The São Paulo skyline blinked lazily outside the window, neon bleeding into the late evening haze.

She tapped the corner of the folder. "Five clubs have formally expressed interest."

Thiago’s brow furrowed. "All from Europe?"

Marina nodded. "Two from France—Lorient and Nice. A mid-table Eredivisie team, Vitesse. One from Serie A—Cagliari. And Osasuna, from Spain."

Thiago leaned back, digesting the names.

"Osasuna?" he asked, surprised.

"They’re 15th in La Liga," she said, eyes sharp. "Fighting relegation. But they play fast, transitional football. Could suit your game. You’d get minutes early. A lot of minutes."

Thiago crossed his arms. "And the others?"

"Lorient sees you as a left-sided starter, possibly inverted. Cagliari wants to mold you into a hybrid wide-playmaker in a 3-5-2 system—think inside-forward with defensive duties. Not the flashiest, but you’d learn resilience there." Her smile was tight. "And Vitesse... well, they’re Eredivisie. They don’t just allow flair. They need it."

Thiago looked down at the table, running a finger over a water ring left by his glass.

"And the wages?"

"You won’t be a millionaire tomorrow," she said gently. "But all five would include subsidized living, development incentives, and performance bonuses. Vitesse and Nice are the most stable. Osasuna is the biggest gamble—but also the biggest reward, if you shine."

Thiago exhaled. "And Puma?"

Marina’s eyes lit up slightly. "That’s the other reason I called this meeting."

She pulled out another sheet of paper—unbranded, but marked with distinct highlights.

"They’ve dropped the shortlist. You’re now a high-priority youth signing for their ambassador initiative." She slid the paper toward him. "Puma wants to build their next generation of footballers. You’d wear their boots exclusively, appear in one local campaign, and—if things progress—join their tiered bonus system as your profile rises."

Thiago stared at the document. The numbers weren’t staggering. Not like the rumors he’d heard about players in Europe. But it wasn’t about that.

It was the gesture.

The acknowledgment.

Someone had looked at him—really looked—and said, You’re not just promising. You’re real.

"Do I need to sign anything now?" he asked, eyes lifting.

"No," Marina replied. "But they want a decision within two weeks. As for the clubs, I’ll narrow them down to the most serious offers. You’ll probably travel for trials or meetings after the Paulista ends."

Thiago nodded slowly. His fingers itched—not for a pen, but for the ball. For a match. For the pitch that always told the truth.

"I want to win the final first," he said quietly. "I want to finish this right."

Marina’s lips curled. "That’s what I was hoping you’d say."

She closed the folder, then stood. "You’re young, Thiago. But not small. Not anymore."

He stood too. The café had emptied around them, but the city outside still buzzed. São Paulo never really slept. Neither did ambition.

As Marina walked away into the night, heels clicking against the pavement, Thiago stayed by the table for a moment longer. He pulled out his phone and opened his notes app.

He typed one word:

Europe.

Then he closed it.

No more doubts.

No more halfway decisions.

The next match would be for Palmeiras.

But the next step?

That would be for him.

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