Limitless Pitch
Chapter 101 – Ground Beneath the Snow

Chapter 101: Chapter 101 – Ground Beneath the Snow

The snow kept falling, but it refused to stick.

Thiago sat hunched by the hotel window, his forehead nearly touching the cold glass as he watched the flakes dance outside. The radiator beneath the window hissed weakly, doing little to combat the winter chill seeping through the panes. A half-eaten protein bar lay limp in his hand, the chocolate coating smearing across his fingers as he absentmindedly squeezed it. Below, the training ground looked like a half-finished painting—patches of frosty white struggling to cover the stubborn green grass beneath.

Every muscle in his body screamed. His quads burned like he’d run up a mountain. His lower back protested every slight movement with sharp jabs of pain. Even his toes throbbed inside his thick socks, a constant reminder of those extra twenty minutes he’d played yesterday when Klopp had unexpectedly kept him on.

And yet—

A stupid grin kept tugging at his lips.

No goal. No assist. Not even a particularly flashy play. But that moment after the final whistle, standing there with his hands on his knees, sweat freezing against his skin, lungs heaving—it had been the most real he’d felt since stepping off the plane in Germany.

A sudden knock at the door startled him.

"Thiago! Team review, downstairs in five!"

The voice was muffled through the wood, followed by the quick shuffle of footsteps retreating down the hall. He didn’t recognize who it was—one of the junior analysts probably, maybe that quiet guy who always carried three clipboards.

With a groan that came from deep in his chest, he forced himself upright. The cheap hotel carpet scratched against his bare feet as he limped to his suitcase, rummaging through the mess of clothes for clean training gear. Every movement sent fresh waves of protest through his battered muscles. But when he finally opened the door and stepped into the bright hallway, blinking against the fluorescent lights, the pain faded to a dull background hum.

The meeting room hit him with a wall of smells—bitter coffee, the sharp tang of muscle rub, and underneath it all, the stale sweat still clinging to some of the players who’d come straight from morning training. Most of the team was already sprawled in chairs, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, others whispering jokes that made their neighbors snort. A few nodded at him as he entered—small acknowledgments, but more than he’d gotten yesterday, more than last week.

Klopp stood at the front, his ever-present cap slightly crooked, clutching a massive Dortmund-branded coffee cup like it was his lifeline. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of another sleepless night, but his energy still crackled through the room.

"Alright, listen up," he barked, voice rough but carrying. He took a long, dramatic sip of coffee before continuing. "This’ll be quick. Unless someone wants to debate their defensive positioning with me again." He fixed a pointed stare at one of the veteran defenders.

Scattered chuckles broke out. Klopp didn’t smile.

The projector flickered to life, casting shaky footage from yesterday’s friendly against Zürich across the screen. Good plays. Bad mistakes. Missed chances. Brilliant saves. All dissected with clinical precision.

Then—

There he was.

Thiago, legs pumping like pistons, chasing down their speedy winger on a dangerous counter. His feet moved almost before his brain processed the danger, but somehow he contained the threat—not with a reckless tackle, but by angling his body perfectly, shepherding the attacker wide until the danger fizzled out.

Klopp froze the frame. "This," he said, tapping the screen with his pen. "This is what I want to see. Not panic. Not heroics. Just smart, controlled defending." He turned to the room. "Notice—he didn’t even win the ball. But he won the moment. That’s football intelligence."

A few teammates glanced at him. One of the assistants—Markus?—gave him an approving nod. Owomoyela, the veteran right-back who’d barely acknowledged him before, actually muttered "Good job" under his breath.

Klopp moved on like it was nothing.

But to Thiago, sitting there with his hands clenched under the table to hide their trembling, it felt like everything.

When the meeting ended, the room emptied quickly, players shuffling toward the canteen for lunch. Thiago lingered, letting the silence wrap around him like the snow still falling outside the windows. He traced the wood grain of the table with one finger, replaying that moment on screen over and over.

The canteen buzzed with activity when he finally entered. He grabbed a tray—scrambled eggs that looked too dry, toast already going stiff, a banana that had seen better days—and found an empty spot near the window. He didn’t force himself into any conversations, just listened to the mix of German and English swirling around him, the clatter of cutlery, the occasional burst of laughter.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

One missed call from his mother.

And a voice message from Clara:

"For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t lose the ball every time you touched it. Mãe was white-knuckling her rosary the whole match. Call her, you idiot."

The sudden laugh that escaped him drew a few curious looks from nearby tables. He didn’t care.

Back in his room, Thiago kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed with a groan that came from deep in his bones. The stiff hotel sheets smelled faintly of bleach, that universal hotel scent that never quite masked the years of other people’s stays. He stared at the ceiling—plain white with a small water stain in one corner—before grabbing his phone. His thumb hovered over his mom’s contact for a second before pressing call.

The line rang once, twice—

"Meu filho!" His mother’s face filled the screen, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. She was in their tiny kitchen back home, the yellow curtains he’d helped her hang last summer framing the window behind her. A dish towel hung over her shoulder, and he could see half a cheese sandwich on the chipped blue plate in front of her.

"Oi, mãe," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he expected.

"You look exhausted!" She leaned closer, the camera wobbling as she adjusted the phone against the sugar canister. "Are you eating enough? Your face looks thinner."

Thiago chuckled, rubbing his stubbled chin. "I’m eating, don’t worry. The food here is... different."

"Different bad or different good?"

"Different... heavy," he admitted. "Lots of meat and potatoes and pasta. The chef keeps trying to get me to eat sauerkraut."

His mom made a face. "That fermented cabbage? No wonder you look tired!" Behind her, the familiar rattle of pots sounded as someone—probably Clara—rummaged through cabinets. "Did you try that chicken soup recipe I sent you?"

"Not yet," he said sheepishly.

"Thiago Silva!" She threw up her hands, the dish towel flapping. "I spent all Sunday writing out those instructions for you! Even drew little pictures!"

"I know, I know," he laughed. "I’ve just been—"

"Busy, yes, yes," she interrupted, but her eyes were soft. "You always forget to eat when you’re focused. Remember when you were twelve and stayed out practicing until midnight? Came home shaking like a leaf!"

"How could I forget? You made me two full plates of feijoada." His stomach growled at the memory.

The camera suddenly jerked as Clara’s face appeared, crowding into the frame. "Speaking of food, why did you eat that terrible pre-game meal? I saw the Instagram story! That looked like hospital food!"

Thiago groaned. "How are you even—"

"Because I follow the team nutritionist, obviously," Clara said matter-of-factly, her braces glinting as she smirked. "And tell me you didn’t actually like that weird green juice they made you drink."

"It was kale and—"

"Disgusting!" Clara fake-gagged. "Mãe, tell him he doesn’t have to drink grass to play football."

Their mom swatted at Clara with the dish towel. "Leave your brother alone! He’s a professional now, he has to—"

"Drink grass?" Clara interrupted, dissolving into giggles.

Thiago rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. The familiar rhythm of their bickering wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

His mom suddenly grew serious. "Your father would have been so proud yesterday." Her voice caught slightly on the words.

The room seemed to get quieter. Thiago swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Yeah?"

She nodded, her eyes shining. "The way you tracked back on that play in the second half? Pure heart."

Clara, sensing the shift, quietly slipped out of frame, giving them this moment.

Thiago had to look away, blinking rapidly. He focused on a loose thread on the hotel blanket. "I just... I didn’t want to let anyone down."

"Oh, filho." Her voice was so soft it nearly broke him. "You never could."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that only exists between people who know each other’s hearts. Outside his window, another snowflake hit the glass and melted instantly.

Clara’s voice suddenly shouted from off-camera: "Tell him about Tio Carlos!"

His mom rolled her eyes. "Your uncle saw the match at the bar. Apparently he stood up and told everyone ’That’s my nephew!’ and bought a round of beers."

Thiago burst out laughing. "He didn’t."

"He did! Then he tried to explain the offside rule to poor Senhora Almeida and nearly started a fight."

The conversation flowed easily after that—Clara’s disastrous school project ("The glue exploded, Thiago!"), the leaky faucet his mom still hadn’t fixed ("I’ll do it when you come home"), the neighbor’s dog digging up their vegetable garden again ("That beast knows exactly what he’s doing").

Normal things. Home things.

When the call finally ended after promises to eat better and send more photos, Thiago lay back on the bed, the phone resting on his chest. The room felt different now—warmer somehow, despite the snow still falling outside.

His gaze drifted to the chair where his training top hung, the yellow crest darkened with yesterday’s effort. Without thinking, he reached for it, pulling the fabric over his head. It was cold against his skin but carried the faintest scent of grass and sweat—proof he’d been out there, that he belonged.

Outside, the snow continued to fall—quiet, persistent, unstoppable.

Just like him.

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