Limitless Pitch
Chapter 104 – Closer to the fire

Chapter 104: Chapter 104 – Closer to the fire

The break wasn’t really a break.

There were fewer meetings. Fewer two-a-days. A few of the older players flew home to see family. Some of the others disappeared to Munich or Berlin for a night out, returning sunken-eyed and groggy but with stories loud enough to echo through the halls of the training center.

Thiago stayed in Dortmund.

Not because he had to. Klopp had made it clear—"Take a few days. Breathe. Go wander if you want." But Thiago didn’t want to wander. He didn’t even feel like breathing much. He just wanted to train.

So he did.

The gym was emptier now, which meant he could take longer between sets without anyone yelling at him to move. The physio room didn’t buzz like a beehive anymore. And when he jogged laps around the frozen outdoor pitch in the mornings, the only sound that followed him was the crunch of his own footsteps on frost.

Sometimes he ran with a ball. Sometimes without. Either way, he didn’t stop.

Because the season was coming.

And he had no intention of being left behind.

On Thursday morning, the players started returning. Not all at once. Hummels arrived first—wearing sunglasses indoors and carrying a bottle of water like it was his last lifeline. Kuba followed, fresh-faced and suspiciously chipper. Großkreutz rolled in after lunch, arms wide like a returning hero, shouting something about missed penalties and missed opportunities.

Thiago was already in the boot room, polishing his studs when the noise began building again.

By the time Klopp called for a team meeting, the squad was back in full force. Everyone slouched into the conference room, a bit looser than before, but with that familiar edge creeping back into their voices. The edge that came when it wasn’t just friendlies on the horizon.

Bundesliga matchday one was a week away.

"This is the part where boys become bored," Klopp said from the front of the room, arms crossed, his mouth twisted into a half-smile. "And men become bastards."

A few of the older players snorted.

"Because now," he continued, pacing slowly, "you think you know the drills. The tactics. The match rhythm. You think you’ve seen everything we’re going to throw at you."

He stopped.

"You haven’t."

The room quieted.

"You haven’t seen the intensity of a Saturday night away match in Frankfurt. You haven’t seen eighty thousand people screaming at you in the Westfalenstadion when you’re down 0–1 and it’s raining and the ref is blind. You haven’t seen what happens when one of you loses your head and forgets your role."

Thiago sat in the back row, spine straight, heart thudding.

"And you"—Klopp pointed at no one in particular—"you forget how fast this game punishes you."

Silence.

Then, softly: "But if you trust what we’ve built here, if you believe in it, then those moments... they’ll bend to you. Not break you."

He let that sit.

Then: "Alright. Let’s talk rotations."

The rest of the meeting was all business. Schedules. Match prep. Fitness levels. Klopp and Buvač laid out the first three Bundesliga fixtures, including the upcoming clash against Stuttgart.

Thiago wasn’t mentioned. Not by name.

But when they got to squad structure, Buvač paused.

"One of the younger players will remain close to the first team. Not just for training. For matchday involvement. This isn’t a gift. This is trust."

And Klopp, standing just behind him, looked directly at Thiago for half a second.

That was all.

But Thiago felt it like thunder in his ribs.

Training hit another level after that.

Suddenly every possession drill felt like war. The small-sided games had bite now—no more gentle nudges, no more pulling out of tackles. It didn’t matter if you were seventeen or thirty-one. If you hesitated, you got flattened.

But Thiago didn’t hesitate.

In fact, something in him clicked.

He started thinking faster. Playing simpler. One-touch passes when they were needed. Fewer stepovers, more angled pressing. Even when he got knocked over—and he still got knocked over—he bounced back up quicker. Less pride. More purpose.

At one point, during a particularly grimy 6v6 session, he won the ball back off Sebastian Kehl—Sebastian Kehl, the club captain—and managed to keep it under pressure. f.re(e) w.e(b)nov el.c.om

No one said anything.

But Kehl, walking back into position, patted him once on the back. Hard. A real pat. The kind that left a mark.

That night, Thiago sat by himself in the hotel lobby, nursing a warm tea he didn’t particularly want.

The other players were up in their rooms or watching a film together in one of the lounges. He could’ve joined them. But something made him linger here, beneath the soft lights and fake fireplace, half-listening to the German couple arguing quietly at the reception desk.

His phone buzzed.

Marina

"We got confirmation from Klopp’s staff. You’ll be included in the official first-team matchday pool for the season’s start. Bench for now, maybe minutes later. Congrats, menino. Just the beginning."

Thiago read it once. Then again.

Then he locked his phone, slid it into his pocket, and said nothing.

There was no celebration. No fist pump. Just a long exhale. The kind you only let go of when you’ve been holding it for weeks without realizing.

The next day, training ended early. Not out of mercy—just scheduling.

Thiago walked back to the locker room, boots swinging from one hand, the ground soft beneath his feet for once. No ice. No snow. Just damp grass and the scent of earth in the air.

As he neared the entrance, someone called his name.

"Thiago!"

It was Klopp, still in his tracksuit, one sock pushed down.

"Quick word."

Thiago approached, unsure.

Klopp studied him a moment, unreadable as always.

"You’re not scared anymore."

It wasn’t a question.

Thiago hesitated. "No."

"Good." Klopp nodded. "Because the league doesn’t care how scared you are. It cares how smart you are when it gets ugly."

He slapped Thiago’s shoulder.

"You’ve done well. Now go do better."

That night, Thiago joined the others in the lounge. Someone brought a guitar. Someone else passed around bags of Haribo.

Kuba taught him a Polish swear word that made everyone laugh when he butchered the pronunciation. Großkreutz, predictably, sang off-key to whatever was on the radio. Even Hummels cracked a joke about getting Thiago frost-proof boots before winter returned.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t loud.

But somewhere between the tea, the quiet grins, and the small inside jokes that didn’t feel like someone else’s anymore— fre\e(w)ebn ov.e l\. co.m

Thiago realized he wasn’t just on the edge of belonging anymore.

He was in it.

Not all the way. Not yet.

But enough to matter.

Enough to stay.

Later that night, after the others had wandered off, Thiago found himself lingering behind with Kuba. The lounge had mostly emptied—just two empty glasses on the table, an abandoned deck of cards, the soft murmur of the hotel hallway through the wall.

Kuba sat with his legs stretched out, arms crossed, staring up at the ceiling like it might answer something for him.

"You good?" Thiago asked, voice quiet.

Kuba didn’t look at him. "I hate the first match of the season."

Thiago blinked. "Why?"

"It’s like... pressure with no rhythm." He rolled his neck, cracking something. "In preseason, everything’s measured. Controlled. You mess up, fine—you run sprints. You fix it. But first matchday? There’s no fixing. People remember the mistakes. Headlines. Critics. Fans screaming. Managers shouting."

He paused. Then added, softer, "You think you’re ready. But the moment still comes like a punch."

Thiago sat back, letting that settle.

"You ever been benched after the first game?" he asked.

Kuba gave a humorless laugh. "Of course. Once for playing too cautiously. Once for trying too hard. Another time because I coughed too loud during the press conference, apparently."

He glanced at Thiago now, eyes serious. "You keep your head down, though? Do the ugly things? You’ll survive."

Thiago nodded slowly. "I don’t want to just survive."

"No one does." Kuba exhaled, picking at the frayed edge of the couch. "But sometimes it’s step one."

He stood up then, stretching. "Get some sleep. Klopp’s gonna make us run tomorrow like we committed war crimes."

As Kuba left, Thiago remained on the couch a few moments longer, staring at the yellow crest embroidered on the edge of his hoodie sleeve.

He didn’t want to be just another prospect. He didn’t want to be forgotten in a month.

He wanted to leave a mark.

The next morning, breakfast was quieter than usual. A few players spoke softly over their eggs, but the joking had thinned. The Bundesliga opener loomed like a stormcloud just out of view—still not overhead, but close enough to feel its weight in the air.

Thiago ate in silence. Granola. A boiled egg. Orange juice.

He caught Marina’s eye briefly as she passed through the cafeteria with a clipboard, her mouth twitching into a proud smile before she moved on.

Afterward, in the changing room, Klopp posted the schedule for the week.

Monday: Tactical review

Tuesday: Full field transitions

Wednesday: Closed-door team match simulation

Thursday: Set pieces + high-press activation drills

Friday: Travel

Saturday: Matchday – Stuttgart (A)

The players crowded around it like students reading final grades.

Thiago stood just behind them, not pushing to the front. He didn’t need to.

His name was there. Small, among many. But there.

He didn’t flinch.

That night, as the squad packed up gear after an evening recovery session, the vibe shifted again. More serious. Focused. The jokes were quieter, the music softer. Thiago noticed players organizing bags with extra detail—extra tape, extra laces, extra socks. Like the wrong choice of gear might tip a game.

As he zipped up his training backpack, someone tapped his shoulder.

"Got plans tonight?" Großkreutz asked, slinging his jacket over his shoulder.

Thiago blinked. "Just sleep."

"Good," Großkreutz said. "Because we’re all watching last year’s Stuttgart game in Kuba’s room. You’re coming."

He didn’t phrase it like a question.

So Thiago came.

Ten players crammed into a hotel room barely meant for two. The TV was propped on an old chair to face the beds. Someone had ordered room service fries. There were fizzy drinks, protein bars, even a jar of peanut butter with spoons stuck in it.

They didn’t analyze the match like coaches. Not really. They laughed when someone slipped. Groaned at missed chances. Shouted "foul!" at a replayed tackle that no one in the room had even been part of.

When Dortmund scored the winning goal—set piece, last minute, total chaos—Großkreutz jumped off the bed like he’d scored it himself.

"You see that shit?" he shouted, pointing at the screen. "Ugly football! The best kind!"

Thiago laughed harder than he had in weeks.

And when the screen faded to black and the room slowly emptied, he lingered behind, brushing crumbs from the corner of the mattress.

Before he left, Kuba caught his eye.

"You’re on the bench Saturday, yeah?"

Thiago nodded.

"Be ready."

"I will be."

"No," Kuba said, voice quieter now. "Be ready. Not nervous. Not overeager. Not dreaming. Just ready."

Thiago held his gaze. "I am."

Kuba nodded once.

Then: "Good. Because we’ll need you."

Back in his room, Thiago turned off the lights and crawled under the stiff hotel blanket.

He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t open the letter. Didn’t count down the days.

He simply lay there in the dark, breathing in the quiet, listening to the faint city sounds beyond the window—Dortmund alive in the night.

And fell asleep.