Limitless Pitch
Chapter 105 – Matchday Minus One

Chapter 105: Chapter 105 – Matchday Minus One

The locker room smelled sharper the day before a match.

Not bad—just concentrated. Muscle rub, boot leather, detergent. A cocktail of sweat and tension. Thiago moved through it like someone walking a familiar hallway, quiet and present, not trying to draw attention. He didn’t need to.

He was here. He belonged now.

Sort of.

Klopp had split the team into two groups after breakfast. One group stayed in for tactical drills—shuttled into the video room to walk through Stuttgart’s set-piece patterns and midfield structure. The other trained light out on the pitch. Thiago ended up in both.

"Your brain doesn’t get tired," Klopp had said, pointing at him. "So we’ll test how long before your legs argue."

The pitch session was brief. Passing patterns. Shooting drills. Timed rondos. Everything tight and efficient, meant more to stimulate than to strain.

Thiago pinged the ball around with Kuba and Götze. His touches felt clean. His mind felt calm.

Still, there was no denying it anymore.

Tomorrow was the real thing.

They flew out mid-afternoon.

Private flight. Tight seating. The kind where you could feel the tension coiling tighter with every minute closer to arrival.

Thiago sat between Großkreutz and one of the analysts, neither of whom spoke much. Everyone seemed to instinctively lower their voices on match-eve flights. Even the jokes were murmured.

When they landed in Stuttgart, the sky was overcast and low, the air heavier somehow. Not cold like Dortmund, just... dull and boring.

Buses were waiting. Staff whisked them off to the hotel in a blink. Thiago couldn’t tell you how long the drive was. He barely looked out the window. His thoughts were a current, dragging him down under their surface. What if he made a mistake tomorrow? What if he didn’t even come on?

They checked in floor by floor. Coaches up top. Players below. Two per room.

His roommate was Götze this time.

"Don’t worry," Götze said as they dumped their bags inside. "I sleep with headphones. No snoring."

Thiago gave a small smile. "I wasn’t worried."

Götze glanced at him. "You should be."

The team meeting that night was all structure.

Klopp stood at the front with Buvač and Krawietz, a laser pointer in one hand, tea in the other. He didn’t pace. Didn’t shout. Just walked them through Stuttgart’s patterns. Their wide overloads. Their high defensive line. Their tendency to foul early and reset the press.

"Tomorrow’s game won’t be sexy," Klopp said bluntly. "They’ll make it ugly. That’s good. Let them. We respond with tempo and precision. No frills."

Thiago’s name wasn’t in the starting XI on the whiteboard. That was no surprise.

But it was on the substitutes’ list. Alongside Kuba, Owomoyela, and Barrios.

One more moment, still surreal.

He took it in quietly, as the projector screen flicked to black.

Later, in their shared room, Götze offered him a spare protein bar and turned on a Bundesliga match replay to fall asleep to. Thiago watched for a few minutes, then pulled the blanket over his chest and turned away.

Still, the match noises lingered. The crowd roars, the sharp commentary. He stared at the edge of the curtain, where the streetlights outside leaked through in muted gold.

His bag sat by the wall.

He could see the envelope tucked just behind the zipper.

Still unopened.

His chest felt tight—but not in a bad way. Just... stretched. The kind of tight you feel when something’s growing, maybe too fast.

He turned away from the bag and closed his eyes.

Matchday Morning

Thiago woke before the alarm.

He didn’t even feel tired.

The nerves weren’t there, not in the way he’d imagined. His stomach wasn’t a pit. His hands weren’t shaking.

It was more like clarity.

He moved through breakfast like a soldier in formation. Small talk with teammates. Eggs and toast. Hydration. Kit check. Warm-up jog. Tactical review. All of it layered into muscle memory now.

When they boarded the bus for the stadium, no one said much.

Everyone had their headphones on, or their eyes closed, or their hands folded in their laps. Klopp sat in the front row, as always, writing something into a notebook that never left his side.

Thiago sat beside Kuba.

"You’ll get minutes today," Kuba said out of nowhere.

Thiago blinked. "How do you know?"

"I don’t." The Polish winger shrugged. "But I can feel it. You’re too calm."

"I don’t feel calm."

"You don’t look scared, either. That’s worse."

Thiago gave a small smile. "Thanks?"

Kuba just grunted and looked out the window again.

Mercedes-Benz Arena rose like a steel coliseum, its architecture clean and modern, but no less intimidating for it.

The dressing room was sterile and bright. Black-and-yellow jerseys laid out in neat rows. Player numbers printed cleanly on the back.

Thiago’s kit was number 17.

He touched the back of the jersey before slipping it on.

Not with awe. Just respect.

The warmup flew by. Jog. Stretch. Passing triangle. Short sprint. Finishing runs. Water break. More dynamic drills. Then off the pitch. Back to the tunnel. Strip the top layer. Last instructions.

Then the roar hit.

It was like stepping into a world made entirely of noise.

Thiago stood at the mouth of the tunnel, eyes wide as the fans thundered above. Flags waving. Songs shouted. Drums beating with tribal rhythm. The Bundesliga was no longer something he was chasing—it was here, all around him.

He didn’t start. Of course he didn’t.

But he sat on the bench—jacket zipped, boots on, body ready.

Every so often, Klopp or Buvač would glance his way. Just for a second. Assessing. Measuring.

The match was ugly. Just as predicted.

Stuttgart pressed high. Tackles flew. Dortmund’s midfield struggled to connect in the first 20 minutes. Kuba came on early, adding much-needed bite. Großkreutz drew a yellow. Hummels played like a wall.

In the 72nd minute, with the score 1–1 and the match hanging in the balance, Klopp turned.

"You ready?"

Thiago didn’t answer.

He just stood.