Limitless Pitch
Chapter 106 – First Impressions, Lasting Marks

Chapter 106: Chapter 106 – First Impressions, Lasting Marks

The sound didn’t hit all at once.

It built in layers—first the low, murmuring hum of anticipation, the kind that vibrated through concrete and settled in the bones. Then came the rhythmic stomping of feet against metal bleachers, the deep, guttural chants rising from the stands like battle cries. Finally, the deafening swell of thousands of voices merging into one earth-shaking roar, so loud it made Thiago’s teeth rattle as he peeled off his training top and handed it to the waiting staff.

The stadium pulsed with energy, the vibration traveling up through his cleats, into his calves, up his spine until it thrummed at the base of his skull like a second heartbeat.

Klopp’s massive hand landed on his shoulder, warm and heavy.

"Middle third control," the coach barked over the noise, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Simple passes. Don’t get cute unless it’s the final third." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a growl only Thiago could hear. "And remember—this is what you earned. Not what you were given."

Thiago nodded, his throat too tight for words. Fire burned behind his ribs, spreading through his limbs like liquid adrenaline.

The fourth official raised the board—17 in glowing green, 6 in harsh red.

He jogged onto the pitch, and the grass beneath his feet felt different. Thicker. Heavier. As if every step carried the weight of his past—the predawn runs in Santos, the crushing silence of Barcelona’s rejection, the lonely nights in Stuttgart’s empty training grounds. All of it converging here, now, in this single moment.

And yet, he didn’t falter.

He ran straight into the storm.

The game didn’t slow down to welcome him. It never did.

Stuttgart’s midfield was a battlefield. Their number 8—a hulking brute with arms like tree trunks and a scowl etched permanently into his face—shouldered into every challenge like a bulldozer. Their winger cut inside relentlessly, his movements sharp and predatory. And their center backs pressed so high up the pitch they might as well have set up camp on the halfway line.

But Thiago was ready.

His first touch came off a throw-in from Owomoyela—a sharp, chest-high ball that he trapped against his body with perfect control, shielding it from the defender already breathing down his neck. A quick one-two with Götze, a pivot on his back foot, and suddenly he was spinning free, the ball still glued to his boots.

Nothing flashy. No unnecessary flair.

Just clean, ruthless efficiency.

And just like that, he wasn’t the new kid anymore.

He was a player.

By the 78th minute, Dortmund had survived two heart-stopping close calls—a thunderous long-range shot that Weidenfeller barely parried over the bar, and a venomous cross that Subotić cleared with a last-ditch slide tackle, his body skidding across the damp grass and leaving dark streaks in his wake.

Still 1–1.

Still no control.

Thiago drifted into the left half-space, hovering just outside Stuttgart’s full-back’s peripheral vision. He didn’t demand the ball. Didn’t wave his arms. Just moved, silent and watchful, like a shadow waiting for its moment.

Then it came.

Götze received the ball under pressure, his back to goal, two defenders closing in. A quick flick of his heel sent the ball spinning out wide to Kuba, who took off down the flank like a shot. Stuttgart’s midfield scrambled to recover, their shape collapsing inward.

And Thiago saw it—the gap.

A sliver of space, no wider than a doorway, opening between two defenders.

He exploded forward.

Kuba’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Thiago’s run. The pass came—a clipped, curling ball that bounced awkwardly, just a fraction too close to Stuttgart’s retreating center-back.

But Thiago adjusted mid-stride.

First touch—the outside of his boot cushioning the ball, killing its momentum dead.

Second touch—a sharp cut inside, his body angled to shield it from the lunging tackle.

He could’ve shot. The angle was tight, but not impossible. The crowd roared for it, their voices rising in anticipation.

But in his peripheral vision, Barrios was already peeling away from his marker, his movement a blur of yellow streaking toward the six-yard box.

So Thiago disguised it.

Left foot. Inside of the boot. A reverse pass so delicate it seemed to float, slipping through the narrowest of gaps between two defenders before curling perfectly into Barrios’s path like it had been drawn there by invisible strings.

One touch.

Bang.

The net billowed.

2–1 Dortmund.

The stadium erupted into chaos. _{f|re(e)web.n\ovel. (c)o.m}

Barrios wheeled away, arms outstretched like wings, his scream lost in the deafening roar. Götze launched himself at the striker, tackling him mid-celebration. The bench emptied, coaches and substitutes spilling onto the touchline in a wave of yellow and black.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Thiago stood perfectly still for one heartbeat.

Not stunned.

Not overwhelmed.

Just... feeling it.

The weight of the moment. The sheer, electric thrill of creation.

He didn’t point to the crowd. Didn’t kiss the badge or drop to his knees. He simply turned and jogged back toward midfield, his face a mask of calm even as his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.

He’d made his mark.

The final whistle blew with little fanfare.

A few late scares—a Stuttgart corner that curled dangerously close to the far post, a stoppage-time foul that nearly sparked a brawl—but Dortmund held firm.

Dortmund 2 – Stuttgart 1.

Three points.

First step.

Thiago didn’t expect praise. Growing up, even his best performances had been met with critiques about positioning or decision-making. Compliments were rare. Perfection was demanded.

But as he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt in the locker room, something unexpected happened.

Barrios stalked over, still dripping, and smacked the back of his head hard enough to make his ears ring. "Nice ball, menino."

Großkreutz tossed him a towel with a shit-eating grin. "That assist buys you immunity for one bad game. Don’t waste it."

Even Hummels, icing his knee in the corner, gave him a short, approving nod. "Smart decision-making. You didn’t force it."

But the moment that lodged itself in Thiago’s chest came when Klopp crouched beside his seat, his voice barely audible over the post-match chatter.

"You didn’t wait for permission," the coach said.

Thiago blinked. "What?"

"You didn’t wait for the perfect angle. Didn’t wait to be told where to go." Klopp’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "You saw the gap, and you went. That’s what I want."

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd before Thiago could reply.

The flight home felt different.

Lighter.

Some players dozed off, their heads lolling against the seats. Others scrolled through match clips on their phones, analyzing every touch. Barrios attempted to nap with sunglasses on, failing spectacularly when Kuba kept flicking his ear.

Thiago sat by the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass, the city lights below blurring into streaks of gold.

His phone buzzed.

Marina: Saw the pass. Replay’s already going around the offices. Told you it would come.

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

Later, in the quiet of his hotel room, exhaustion finally caught up to him.

He stripped down to his compression shorts, his body a map of fresh bruises and grass stains that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase. The knock on his shin throbbed dully. His hip ached from an awkward landing. Every muscle screamed in protest as he collapsed onto the bed.

But beneath the fatigue, something hummed—a quiet, fierce satisfaction.

He lay there, the distant hum of the city seeping through the windows, and whispered into the dark:

"Now they know my name."

Then he smiled—small, fleeting—before closing his eyes.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

Objective Complete: Adapt or Fade – Assist Recorded

+1 Vision

+2 Mentality

+150 EXP

Current EXP: 95 / 800

Skill Points Available: 11

SYSTEM STATUS

Level: 16

EXP: 95 / 800

Skill Points Available: 11

Attributes:

Pace – 72

Dribbling – 73

Shooting – 68

Passing – 72

Physicality – 67

Mentality – 67

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control – 75

Trick Execution – 67

Stamina – 68

Vision – 72

Perks: Anchored Presence