Limitless Pitch
Chapter 107 – Echoes After the Whistle

Chapter 107: Chapter 107 – Echoes After the Whistle

The locker room after a win always felt like a mix between a pressure valve being released and a volcano trying not to erupt.

Thiago sat with his back against the cool tile, shirt clinging to his skin, breathing still shallow. Around him, boots thudded against the floor, tape was torn off with exaggerated groans, and laughter bounced from wall to wall.

They’d done it.

Three points.

Stuttgart 1 – Dortmund 2.

But more than that—he had contributed. Not as a body to fill space, not as a courtesy sub. No, Thiago had come on and made a difference. The assist to Barrios wasn’t luck. It wasn’t a stray deflection or a hopeful lob. It was calculated, clean, and composed.

And that changed everything.

Kuba ruffled his hair with a proud grin as he passed by, half-wrapped in a towel. "First of many, menino."

Großkreutz pointed at Thiago from across the room. "Oi, babyface! You just fed our striker his dinner. Barrios owes you a steak."

Barrios, still shirtless and toweling his hair, just grinned. "Medium rare. Gracias, niño."

The jokes were light, warm. Not the polite encouragement they’d used when he first arrived. This was different. Teasing with respect behind it.

Thiago smiled, but inside, he stayed still. Anchored. Because somewhere deeper than the satisfaction... was hunger. It wasn’t enough. Not yet.

"Post-match cooldown," one of the physios barked.

Players groaned, some pretending to limp dramatically. Thiago rose with the rest, joining the slow shuffle toward the adjoining recovery area. Light jogging. Resistance bands. Hydration. Static stretching. Even the debrief session after was crisp—short comments from Klopp and the analysts, praise for the team press, reminders about spacing on second balls.

No fireworks. Just business. The message was clear: enjoy it, but don’t forget it.

It wasn’t until the team bus rolled out from the stadium, wheels whispering across slick asphalt, that Thiago finally settled into the quiet.

Outside, the city lights of Stuttgart flickered past. Inside, most of the players had dozed off or plugged into their music. Thiago sat by the window, forehead resting against the glass, watching the reflection of his own face flicker with each passing lamppost.

His phone buzzed.

Marina:

Assist on debut. Not a bad start, menino.

You okay?

Thiago stared at the message. A beat passed. Then another.

He typed:

Thiago:

Yeah.

I’m good.

He hesitated. Then deleted it.

He tried again.

Thiago:

Thanks.

Still feels like I’m dreaming a little.

Send.

Another buzz followed seconds later.

Marina:

It’s not a dream. It’s what you’ve worked for.

But this is the bottom of the mountain, not the top.

Thiago exhaled through his nose, pocketing the phone. She was right.

The mountain was taller than ever now.

The Next Morning – Dortmund Training Facility

Thiago didn’t get to sleep in. Klopp didn’t allow it, not after wins, not after losses. The bus had reached the hotel late, but that didn’t mean rest. Victory never gave you the right to coast.

Light regen session. Ice baths. Brief one-on-ones with the coaching staff.

Klopp pulled him aside afterward. No theatrics. No long-winded speech.

"That assist," Klopp said, hand on Thiago’s shoulder, "showed me two things."

Thiago blinked. "Sir?"

"One—your brain’s faster than I thought." Klopp smiled faintly. "Two—you’re not scared of the moment. That’s rare. Don’t lose it."

Then, more sternly: "But don’t chase it either. You forced nothing yesterday. That’s what made it good. You saw what was there and used it."

"I just reacted."

"No," Klopp said. "You read. That’s different."

Thiago nodded, words caught behind his teeth.

"Oh," Klopp added, turning back to his notes. "And bring gloves next time. Looked like your fingers were freezing."

Thiago gave a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn’t think I’d get on."

Klopp snorted. "Always assume you will. This isn’t youth football. No one’s bringing you along for fun."

He walked off without another word, already calling over one of the assistants. Typical Klopp—compliment, warning, lesson—all in under a minute.

Thiago stood there for a moment longer, the warmth of Klopp’s words lingering behind his ribs.

The rest of the morning moved fast. Recovery lifts. Foam rolling. A short tactical breakdown from Peter Krawietz. Thiago listened as the analysts walked the team through Stuttgart’s pressing triggers—what worked, what didn’t.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He watched, absorbed, memorized.

When the session ended, he caught Mats Hummels outside the physio room, slumped against the wall, sipping from a bottle of electrolytes.

"Nice pass," Hummels said casually, not looking up. _{fr\(e)ew(e)b.(n)o (v)(e)l.com}

"Thanks," Thiago replied.

There was a pause. Then Hummels added, "You play simple when it matters. That’s good. Means you understand tempo."

Thiago nodded slowly. "Still learning."

"Everyone is. Even the ones who pretend they aren’t."

Another sip. Hummels stood and stretched, letting out a quiet groan. "Don’t let one good game fool you. It gets harder now."

"I know."

"Good. Then prove it."

And just like that, he walked off toward the showers, no further congratulations, no drawn-out wisdom. Just the reality of professional football—earn respect, then re-earn it every week.

The rest of the week flew by.

With matchday behind them, the tempo shifted again. The next fixture was at home, against Hertha Berlin—less pressure than an away opener, but still nothing guaranteed.

For the first time, Thiago trained as a true member of the first-team rotation. He wasn’t floating on the edge anymore. His bib color matched the core group during tactical sessions. His movements were tracked. His touches critiqued.

And the drills got heavier.

Klopp didn’t ease up on him now that he’d shown something. If anything, he turned the screws tighter.

During a transition game midweek—7v7, reduced pitch, two touches max—Thiago overhit a diagonal switch under pressure. Klopp’s whistle rang out sharp.

"Stop!"

Everyone froze.

Klopp jogged onto the pitch, beanie pulled low, coat half-zipped, finger pointing directly at Thiago.

"Why are you playing to escape instead of to progress?"

Thiago’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"You saw two options," Klopp continued. "One: recycle to the pivot. Two: hit the diagonal. You chose two. Fine. But your body shape—here, look—" he turned Thiago bodily toward where Kuba had been standing. "You didn’t sell the pass. You just hit it. That’s lazy execution."

The rest of the squad stayed silent.

"Better idea next time," Klopp added, voice lower now. "Or at least a better disguise."

Then he clapped once, sharp. "Go again!"

The ball was back in play within seconds. And Thiago didn’t complain. Didn’t sulk.

He learned.

The next time he got the ball in transition, he opened up his body just the same—but played the pivot pass instead. Simple. Clean. Effective.

"Ja!" Klopp barked. "That’s more like it."

On Thursday, the squad held an internal scrimmage at the Westfalenstadion—a simulated home match atmosphere, with full pitch and stadium acoustics pumped through the speakers. No fans, of course. But the echo of boots on the hollow concrete, the whirr of the floodlights overhead—it made the hairs on Thiago’s arms rise.

He played for the ’second unit’ against the starters, opposite Hummels, Kuba, and Großkreutz.

It was a tough hour.

He got tackled hard by Kehl twice. Took a stinger on his thigh from a misfired clearance. Lost his man on a corner once, got corrected sharply by Buvač.

But—he didn’t disappear.

He completed most of his passes, drew a foul in a dangerous area, and once nearly curled one into the top corner if not for a fingertip save.

After the session, he limped into the changing room with his sock half-torn, a dull bruise forming on his right quad.

"Not bad," Großkreutz muttered, passing by, clapping him on the back. "Next time you put that shot in, you’re buying us pizza."

Thiago smirked through the pain. "Make it two goals and I’ll get dessert too."

Friday came with another squad announcement—matchday call-ups and travel schedule for the Hertha game.

His name was there again.

Second on the substitutes list.

It wasn’t a surprise anymore.

But it still meant something.

At lunch, he sat between Kuba and Owomoyela, both flipping through the match notes provided by the analysts.

Kuba leaned over and jabbed a finger toward a page. "Their right back likes to cheat high. If you come on, that’s the channel. Exploit it."

Thiago nodded.

Owomoyela added, "Hertha’s midfielders are aggressive early but get lazy tracking. You cut in late, they won’t follow."

More nodding.

He didn’t speak much. Just listened. Absorbed.

And stored it all away.

That night, Klopp gathered the full squad in the video room for final instructions.

"Hertha will come for blood in the first 20," he said, pacing slowly in front of the screen. "They lost their opener. They’ll be desperate. That makes them dangerous."

He stopped, hand on hip.

"But it also makes them fragile."

He clicked a slide forward. It showed a still frame of Hertha’s last match—five players caught ahead of the ball, only two defenders behind.

"We punish this. Smart pressure. Quick vertical play. No overcomplication."

Another click. Another frame.

"Midfield will be the battle zone. Win there, and we win the game."

He pointed toward the substitutes list.

"Every single one of you might be called on. That includes you," he said, eyes flicking briefly toward Thiago.

Again—not a speech. Not a motivational outburst.

Just belief.

Simple. Quiet. Real.

Later that evening, Thiago sat on the hotel balcony, legs sore, eyes on the street below. He could see flickers of yellow and black through the trees—fans already arriving early, jerseys worn proudly.

He didn’t feel nervous.

Just ready.

This time, there was no question about that.