Limitless Pitch
Chapter 108 – Beneath the Floodlights

Chapter 108: Chapter 108 – Beneath the Floodlights

Signal Iduna Park wasn’t just loud—it thrummed.

The noise hit Thiago in waves as he stepped onto the sideline with the other substitutes. Eighty thousand voices chanting in unison, their roars crashing against the stadium walls like a living thing. The famous Yellow Wall loomed behind one goal, a towering sea of scarves and flags that seemed to ripple and pulse with every drumbeat. The air smelled like fried food, beer, and the sharp tang of winter grass.

Thiago tilted his head back as the anthem blared through the speakers. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat. His breath came out in quick, visible puffs in the cold night air. But unlike his first time here, his hands didn’t shake. His focus didn’t waver.

He was calm.

"Still not used to this," Owomoyela muttered beside him, rolling his shoulders. The veteran defender had played here countless times, but even he couldn’t hide the way his eyes flicked nervously toward the stands. "Feels like walking into a damn cathedral every time."

Thiago didn’t answer. His gaze stayed locked on the pitch.

Hertha Berlin had come out swinging, just like Klopp warned. Their midfield pressed like rabid dogs, snapping at every loose touch. Their wingers sprinted forward at the first hint of space, and their defenders barked orders like drill sergeants.

The opening fifteen minutes were chaos.

Großkreutz flew into two crunching tackles, his blond hair whipping wildly as he chased down attackers. Kuba got shoved into the advertising boards hard enough to leave a dent, and Kehl—jaw clenched—made sure the next Hertha player who tried to dribble through midfield ended up eating turf.

But the game didn’t crack open.

Dortmund held firm. They absorbed the pressure, shifted shape, and slowly turned the screw.

Thiago watched it all unfold like a puzzle being solved in real time. The way Nuri Şahin drifted inward to form passing triangles. How Hummels would glance over his shoulder just once before stepping forward to intercept a pass before it was even played. The silent communication between players who’d been doing this together for years.

He didn’t realize how hard his foot was bouncing against the ground until Owomoyela nudged him.

"Nervous?"

"No," Thiago said. His voice came out steadier than he expected. "Just... ready."

Owomoyela smirked. "Said like a guy who knows he’s getting minutes again."

Thiago didn’t answer. He just kept watching.

By halftime, Dortmund led 1–0.

A set piece—simple but brutal. Kuba’s corner curled in, Subotić flicked it on with the back of his head, and Barrios smashed it home with his knee from point-blank range.

In the tunnel, Klopp’s voice cut through the noise like a knife.

"Better control in transitions!" he barked as players filed past. "We’re winning, but barely. Think. Don’t chase shadows. If they raise the tempo, you drop mistakes."

He locked eyes with each player as they passed—no yelling now, just intensity.

Inside the locker room, the air was thick with sweat and adrenaline. Water bottles hissed open. Towels snapped as they were tossed aside. Trainers rushed to re-tape ankles and knees. Everyone moved with quiet purpose.

Thiago sat in his usual spot. No one spoke to him. No one needed to.

He was warming up by the 58th minute.

Short, sharp sprints along the touchline. Quick one-twos with Owomoyela and Götze, who got subbed off shortly after. Klopp’s assistant waved him over.

"Thiago," Klopp said, his voice low but carrying. "You’re on. Left-sided central mid. Play simple. Keep the ball moving. No frills unless you see the gap. Press their six when he turns."

Thiago nodded. "Got it."

Klopp grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him close enough that Thiago could smell the coffee on his breath.

"You earned this," the coach said, eyes burning. "Don’t wait for the moment. Create it."

Then, with a shove that was almost gentle: "Go."

The first time he touched the ball, he didn’t do anything special. A quick one-two with Kehl. A sideways pass to Subotić. Simple. Effective. Correct content is on NovelFire)

The next touch came on a loose second ball—he turned into space, kept the ball glued to his instep, baited the Hertha midfielder into a lunge, and drew a foul thirty yards out.

The crowd responded with a ripple of applause. Small, but sharp. They were watching him now.

And then—the 74th minute.

A Hertha attack broke down. Hummels intercepted a hopeful long ball and immediately rolled it to Kehl. One touch, forward to Thiago.

Thiago took the pass on the half-turn, feeling the defender breathing down his neck. He let the ball roll just slightly across his body, tempting the press.

In that split-second, the line behind him shifted.

Barrios peeled off his marker. The near-side fullback hesitated.

Thiago saw it.

He didn’t think.

Left foot, inside of the boot. A curling pass into space—not flashy, not eye-catching. Just perfect.

Barrios took it in stride and buried it first-time, low and hard into the far corner.

2–0. Game over.

The stadium erupted.

Barrios pointed straight at Thiago as he celebrated, then mimed shoveling food into his mouth. The rest of the team mobbed the striker, but a few—Kuba, Großkreutz—made sure to clap Thiago on the way back.

"That’s how you feed a striker, menino," Kuba said, grinning as he jogged past.

On the sideline, Klopp gave a single, tight nod. No smile. Just approval.

The final whistle blew with Dortmund in complete control.

Thiago finished with 25 minutes played, 1 assist, 93% pass accuracy, and lungs that felt like they’d been scrubbed raw.

In the dressing room afterward, the mood was light but focused. Klopp said little. The staff hovered quietly. The players congratulated each other with back slaps and short laughs—not quite a celebration, but satisfaction.

As Thiago unlaced his boots, Barrios passed behind him.

"Two assists in two games," the striker muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "If you keep this up, I’m buying you lunch and dinner."

Thiago chuckled. "Make it churrasco and we’ll talk."

That night, the hotel was quiet.

Most of the younger players stayed in. Some veterans slipped out for dinner. Thiago found himself in the lounge with Großkreutz and Götze, half-watching a muted Premier League match.

After a long silence, Großkreutz spoke.

"You’re making it harder for Klopp to bench you, you know."

Thiago blinked. "I’m not trying to prove anything."

"That’s the problem," Großkreutz said, standing to grab another drink. "You’re just playing. That’s more dangerous."

He walked off, leaving Thiago with those words echoing in his skull.

He wasn’t chasing anything.

Wasn’t forcing anything.

He was just... doing it.

But as he sat there in the dim lounge light, surrounded by muffled laughter and the flickering glow of the TV, a quiet question burned behind his ribs:

How long could this last?

And what would happen when it didn’t?