Limitless Pitch
Chapter 109 – Laps and Foundations

Chapter 109: Chapter 109 – Laps and Foundations

The days after a debut were dangerous. Not because of injury or fatigue—those were expected, manageable. No, the real danger came from the whispers.

You did it.

You’ve made it.

You’re a first-team player now.

Thiago ignored them all. He didn’t listen to the murmurs in the locker room, the approving nods from staff, the way even the veterans glanced at him a second longer than before. While others lounged in the boot room, stretching lazily and trading jokes before warm-ups, he was already five laps deep into his morning routine, his breath coming in steady clouds as his cleats crunched against the frost-covered grass.

The cold no longer bit at his fingertips—it had become an old friend, a constant companion that reminded him comfort meant nothing here. Not when you were chasing something real.

The training ground was slick with morning dew, the sky a pale, washed-out gray that promised neither rain nor sun. Klopp’s staff had set up brutal high-intensity drills—small-sided matches with tight boundaries, press-resistance tests where three defenders hunted one midfielder, overloaded possession grids that forced split-second decisions under suffocating pressure.

Thiago relished every second of it.

In one exercise, he found himself pinned against the sideline, Götze and Sven Bender closing in like wolves. Instead of panicking, instead of trying some flashy move that might’ve worked in youth matches, he bounced a crisp one-touch pass off Kehl’s waiting foot, then spun into the sudden pocket of space left behind. The return ball came instantly. Without even looking up, Thiago squared it first-time into the path of Großkreutz, who buried the shot into the mini-goal with a satisfied grunt.

A few scattered claps came from the sideline.

Not applause. Not celebration.

Just acknowledgment.

Kehl gave him a nod as they reset. "Good tempo. No wasted touches."

Even Buvač, who usually watched drills with the expression of a man grading root canals, made a small notation in his ever-present notebook.

By noon, Thiago’s calves screamed with every step. His shoulders ached from the constant physical battles. His lungs burned from the relentless sprints. But he didn’t ease up. During the final scrimmage, Subotić caught him with a brutal shoulder check that sent him sprawling into the damp grass. He was back on his feet before the whistle could blow, chasing down the loose ball with grass stains already blooming on his knees. He shielded it just long enough to pick out a cutting pass into midfield, his vision never wavering despite the throbbing in his ribs.

Klopp, observing from the sideline with his arms crossed, didn’t yell. Didn’t cheer.

He just pointed once.

Then gave a single, firm nod.

The locker room afterward was quieter than usual. A few players lingered in the ice baths, their groans echoing off the tiled walls. Others disappeared into physio sessions or shuffled toward the showers, speaking in hushed tones about the weekend’s match against Hoffenheim.

Thiago sat on the bench, methodically untying his mud-caked boots. His training top clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. His undershorts stuck to his legs. But he didn’t move like a man exhausted.

He moved with purpose.

Still in his damp gear, he stepped outside into the late winter air, the cold biting at his flushed skin. His breath fogged in front of him as he dialed home.

It rang twice before his mother answered.

"Menino," she said, her voice warm but laced with that familiar maternal suspicion, "you’re not calling during practice, are you?"

Thiago smiled faintly, leaning against the brick wall outside the physio wing. "It’s done for the day. Just sitting outside now."

"You sound tired."

"I’m not." He hesitated, then corrected himself: "Just thinking."

A pause. "About what?"

He exhaled, tapping a loose pebble with the toe of his cleat. "About the house."

"What about it?"

"You know what," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "The leaks in the roof when it rains. The wiring that flickers if you use the microwave and the kettle at the same time. The wall in Clara’s room where the paint’s chipping so bad she started drawing smiley faces in the cracks like it was normal."

His mother chuckled softly. "That girl would draw on the moon if you let her."

"Exactly," he said. "And she shouldn’t have to."

The line went quiet for a moment, filled only with the distant sounds of training continuing on the far pitch.

"I know money’s not everything," Thiago continued, quieter now. "But we have it now. More than enough. The Puma sponsorship. The Dortmund contract. The debut bonus." He swallowed. "I talked to the club’s financial officer. It’s solid, mãe. We’re okay."

Her breath caught, just faintly. "I don’t want you worrying about—"

"I’m not worried," he interrupted gently. "I’m ready."

Another pause, longer this time.

He pressed forward.

"You’ve held us together for years. Always said ’next year’ or ’after we fix this’ or ’when things calm down.’" His grip tightened on the phone. "But things won’t calm down. I’m in Germany. The season’s just starting. There’s no quiet coming."

She didn’t speak.

"So let’s do it," he said, his voice firmer now. "Fix the roof. The lights. The plumbing. Or..." He took a breath. "Or buy something new. Near Clara’s school. With a kitchen that doesn’t short-circuit when you turn on the microwave."

A long, quiet exhale came through the phone.

Then: "I didn’t want to touch the money until you were sure."

"I am."

"Are you sure this isn’t you trying to fix things too fast?"

Thiago looked out across the training grounds—the perfectly trimmed grass, the crisp white lines, the nets standing taut and ready. A place where progress wasn’t just hoped for; it was built, earned, measured.

"I’m not fixing anything," he said finally. "Just... building now. For you. For her. For us."

A soft sniffle came through the line.

"I already found a few listings," she admitted after a moment, her voice thick. "Some places on the west side. Near the market. I didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want you thinking I was being reckless."

"You’re not," Thiago said immediately. "You never have been."

Another silence, comfortable this time.

Then: "Okay," she conceded. "We’ll go see them this week. Clara can pick the curtains if that helps you sleep at night."

He laughed under his breath. "Only if she picks anything except pink."

"No promises."

They stayed on the line a while longer, talking about nothing and everything—Clara’s latest drawings, the neighbor’s dog that still barked at their mailbox, an old teacher who’d asked for a signed photo now that Thiago was appearing on television.

Eventually, his mother asked, "How’s your leg?"

"Which one?"

"The one you jammed when you were twelve and cried for three days straight."

He smiled. "Strong now."

"You too?"

Thiago looked down at his hands—the blisters from hours of gripping wet leather, the dirt still embedded in the creases of his knuckles.

"I think so," he said.

Later that night, Thiago sat alone in the team lounge. A cup of mint tea steamed in front of him, its sharp scent cutting through the lingering ache in his muscles. His tablet played match footage—frame-by-frame breakdowns of his passing options from the Stuttgart game, each touch analyzed not with pride, but with a quiet hunger to understand.

His shoulders still ached. His quads felt like lead weights.

But his mind was clear.

And that?

That was enough.

At least for now.