CHAPTER 119: CHAPTER 119 A STEP ONTO THE STAGE

Thiago was still watching Gökhan Inler when Klopp turned back toward the bench.

"Warm up."

The words hit like a quiet explosion in Thiago’s chest. He didn’t move at first—just blinked and glanced up to make sure he’d heard right over the roar of the crowd. The stadium lights burned bright overhead, casting long shadows across the pitch that swayed with the movement of players below.

"Now," Klopp added, already facing the pitch again, his sharp eyes tracking Nuri Şahin, whose strides were beginning to lose their snap.

Thiago shot to his feet so fast his knees cracked.

A couple other subs glanced over—Owomoyela with his ever-present ice pack, Zidan stretching his hamstrings—but no one else was moving. It was him. His number.

The Europa League. Signal Iduna Park at night. Under lights so bright they turned the grass electric green.

He jogged down the sideline, the synthetic turf crunching under his cleats, stretching out his shoulders first, then his hamstrings. He tried to keep his breathing steady—not because he was nervous (the butterflies had died months ago), but because there was a fire in his legs now, coiled tight, and he didn’t want it burning out too fast.

On the field, Udinese had just won another corner. The Italian side’s set-piece routine was methodical, their players moving like chess pieces. Klopp shouted something to Buvač that got lost in the sudden swell of noise from the Yellow Wall, then turned back toward the fourth official with that familiar restless energy.

Thiago looked up at the massive screen suspended beneath the stadium roof. Sixty-six minutes played. Still 0-0.

The match had settled into a tense stalemate. Lucas Barrios had gotten one half-chance—a flicked header that skimmed wide—while Mario Götze, on for the injured Tamás Hajnal ten minutes earlier, was darting between lines trying to spark something. But the rhythm was still off, the final ball lacking its usual precision.

Thiago could feel it in the weight of each pass, the extra touches players were taking. Dortmund were tense, a little too cautious against Udinese’s compact shape. Something had to change.

And apparently, he was going to be that something.

The fourth official lifted the electronic board.

Number 17 lit up in bright red.

A second later, Barrios’ number appeared in green. Klopp clapped once, the sound sharp even over the crowd noise, and gestured Thiago over.

"Go in for Barrios. Left wing. Kuba shifts central, Mario stays right." Klopp’s breath fogged in the cold night air as he leaned in. "We need movement. Stretch their lines."

Thiago nodded quickly, fingers fumbling slightly as he pulled off his tracksuit top. The night air bit at his exposed arms as he jogged toward the halfway line, boots kicking up little puffs of chalk from the sideline markings.

He paused there as the ball rolled out of play, bouncing awkwardly near the corner flag. Kuba trotted over, his blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and gave him a quick clap on the shoulder hard enough to sting.

"Go on," Kuba said between gulps of air. "They’re tight. But not invincible."

Then he was gone, shouting something in Polish as he moved back into position.

Thiago stepped forward.

His cleats crossed the touchline.

The stadium didn’t erupt for him, he wasn’t a star yet but a noticeable ripple of noise followed him onto the pitch, starting from the supporters near the bench and spreading outward. Whistles of approval. A few chants of his name. The sound wrapped around him like a second skin.

It was his European debut.

His first touch came within seconds, a firm inside pass from Marcel Schmelzer as Dortmund reset their shape after a clearance. Thiago didn’t force it. He cushioned the ball with his right foot, laid it off neatly to Şahin, then turned and exploded down the line, dragging Udinese’s right-back with him like a shadow.

He didn’t need to show off. He just needed to move, to be sharp. To create space where there was none.

Udinese tried to trap him with a double press ten minutes in, their defensive midfielder dropping deep to help the fullback, but Thiago kept calm, using his body to shield before flicking a cheeky pass through the legs of one defender and laying it off to Sven Bender, who switched play with a sweeping diagonal.

Klopp clapped once from his technical area. No celebration, no shouting, just that single, sharp clap that meant more than any praise.

Thiago saw it. Felt it.

Then came his moment.

Eighty-second minute. The ball came to Götze near the edge of the box after a sustained period of pressure. Udinese’s defense was compact, a wall of blue shirts packed into the penalty area. Nothing was open through the middle.

So Mario turned, spotted Thiago hugging the touchline, and whipped a curling pass out wide.

Thiago controlled it with his first touch, the ball sticking to his boot like glue. The fullback closed fast, smelling blood.

He dipped his shoulder left, selling the feint, then cut sharply right, his studs biting into the turf as he exploded past his marker. The crowd rose as one, a wave of sound building behind him as he drove toward the box.

One look up.

Then he slid a perfect square pass across the eighteen-yard line, just beyond the reach of a desperate lunge.

Bender arrived like a train.

One-time shot—blocked. But the rebound fell to Kuba at the edge of the area.

Kuba struck it first-time. It wasn’t clean, but it was low and hard, skimming through a forest of legs before slamming just wide of the far post.

The collective groan from 65,000 throats shook the stadium. Hands went to heads all around him.

But Klopp clapped again.

"Good!" he shouted, voice cutting through the noise.

Thiago jogged back into position, his heart hammering against his ribs. His lungs burned now, but his legs still felt fresh, alive with energy.

He knew it now, with absolute certainty.

He belonged here.

The match dragged toward the final whistle. Dortmund pushed harder, using the width Thiago provided, shifting the ball quickly from flank to flank. Udinese sat deeper, their defensive discipline holding firm as they waited for counters.

In the dying seconds of stoppage time, Şahin won a free kick thirty-five yards out. Götze stepped up, floated a beautiful delivery into the mixer.

Mats Hummels rose above everyone, his blonde hair flashing in the lights as he snapped his head forward—

Just over the bar.

The referee’s whistle pierced the night.

0-0.

Not a win. But not a loss either.

And for Thiago, it wasn’t about the result. Not tonight.

As the players shook hands and trudged toward the tunnel, Klopp fell into step beside him and gave him a light tap between the shoulder blades.

"Not bad," the manager said, his breath fogging in the cold air. "More to come."

Thiago just smiled, his eyes scanning the crowd still singing in the stands, their voices rising into the night sky.

More to come.

Yeah