CHAPTER 120: CHAPTER 120 PAPERWORK AND PROMISES

Thiago woke up to a dull ache in his thighs and lower back, the kind of soreness that lingered after high-stakes matches. He lay there for a moment in the dim hotel light filtering through the curtains, letting the stiffness settle into something familiar. It wasn’t pain, it was proof. Proof he’d played in Europe. Proof he’d belonged on that pitch, if only for twenty-four minutes.

He turned his head, glancing at the desk in the corner of the room. His training bag was still there, half-zipped. His boots, stained faintly from the Signal Iduna turf, sat next to it like two quiet trophies.

For a fleeting moment, Thiago just smiled to himself.

But then, as always, the stillness evaporated.

You’re still on the bench. One match doesn’t mean anything yet.

That quiet inner voice—stern, grounded—was as familiar as the soreness. He rolled out of bed and let out a soft groan. Europa League debut or not, it was another day, and Klopp’s staff expected him at training.

After a quick shower, he dressed in his black Dortmund hoodie and track pants, then grabbed a protein bar and his duffel. His phone buzzed with a message from Kuba.

Kuba:

"Recovery = excuses to walk like old men.

See you there."

Thiago chuckled. He appreciated Kuba’s weird, unpredictable energy. It was something he’d grown used to, almost fond of.

By 9:15 a.m., he arrived at the Brackel training ground. The recovery session was scheduled for 9:30. Most of the first-team players who started yesterday were either already inside the facility or arriving in relaxed waves.

Inside the locker room, Roman Weidenfeller was sipping on a small coffee, his towel draped around his neck like he’d already finished a yoga class. "Look at the kid," Roman said as Thiago entered, grinning. "Still walking straight after a European night. Must be all that Brazilian blood."

Thiago smiled, nodding politely, not quite used to being addressed like a peer by the veterans.

Subotić was sitting cross-legged on the bench, re-tying his trainers. "Hey Thiago," he said without looking up. "Klopp was talking to Krawietz earlier. Heard him say something about your movement off the ball. Said you looked confident."

Thiago blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah," Subotić said casually. "Don’t get used to it though. He’ll scream at you for breathing too loud next session."

That got a few chuckles. Thiago tried to hide how much it meant, how much he was holding on to that tiny remark like it was gold.

The recovery session began with light cardio, mostly indoor bike work. Nuri Şahin and Zidan rode next to each other, half-chatting in Turkish. Further down the row of bikes, Mario Götze sat with a towel slung over his shoulder, pedaling slowly and looking like he’d barely slept. Thiago took the bike next to him.

"You good?" Mario asked.

Thiago nodded. "Just sore."

"You looked sharp last night," Mario said after a beat. "You pressed hard. Barrios looked pissed when he came off but... you did good."

"Thanks," Thiago said, unsure what to do with the compliment.

The two of them pedaled in silence for a while, surrounded by the low hum of conversations, the steady rotation of wheels, and the scent of antiseptic and sweat.

After thirty minutes on the bikes, they moved into light stretching and guided yoga in the indoor turf room. Mats were lined out. Assistant coach Peter Krawietz led the session, calling out movements in a way that felt more like rehab than training.

Barrios groaned as he bent into a forward fold. "Someone tell Klopp we need massage, not pilates."

Großkreutz laughed from the next mat. "You need better hamstrings, old man."

"Shut up, Kevin. Some of us scored goals for a living."

Thiago found himself grinning during the exchanges. These sessions, though mild in intensity, were goldmines for bonding. Nobody was too tired to joke, and nobody had their game face on. It was just teammates stretching soreness into laughter.

At the end of the session, they did ten minutes in the ice baths. Thiago climbed in slowly, biting down on a towel as the freezing cold clamped onto his legs like iron cuffs. Across from him, Subotić looked entirely too relaxed.

"You get used to it," Subotić said.

Thiago shivered. "How?"

"You don’t. You just stop complaining."

By noon, the recovery schedule was complete. As players filed back into the locker room, discussions began about lunch plans. Some had family in town. Others wanted to head into the city.

Kuba walked up to Thiago, tapping him on the shoulder. "You hungry?"

Thiago nodded.

"We’re grabbing lunch near Phoenix-See. You, me, Barrios, and Götze. You in?"

"Sure," he said, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. "I could eat."

The small lakeside café was quiet but sunny, the kind of place that offered too many salads and served coffee with tiny chocolate squares. They took a table outside, facing the water.

Barrios sat down with a sigh. "No pasta, no rice. This menu is a punishment."

Kuba glanced at the waiter. "He’s joking," he said in German, then turned to Thiago with a wink. "Sort of."

Mario ordered grilled chicken and roasted vegetables. Thiago picked something similar.

"Feels weird, no?" Götze asked, breaking the silence once the waiter left. "Going from playing in front of fifty thousand to... chicken and water in quiet places."

Thiago nodded. "A little."

"But it’s better than eating alone," Kuba added. "When I first got here, I hated hotel food. Hated the silence."

"Same," Thiago said. "But... I might be moving out soon."

"Oh?" Barrios raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Marina, my agent, is helping with the paperwork. Saw a place recently."

"Good," said Kuba. "Means you’re staying."

Thiago blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Means you’re not just passing through. Some guys come, train for a season, then vanish. You? You’re fighting for it. You belong."

The words settled over him like a calm wind.

"That was pretty cringe, I’m not gonna lie," Mario had chimed in immediately after, his mouth full of fries.

"These are words of pure wisdom, boy," Kuba replied, puffing out his chest like a smug philosopher.

"Alright, grandpa, I think it’s time you go back to bed," Mario shot back, deadpan.

Thiago had lightly chuckled at the whole exchange, quietly grateful for it. For them.

By mid-afternoon, the sun had climbed high over Dortmund, draping the city in a warm haze that made everything look calmer than it really was. Thiago sat in the passenger seat of Marina’s compact rental car, a thin folder of documents resting on his lap.

He flipped it open again, scanning the rental agreement in silence even though he’d already read it twice. His German wasn’t perfect, but Marina had highlighted the key points in yellow—monthly cost, lease term, deposit amount, maintenance clauses. It all looked official. Real. More real than anything he’d signed since arriving in Germany.

"You’re quiet," Marina said, keeping her eyes on the road as they turned off the main avenue. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," Thiago said quickly. "Just... making sure it’s not a dream."

Marina smirked. "Well, if it is, it’s one with high rent and no housekeeper."

Thiago chuckled. "Better than a hotel."

They pulled up outside the apartment complex—modern, clean, with muted cream and grey tones and glass balconies on every floor. It wasn’t flashy. But it was stable, private, and five stops from Brackel on the U-Bahn. That’s all Thiago had asked for.

As they stepped out of the car, the building manager, a round-faced man in his fifties named Herr Brandt, waved from the entrance. "Guten Tag, Frau Marina, Herr Silva!"

"Guten Tag," Thiago replied, adjusting to the formal tone he still hadn’t quite mastered. Herr Brandt smiled warmly, shaking hands with both of them.

"You are here for the final walkthrough, yes?" he asked. "Everything should be ready. The papers are on my desk."

They followed him inside. The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and new paint. As they rode the elevator up to the third floor, Marina leaned closer.

"You’ll be able to move in as soon as Monday. I can get the utility hookups arranged before then."

Thiago nodded. "And the furniture?"

"Mostly done. Bed, couch, table, and your desk are already scheduled to arrive. You’ll need to pick out curtains. I’m not doing that for you."

He smirked. "I’ll survive."

The apartment door clicked open, and sunlight poured in from the tall glass sliding doors leading to a narrow balcony. The space wasn’t large, but it was airy. White walls, warm wood flooring, and a simple open kitchen with clean steel appliances.

Thiago walked through slowly. Living room. Kitchen. Small hallway. Bedroom. Bathroom. That was it.

But it was his.

He stepped out onto the balcony and rested his hands on the railing. Below, the street was quiet, only a few parked cars and an old woman walking her dog. The afternoon breeze lifted his hair slightly.

Marina came out beside him. "Big difference from the hotel."

"Yeah," he said. "It’s quiet. But not lonely."

She nodded. "It’s a good place for a young player. Near the training ground. Safe. No distractions."

Thiago turned to her. "Thanks, Marina. For helping me with this."

She shrugged. "It’s my job. But... you’ve made it easy. No drama. No parties. No press headaches."

"I’m boring," he said with a grin.

"I like boring. Boring gets you a career."

They went back inside and sat at the small kitchen counter while Herr Brandt laid out the final paperwork. Thiago signed where he was told to. His signature still felt out of place on official German documents, like he was pretending to be an adult. But he didn’t pause.

When it was done, Brandt shook his hand again, smiling. "Willkommen zu Hause."

Back in the car, Marina glanced at him as they pulled away. "Want me to get someone to help with moving your things Monday morning?"

"I don’t have much to move," Thiago said. "Just a few bags. I’ll manage."

Marina raised an eyebrow. "You really are boring."

He laughed. "Give me time. I’ll buy a lava lamp or something."

As they drove back through the city, the first pangs of fatigue began to settle in his shoulders. The adrenaline of the morning and the calm of the apartment visit had worn off. But beneath the tiredness was a quiet pride.

It wasn’t flashy, like scoring a goal or hearing fans scream your name. It was quieter. But maybe more important.

Thiago was building something slowly, piece by piece.