CHAPTER 50: CHAPTER 50 – THE EDGE OF THE FLAME

Thiago’s boots struck the turf before the sunrise did.

The Palmeiras training ground still held morning dew, lines of mist curling near the corner flags. Lights hadn’t even come on at the dorm when he’d slipped out—quiet, clean, focused. The city slept behind the hills, but inside him, something stirred.

The System flickered on, faint in his vision:

SYSTEM:

Coach Impression: Holding (Positive)

Goal Involvements This Season: 4

Club Confidence: 87 / 100

He dismissed it with a blink. That number would rise—not because he needed to prove anything, but because it felt inevitable. A promise he had made to himself in silence.

He ran drills solo: cones lined like soldiers, touch tight, passes firm. He hit the wall ten times, then a hundred. Practiced low shots with either foot. Imagined pressure, heard phantom footsteps closing in. He dribbled as if every movement had to be the one that mattered.

By the time the sun finally climbed over the practice dome, a few staff had arrived. One assistant coach stopped, arms crossed, just watching. Eneas was not yet on site—but word would reach him. Thiago didn’t train for attention. But attention came anyway.

At breakfast, the first team gathered in clusters. Murmurs of the next match hummed at the edges. Red Bull Bragantino. Known for vertical passes, high pressing, fast transitions. Thiago heard his name mentioned quietly—by defenders who had faced him in training, by midfielders who watched how he covered half-spaces when others didn’t.

Nando entered late, nodding to no one. Rafael gave Thiago a nudge. "Game’s getting close. Bragantino’s gonna want to run. Think they’ll test us."

Thiago leaned back, tone even. "Good. I want to be tested."

The next two days passed in a blur of tactical sessions and recovery runs. During scrimmages, Eneas pulled him aside briefly. No long talk. Just one point:

"If they press with four, hold deeper. If they close space, skip a line. Don’t fight the trap—guide it."

Thiago absorbed the words. They weren’t instructions. They were equations. Pieces to solve under pressure.

The night before the match, Camila called.

"You ready for it?" she asked, voice soft. He could hear São Paulo’s buzz through the line—cars, people, life continuing beyond football.

"Ready for everything."

"Good answer. What about your legs?"

He smirked. "They’ll listen to me."

"And your head?"

He hesitated for just a second. "Still catching up."

She said nothing for a breath. Then: "Catch up fast, Tico. Everyone’s watching. Even the ones who don’t say they are."

They didn’t talk about Neymar.

They didn’t have to.

The matchday morning was still. Still enough that even the breakfast toast crackled louder than usual. No jokes. Just focus. Eneas named the squad. Thiago’s name was among the substitutes—again. But this time, there was no sting. Just the rhythm of readiness.

Kickoff came at 7PM. Lights blazed across Allianz Parque. The crowd was solid—not packed, but loud. The kind of noise that swelled with the whistle and didn’t stop.

Palmeiras started fast. Pressed early. Nearly scored on a free kick. But Bragantino weren’t cowed—they played long, wide, and sharp. In the 21st minute, a slip in midfield turned into a goal for the visitors. One touch too soft, one press too slow.

0–1.

Thiago warmed up silently.

In the 34th minute, another turnover. A pass misjudged by a defender. Bragantino pounced again.

0–2.

The stadium groaned. Nando shouted at someone. Rafael kicked the turf. Eneas squatted at the touchline, not panicked—but boiling beneath the eyes.

Thiago felt his pulse climb. Not fear. Not frustration.

Anticipation.

Halftime came with few words. Just glances. Corrections barked. The team reemerged with higher urgency, but still no breakthrough.

Minute 59.

Eneas turned to the bench.

"Thiago. In. Left side. You know what to do."

Thiago nodded. No speech. No fire. Just purpose.

He stepped onto the grass, pulling on the #17 bib again. The stadium gave a mixed roar—some cheers, some cautious curiosity. He didn’t hear it.

He moved into position. The same side where the damage had started. He wasn’t here to patch wounds.

He was here to change the pulse.

First touch—tight, away from pressure. Second—a give and go with Rafael. Third—an angled ball into the half-space. Fourth—a sprint, curling behind a recovering fullback.

The crowd began to rise with him.

This was not yet the match.

But the match was beginning to turn.