CHAPTER 54: CHAPTER 54 – PRESSURE WITHOUT SOUND

Training ended without applause.

The sun was sharp overhead as Thiago toweled sweat from his neck, muscles twitching from the intensity of the final possession drill. His lungs burned slightly from the high press simulations, his calves tight from explosive sprints into the channels. No praise from Eneas. No special mention from the assistants scribbling notes on their clipboards. But he was still in the green vest. Still playing with the senior group.

Still being tested.

Still standing.

The squad dispersed across the pitch in small groups, some laughing as they reenacted moments from the session, others already mentally clocking out, eager for the showers. Thiago jogged back toward the facility, heartbeat steady, every stride wrapped in the memory of last game’s fire. The way the stadium had roared when he’d cut inside in the 78th minute. The way the net had rippled.

He passed Nando near the water station—no words, just a glance. Not cold, not distant. Just... measured. Like they were both assessing something unspoken.

Inside the changing room, the energy shifted.

The regulars spoke in short bursts. Tactical fragments, match scenarios, who’s starting, who’s not. Nothing was certain, but everyone felt it—Palmeiras had tightened its spine. The comeback win against Bragantino had lit a fuse. The locker room hummed with a different kind of tension now, the kind that came when a team started believing in itself.

The next match? Ituano. Away.

A small club with a compact stadium and an even tighter low block. No glamour, but heavy legs and hard turf. Thiago had seen the scout footage the night before—five at the back, man-marking so aggressive it bordered on fouls, midfielders who would rather snap your ankle than let you turn.

This would be a grind.

After a shower and protein shake, Thiago stepped into the hallway—and found himself face to face with Eneas.

The coach didn’t smile. Just looked at him squarely, arms crossed, and said, "You’re starting."

A heartbeat. Then two.

"Left side. Push high when the block shifts. Hold when they sit. Trust the third man runs."

Then Eneas walked past.

No handshake. No praise.

But Thiago’s chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks—not from stress. From clarity.

He was earning it. Bit by bit.

The ride to Itu was long. The team bus hummed low with music through scattered earphones and soft conversation. Rafael sat near Thiago, eyes closed, one leg jiggling to a beat only he could hear. Nando sat two rows up, unusually quiet, staring out the window as the cityscape melted into countryside.

Outside, the landscape changed. Green turned to brown. Houses became stretches of farmland, the occasional roadside bar with plastic chairs and faded beer logos. The stadium wasn’t impressive. Just a concrete bowl tucked between factories and narrow streets, the kind of place where the stands were so close to the pitch you could hear every grunt, every curse.

But it was packed.

By the time Palmeiras arrived, fans had filled every cheap plastic seat. Drums echoed through the tunnel. Local supporters slammed against the boards, screaming chants half-aimed at intimidation, half-prayer. The air smelled of grilled meat and cheap beer.

In the away changing room, Eneas laid it out calmly.

"Compact. Patient. Don’t lose shape. Punish mistakes."

The lineup card was posted. Thiago’s name—#17—was there in the starting eleven.

No reaction from him.

Just quiet readiness.

Kickoff.

The match began as expected—tight spaces, narrow lanes, ugly tempo. Ituano parked the bus and armed it. Their back five barely stepped past midfield. Every attempt to cut through was swarmed, every progressive pass met with a lunging boot.

Thiago started on the left wing, but tucked inside often, combining in triangles, trying to pull markers wide. His first few touches were clean—simple layoffs, a sharp backheel to Rafael in the sixth minute that nearly opened the defense, a dummy in the eleventh that left a defender grasping at air.

But the field was narrow. The ball moved slower on the patchy grass. Palmeiras had to earn every yard.

In minute 24, Thiago broke down the flank off a diagonal from Rafael. He took two touches, cut inside with a quick feint, and slipped a pass into the half-space. The striker turned, fired—blocked at the last second by a desperate lunge.

Still 0–0.

In the 38th minute, Thiago dropped deeper to receive and immediately turned upfield. A quick one-two with the overlapping fullback, then a low cross zipped across the face of goal. No finish. But pressure.

Halftime. The dressing room was quiet, focused.

"They’re starting to feel it," Eneas said. "One mistake. Just one."

Second half.

Minute 52. Thiago, now drifting central, received a short pass under pressure. He shifted his weight, cut past a defender with a sharp roll of his studs, then lifted a chipped through ball over the backline—perfect weight, perfect timing.

Rafael latched onto it. Controlled. Slotted home.

1–0.

Palmeiras roared. The bench leapt. Eneas nodded—tight and satisfied.

Thiago didn’t celebrate wildly. He simply ran to Rafael, bumping forearms, then reset his position.

There were still thirty minutes left. And he knew this type of match—one moment of carelessness and the entire game turned.

By the 78th minute, Palmeiras had dropped deeper, protecting the lead. Thiago covered more ground defensively, twice tracking back to intercept wide passes. Once, near the 83rd, he shielded off two players in the corner, drawing a foul and eating time off the clock.

Final whistle.

1–0.

Not glamorous. But earned.

Inside the tunnel, Nando passed by, bumping his shoulder lightly against Thiago’s.

"You always chip it?"

Thiago glanced over. "When the line’s flat."

Nando smirked. "Ballsy. Clean."

Thiago didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

That night, the System came alive as Thiago lay back on his bunk.

SYSTEM UPDATE

Level: 15

EXP Gained: +18

Current EXP: 38 / 600

Skill Points: 10

Quest Progress:Chain Reaction – 1 / 6 Goal Involvements

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling.

One down. Five to go.

Outside, the quiet hum of the team hotel settled around him. Somewhere down the hall, muffled laughter. A TV playing highlights.

Thiago closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, they’d reset.

But tonight?

Tonight, he let himself feel it.