CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER 58 – BENEATH THE STILLNESS

The bus ride home after the Ponte Preta match was oddly quiet—not from exhaustion, but from satisfaction. Palmeiras had done what they needed to. A composed, efficient win that left the players in that rare state of contentment where words felt unnecessary. Thiago sat by the window, forehead against the cool glass, watching as the city lights slid past in streaks of white and amber, each one a fleeting comet in the night.

The goal still played in his mind on a loop: the weight of Rafael’s through ball, the way it had settled into his stride as if pulled by an invisible thread; the angled touch across the defender’s outstretched leg, just enough to wrong-foot him; the shot slipping past the keeper’s glove with surgical precision. It hadn’t been flashy, but it had been clean. Deliberate. Like he’d seen the moment before it happened.

Later, when they’d showered and changed, Nando had passed by and clapped his shoulder once. No words. Just enough. The kind of silent acknowledgment that carried more weight than any praise.

By the time they reached the training grounds, most of the squad had dozed off, heads lolling against seats or propped against the windows. Thiago stayed awake.

He had one more match before the knockout stages: Botafogo-SP, mid-table but dangerous in transition. Eneas had made it clear they wouldn’t rest players. Momentum mattered. Sharpness mattered. The difference between a good season and a great one often came down to these unglamorous fixtures—the ones where you had to grind out results when the world wasn’t watching.

The next morning came quietly. Light regeneration work, film study, and focused positional rotations on the second field. The coaching staff had set up cones in intricate patterns, simulating Botafogo’s defensive shape. Eneas had Thiago starting in the attacking trio again—this time cutting in from the right, with Rafael dropping deeper to dictate tempo.

At one point during a rondo drill, Thiago felt a tug on his shirt. He turned to see Rafael holding a finger to his lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don’t drift too early. They press in waves—first the winger, then the fullback overlaps. If you check to the ball before the second wave comes, you’ll have space."

Thiago nodded, committing the detail to memory. Every bit mattered now. The smallest adjustments could be the difference between a chance created and a turnover.

After training, he lingered. Camila had promised to visit that afternoon, and he found himself glancing toward the gates more often than he’d admit. He waited near the admin wing, kicking a ball softly against the wall while the sun stretched shadows across the courtyard. The rhythmic thud of leather against concrete was meditative, each touch a quiet reminder of control.

She arrived in jeans and a navy blouse, waving at the guard before slipping through the side entrance with practiced ease.

"Still trying to break into your own life?" she teased as she walked up, her smile bright against the fading daylight.

"Feels like I’m still knocking," he replied, catching the ball with the inside of his boot and trapping it under his heel.

They sat beneath a sprawling tree by the field, the hum of distant traffic weaving into the birdsong overhead. She handed him a small wrapped parcel—a box of pastéis from a shop she claimed was the best in São Paulo.

"Clara made me promise to give you these," she said, nudging the box toward him. "She said if you score again, she wants a backflip."

Thiago snorted, peeling back the wax paper to reveal the golden, flaky pastries. "She knows I don’t do backflips."

Camila grinned. "She says that sounds like an excuse."

They laughed, the sound blending into the rustle of leaves above them. She leaned against him, both of them looking out at the empty pitch, the grass still marked with the ghosts of their earlier drills.

After a pause, Camila tilted her head. "Do you ever stop and look at all this?"

Thiago shrugged, tearing off a piece of pastry. "Not really. I think I’m afraid if I do, it’ll stop moving."

She studied him for a moment before replying, her voice softer now. "It won’t. But you might."

The words settled between them, heavier than he expected.

That night, Thiago couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, the dormitory around him silent except for the occasional creak of a bedframe or the distant murmur of someone on their phone. Finally, he called up the System, its glow faint in the darkened room.

SYSTEM UPDATE

Quest Progress: Chain Reaction – 3 / 6 Goal Contributions

EXP: 102 / 600

Skill Points Available: 10

No stat changes.

He blinked it away.

Three more contributions. Three more before the knockout rounds. He wanted to hit that mark before the pressure really started. Not for the stats—but for the sense of it. To arrive at the knockouts not as a hopeful piece—but as a pillar.

Sunday arrived fast. The match against Botafogo-SP was scheduled for late afternoon—hot sun, dry pitch, the kind of conditions that made the ball skid unpredictably. Palmeiras played in their white away kit, the fabric already sticking to their backs during warm-ups.

Thiago started again.

The match began slowly. Botafogo played with five at the back, narrow and compact, their midfielders dropping deep to clog passing lanes. In the first twenty minutes, Thiago barely saw the ball. But Eneas didn’t yell. He just kept gesturing for movement, patience, width—trusting the process.

In the 27th minute, Rafael pinged a switch across the field, the ball arcing high before dipping toward Thiago’s chest. He took it down smoothly, cut inside with a quick feint, and drew two defenders toward him before sliding a pass across to Rafael, who arrived late in the box—but the shot rattled the post.

Palmeiras grew into the game from there.

Thiago didn’t score. He didn’t assist. But he read the game like a script he’d studied. Shifted defenders with decoy runs. Created space with his positioning. On one break, he drove the ball into the channel, then pulled back and reset the tempo instead of forcing a hopeful cross. Small things. The kind that didn’t make highlights but won matches.

They won 1–0 again.

A header from a corner. Not his moment—but a win all the same.

After the match, Eneas came over to him at the sideline, patted his back, and said only:

"Well done. The pace of your decisions—that’s where growth lives."

It wasn’t a highlight reel night.

But it mattered.

That night, Thiago stood under the dormitory shower for a long time, the water sluicing away sweat and grass stains. His muscles ached, not from strain, but from consistency. From earning it every day.

He didn’t check the System again.

He didn’t need it.

But just before bed, as the dorm quieted, he checked his phone. A message from Marina Vale lit up the screen:

"Heard you’re starting to build a pattern. Let me know when you’re ready to make it a map."

He smirked, thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing back:

"Soon."

Then he turned off the light, the room plunging into darkness.

Outside, the city hummed on, restless and alive.

And beneath the stillness, Thiago burned