CHAPTER 59: CHAPTER 59 – DRAWN LINES

The Monday morning quiet wasn’t the peaceful kind. It was the heavy silence before a storm, the breath held before a penalty kick, that suspended moment when the entire stadium waits for the referee’s whistle. Thiago sat on the dormitory balcony, his hood pulled up against the dawn chill that crept through the fabric like icy fingers, watching as mist curled off the Palmeiras training pitch like smoke from a dying fire, tendrils of vapor rising and dissipating in the pale morning light. Below, the grounds crew moved in their morning ritual - raking away yesterday’s footprints with methodical sweeps of their tools, painting fresh white lines that gleamed wetly against the emerald grass, preparing the stage for another week of dreams and disappointments that would etch themselves into this carefully maintained canvas. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the damp earth, that crisp green smell that always reminded him of childhood matches in the favela, back when football was just joy before it became salvation, before it carried the weight of expectations and escape.

He flexed his hands against the cold metal balcony railing, feeling the pull of healing blisters from yesterday’s match, the rough skin catching slightly on the textured surface. The System hadn’t been checked yet, its digital interface waiting patiently in the periphery of his consciousness. What would numbers tell him that his body didn’t already know in its bones and sinews? That his muscles were recovering but not recovered, still humming with the residual tension of ninety minutes of combat? That his lungs still burned from that 80th minute sprint, each breath still carrying the ghost of exertion? The stats couldn’t measure this restlessness crawling under his skin like ants beneath his flesh, this itch that no amount of training drills or tactical sessions could scratch, this yearning that went deeper than physical need.

Europe. The word had lived in his mind for years as some distant fantasy, like the posters of Ronaldo and Henry that once papered his bedroom walls, their glossy images curling at the edges from humidity. But now? Now it wasn’t a dream floating in some hazy future. It was a decision waiting to be made, solid and immediate as the ball at his feet during a match. The thought had taken root after the Botafogo match, growing louder with each training session that ended with Eneas’ approving nod, each completed pass that sliced through defensive lines, each approving nod from Eneas that carried more weight than any verbal praise.

But the future? That was where everything blurred at the edges, like rain-smeared ink on a scouting report.

He thought about his mother, still working double shifts at the hospital, her hands permanently chapped from sanitizer, still saving every extra real "just in case," folding the bills carefully into her worn wallet. About Clara, still drawing his goals in crayon on construction paper, her bedroom wall a mosaic of his career rendered in bright childish strokes that somehow captured the motion better than any photographer. About Camila, whose presence had become so deeply interwoven in his days that he couldn’t quite imagine São Paulo without her in it, without her laughter echoing in his ears or her hand finding his in crowded rooms.

And yet...

He imagined landing in Lisbon, the Atlantic wind sharp against his face, carrying the salt-tang of unfamiliar waters. Or Hamburg, where the stadiums echoed with a different kind of roar, where the cheers sounded harsher to his Brazilian ears. Or Genoa, where the Mediterranean sun baked the terraces and the defenders played with Italian precision, their movements economical and ruthless. He imagined cold air that stung his lungs differently, new languages that would twist awkwardly on his tongue, new pitches that didn’t know his name or his story, pristine surfaces waiting for his cleats to mark them. Starting over again—but this time, from a higher rung on the ladder, with scouts instead of street agents watching his progress.

He didn’t fear it.

He craved it with a hunger that surprised him, a yearning that went beyond ambition.

That afternoon, after training ended and the dressing room cleared of the usual banter and the sharp scent of liniment, Thiago walked through the long corridor near the admin wing, his cleats clicking against the polished tile in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Marina Vale was waiting on the far bench, legs crossed with practiced elegance, tapping something into her phone with manicured nails that caught the fluorescent light. She looked up as he approached, her expression unreadable behind professional detachment, but her eyes sharp as they always were when assessing value.

He walked up without hesitating, the decision already sitting solid in his chest.

"Thought about your message," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty hallway.

She slid her phone into her designer coat pocket with deliberate slowness. "And?"

"I want to go to Europe," he said plainly, his voice low but firm enough to carry his conviction. "Not now. Not in a rush that would sacrifice the right opportunity. But after the Paulista. I want to move."

She studied him—not just his words, but his posture that had straightened unconsciously, his tone that carried new certainty, the set of his jaw that had lost its youthful softness. Looking for doubt. Finding none in the set of his shoulders or the steadiness of his gaze.

"Then we’ll make it happen," she said, the words measured like carefully placed passes. "Right move, right moment. Not noise that fades by next transfer window. Structure that lasts."

Thiago nodded, feeling the weight of the commitment settle between them.

"I want to be in a team that builds, not just buys," he continued, the words coming easier now that the path was clear. "I want minutes that matter, not just bench warmth. Not a badge to collect like a tourist’s souvenir."

"You’re not chasing a badge," she said, leaning forward slightly so the light caught the silver streaks in her dark hair. "You’re chasing development. That’s why I agreed to meet you when Caio called. That’s why I’m here."

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders like the familiar pressure of expectations before a big match. "We’re doing this, then?"

"If you’re ready," she said, and for the first time he heard the slightest hint of warmth beneath the professionalism.

"I’m ready," he said, and knew it was true.

Marina reached into her coat and pulled out a slim folder—simple paperwork with crisp edges, contact details printed in neat columns, nothing binding yet but heavy with possibility.

"Formalize this when the season ends," she said, handing it over. "Until then, I’ll act as your rep. Quietly. No leaks to journalists or social media whispers."

Thiago looked her in the eye, holding the gaze long enough to ensure understanding. "You’re the only one who knows. Keep it that way."

She nodded once, the motion precise as a well-timed tackle. "Discretion is part of the job. More valuable than any commission."

As he turned to leave, the folder a slight but significant weight in his hand, she added, "One more thing—Europe’s not just tactics on the pitch. It’s culture in the streets. Distance that stretches farther than kilometers. Pressure that doesn’t speak your language or care about your excuses. You’ll need more than talent to survive there."

He paused, his hand on the doorframe, feeling the cool painted metal beneath his fingers. "I’ve needed more than talent every step of the way," he said, and pushed through into the fading afternoon light.

That night, after the dormitory had settled into its usual evening rhythms of muted music and shower sounds, Camila called. The phone buzzed against his nightstand, her contact photo flashing - a candid shot of her laughing at some long-forgotten joke.

He didn’t bring it up. Not yet. But she heard it in his silences that stretched a beat too long, in the way his responses came measured and careful where they’d once been effortless.

"Something’s changing," she said, and he could picture the way her eyebrows would draw together, that little crease appearing between them.

"Yeah," he admitted, the word hanging between them across the city’s distance.

"You gonna tell me what it is?" Her voice was light but threaded with something else - that perceptiveness that always unnerved him.

"Not today," he said, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling’s familiar cracks. "But soon."

They didn’t talk long. Not like before when conversations meandered into early morning. And when the call ended with her quiet "goodnight," Thiago lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, the hum of the city seeping through the window - car horns and distant sirens weaving into the ever-present pulse of São Paulo.

His mind didn’t feel loud with competing thoughts as it usually did before big decisions.

It felt certain in a way that was almost peaceful.

Later, when the dormitory’s noises had faded to occasional creaks and snores, he checked the System, if only to center himself in familiar routines. The blue interface materialized in his vision, its glow faint in the darkened room.

SYSTEM UPDATE

Level: 15

EXP: 129 / 600

Skill Points Available: 10

Attributes:

Pace – 70

Dribbling – 71

Shooting – 67

Passing – 69

Physicality – 66

Mentality – 64

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control – 71

Trick Execution – 63

Stamina – 64

Active Quest: Chain Reaction

Contribute to 6 goal involvements before the end of the Campeonato Paulista

Progress: 3 / 6

No changes. No perks. No new rewards blinking for attention.

But the most important choice he’d made wasn’t in the System’s digital calculus. Couldn’t be quantified in percentages or point allocations.

It was in motion now, set rolling like a perfectly weighted pass across grass.

The road ahead was narrowing, focusing from the broad possibilities of youth to the sharp clarity of professional purpose.

Santos next. Neymar next - that ever-present specter of comparison.

And soon, Europe waiting with its cold winds and warmer opportunities.

He closed his eyes, the afterimage of the System’s display fading from his vision like stadium lights after a match.

The stillness was over. The game was on.