CHAPTER 64: CHAPTER 64 – LINES IN THE SAND

The U20 training field hummed with the familiar chaos of youth football—shouts echoing across the pitch, balls thumping against boots, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the drill instructions. Thiago stood near the sideline, watching João weave through a group of younger players with that same effortless flair he’d had since they were kids kicking a ball in the favelas. The sun hung heavy in the late morning sky, sweat already drying against Thiago’s collar as he waited for a break in the action.

He’d planned this carefully.

When the whistle blew for water, João spotted him immediately, jogging over with that trademark grin. "Look who decided to grace us peasants with his presence."

Thiago rolled his eyes, tossing him a bottle. "Still running circles around kids, I see."

"Someone’s got to teach them how it’s done." João took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What brings the first-team superstar to our humble pitch?"

The casual question hung between them. Thiago glanced at the scattered players—some staring openly, others pretending not to notice his presence. He lowered his voice. "Walk with me?"

João’s smile faltered slightly, but he nodded, calling out to his coach that he’d be five minutes. They moved toward the far end of the field where the noise faded into background hum.

"I’ve made a decision," Thiago said once they were out of earshot. He scuffed his boot against the turf, sending up a small cloud of dust. "After the Paulista ends... I’m leaving."

João froze mid-step. "Leaving?"

"Europe."

The word landed between them like a dropped weight. João exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around the water bottle until the plastic crinkled. "That’s... fuck, man."

"I know."

"You’re sure?" João turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. "Like, pen-to-paper sure?"

Thiago nodded, watching a pair of U16s race each other down the adjacent pitch. "Marina’s lining up options. Nothing’s signed yet, but... it’s happening." He met João’s gaze. "I wanted you to hear it from me first."

João kicked at a divot in the grass, his shoulders tense. "I figured something was up when you stopped bitching about Eneas’ conditioning drills." A weak attempt at humor, but his voice lacked its usual warmth. "When?"

"Depends on offers. Summer window, probably."

They stood in silence for a long moment, the shouts of the U20 coach drifting across the field. Finally, João sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shit. I mean... I knew this was coming eventually. Just not..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Not this soon?"

"Not while we’re still..." João’s hand fluttered between them, encompassing all the unspoken history—the street tournaments, the shared dorm room, the countless hours spent dreaming about this exact moment back when Europe was just a poster on a wall.

Thiago’s chest tightened. "I didn’t plan it this way."

João barked a laugh. "Yeah, well, neither did I when I blew out my knee last season." He shook his head, but when he looked up, his eyes were clear. "You’d be an idiot not to go, you know that, right?"

The tension in Thiago’s shoulders eased slightly. "Would’ve been nice if you’d led with that."

"Where’s the fun in that?" João grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Just promise me one thing."

"Name it."

"When you’re playing in the Champions League and I message you for free tickets, don’t leave me on read."

Thiago laughed, shoving him lightly. "Deal. And when you’re coaching this ragtag bunch to their first title, save me a seat in your VIP box."

They lingered a moment longer, the weight of the unspoken pressing between them—all the shared memories, the inside jokes, the unbreakable bond forged through years of chasing the same dream. Then João clapped him on the back, his grip lingering just a second too long.

"Go show them what we’re made of, yeah?"

Thiago found Caio at their usual spot - a plastic table outside Dona Marta’s corner store, nursing a soda while scrolling through his phone. The familiar scent of grilled meat and spilled beer hung in the air as neighborhood kids played pickup games in the dusty lot across the street.

Caio looked up as Thiago approached, already smirking. "Look who finally remembered where he came from. Shouldn’t you be in some air-conditioned training facility?"

"Missed your sparkling personality," Thiago shot back, pulling up a wobbly chair.

Caio pushed his phone across the table. "You see Santos’ xG last match? Brutal." The screen showed a stats page filled with numbers and graphs.

Thiago barely glanced at it. "I didn’t come to talk numbers."

Caio’s eyebrows lifted. He pocketed his phone and leaned back. "Uh oh. Serious face. What’s up?"

Thiago spun his own bottle between his palms. "I wanted to thank you. For pushing me about the agent thing. For introducing me to Marina."

Caio went very still. The sounds of the neighborhood - laughing kids, sizzling meat, distant car horns - suddenly seemed too loud. "So you’ve decided then."

"Yeah. After the Paulista... I’m going."

Caio exhaled through his nose. "Europe." He said it flatly, like reading a headline.

Thiago nodded. "Marina’s already making calls."

For a long moment, Caio just studied him, his usual cocky grin absent. Then he took a slow sip of his soda. "You remember Lucas? That kid from the neighborhood who went to Belgium?"

Thiago frowned. "The winger?"

"Lasted eight months." Caio set his drink down carefully. "Came back talking about how they made him train alone for weeks because his Portuguese wasn’t good enough. How the veterans wouldn’t pass to him in practice."

"I’m not Lucas."

"Damn right you’re not." Caio’s eyes sharpened. "But it ain’t just about being good enough. It’s about being ready for everything else. The loneliness. The politics. The days when nothing makes sense and home feels a million miles away."

Thiago’s fingers tightened around his bottle. "I know what I’m signing up for."

"Do you?" Caio leaned forward. "Because it’s not just better competition. It’s proving yourself every damn day to people who think Brazilian means undisciplined. It’s sitting in some tiny apartment staring at your phone at 3am because everyone here is asleep."

The shouts from the pickup game across the street rose in celebration of some goal. Thiago watched the kids pile on each other. "I didn’t say it would be easy."

Caio snorted. "Nothing worth doing is." He reached across to flick Thiago’s shoulder. "But if anyone’s got the stubbornness for it, it’s you." His voice dropped. "Just promise me you’ll look past the shiny offers. Ask who’s really going to invest in you. Who’s going to have your back when shit gets hard."

"I will."

Caio’s grin returned, though softer than usual. "And when you’re famous, you’ll tell everyone I discovered you, right?"

"Like a bad pop song."

"Perfect." Caio raised his soda in a toast. The plastic bottle crinkled in his grip. "To Europe then. May it be ready for you."

Thiago clinked his bottle against Caio’s. For a moment, they just sat there in comfortable silence, two kids from the neighborhood watching the next generation play the same games they once had.

That evening, the dorm buzzed with the usual post-training chatter—players debating dinner options, replaying key moments from practice, arguing over video game matchups. Thiago stood on the balcony, the city lights stretching endlessly before him, his phone warm in his hand.

He stared at Camila’s last message from three days ago—a simple "Good luck tomorrow" before the Santos match. Their conversations had grown shorter lately, the silences between texts stretching longer. He knew why. They both did.

His thumbs hovered over the screen before typing:

Can we talk? After the second leg. Maybe go for that walk you wanted. Saturday?

The reply came twenty-three minutes later—an eternity in message time.

Okay. After the match.

No emoji. No follow-up question. Just acknowledgment.

Thiago exhaled slowly, the weight of everything pressing against his ribs—the impending goodbyes, the unspoken truths, the lines being drawn between what was and what would be.

He pulled up the System, the blue interface glowing faintly in the dark:

SYSTEM UPDATE:

Level: 15

EXP: 177 / 600

Skill Points Available: 10

Active Quest:Chain Reaction – 4 / 6 Goal Contributions

The numbers hadn’t changed. But everything else had.

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, the sound fading into the night. Thiago pocketed his phone and leaned on the railing, watching the city pulse with life below.

The lines were there now—clear as chalk on grass. Between past and future. Between home and what came next.

And soon, he’d have to step over them.