Chapter 65 – Firelines - Limitless Pitch - NovelsTime

Limitless Pitch

Chapter 65 – Firelines

Author: CaptainTen
updatedAt: 2025-07-01

CHAPTER 65: CHAPTER 65 – FIRELINES

The air at Allianz Parque crackled with electricity long before the first whistle pierced the night. The stadium lights burned white-hot against the inky São Paulo sky, illuminating a sea of green-and-white jerseys that rippled like storm-tossed waves. The scent of grilled meat and spilled beer mingled with the sharper tang of flares from the ultras’ section, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that seeped into every player’s pores.

Thiago stood motionless just beyond the touchline, one cleat already planted on the pristine grass, feeling the vibrations of sixty thousand pounding feet through the soles of his boots. His breath formed faint ghosts in the unseasonably cool evening air, each exhale measured and controlled. The noise was deafening—a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums like physical pressure—yet beneath it all, he heard only the steady drumbeat of his own pulse.

This wasn’t nerves.

This was the calm before detonation.

Across the half-line, Neymar danced with the ball as if it were attached to his feet by invisible strings. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks around him, each camera desperate to capture the prodigy’s pregame ritual. He flicked the ball from instep to thigh to shoulder with careless grace, his grin wide and easy under the glare of the floodlights. A celestial body around which the entire football universe seemed to orbit.

Thiago allowed himself exactly three seconds to watch before turning away.

Neymar wasn’t his concern.

His role tonight wasn’t to contain fire—it was to become something far more dangerous.

The Palmeiras huddle at center circle was a study in controlled chaos. Shoulders pressed together, foreheads nearly touching, the scent of deep heat and adrenaline thick between them. Rafael’s voice cut through the din like a blade, his words meant for Thiago as much as anyone:

"Forget the fucking cameras. Forget Neymar’s highlight reel. Play our game. The way we play when no one’s watching."

Thiago nodded once, sharp and final. The circle broke like a grenade’s shrapnel spreading outward—each man to his position, each mind focused on the first touch, the first run, the first moment that would set the tone for everything to come.

The referee’s whistle screamed.

War began.

Palmeiras attacked like a blade drawn across flesh—quick, precise, and with intent to maim.

From the opening kickoff, they funneled play left toward Thiago’s domain. The first pass came to his feet like a homing missile, and he took it in stride, his touch so delicate the ball barely made a sound as it settled against his laces. The Santos right-back—a veteran with over 200 first-team appearances—lunged in eagerly.

Thiago destroyed him with three touches.

A feint left that pulled the defender’s weight. A sharp cut right that left him grasping at air. Then an explosive burst down the flank that sent the crowd surging to their feet. The grass blurred beneath him as he ate up yards, his peripheral vision registering Rafael’s diagonal run and Nando’s hovering presence at the edge of the box.

Instead of crossing early, he dragged the ball back with a sole roll that would make futsal players weep, pivoting toward the half-space where chaos lived. Three defenders shifted like tectonic plates reacting to seismic pressure. The pass he slipped inward was weighted perfectly—

Nando’s shot skidded wide, but the message was sent.

This wasn’t the same Palmeiras that had bent to Santos’ will a week ago.

Santos’ response was orchestral in its precision. Their midfield trio moved as one organism, passing triangles forming and dissolving like smoke rings. For ten minutes, Palmeiras’ pressing lines held firm. Then Neymar decided to rewrite physics.

Dropping deep into midfield, he received with his back to goal, two defenders breathing down his neck. One touch to kill the ball dead. A half-turn that shouldn’t have been possible. Then he was gone—a blur of white jersey and floppy hair streaking down the left channel.

Thiago watched from the opposite wing as Neymar carved through Palmeiras’ midfield like a scalpel through flesh. The crowd’s collective gasp was audible even over the drums.

He didn’t need to score to dominate.

But then—of course—he did.

Midway through the half, a failed Palmeiras corner became Santos’ salvation. The counterattack unfolded in three brutal touches: a header clearance, a raking diagonal, a flick into space. Suddenly Neymar was in full flight again, his strides eating up turf with terrifying efficiency.

The chip over the onrushing goalkeeper was obscene in its nonchalance—a feather-light caress that floated just beyond desperate fingertips before nestling in the net.

0–1.

The Santos supporters’ section erupted in a pyro-technical inferno, smoke billowing toward the rafters like a volcano’s breath.

Palmeiras didn’t buckle. Couldn’t afford to.

Eneas’ voice cut through the noise from the technical area, his hands shaping tactical adjustments in the air: "Width! Space! They’re suffocating the center!"

Thiago responded by dropping deeper than usual—nearly to the halfway line—dragging his perplexed marker into no-man’s land. The positional shift created a cascading effect: Palmeiras rotated play right, then back through Rafael, whose laser-guided diagonal found Thiago’s run with pinpoint accuracy.

The first touch was pure instinct—a chest trap that killed the ball’s momentum dead. The second was violence incarnate—a burst of acceleration that left the right-back scrambling like a man on ice. The cross, delivered with the outside of his boot, curled wickedly toward the far post—

Nando’s header whistled wide, but the rhythm had irrevocably shifted.

The final fifteen minutes of the half became a masterclass in controlled fury.

Palmeiras’ midfield began vacuuming up second balls, their pressing triggers sharper with each passing minute. Rafael conducted the tempo like a maestro, his every gesture dictating the flow of battle. Meanwhile, Thiago tormented his marker with a relentless barrage of short, darting runs—cutting inside to overload midfield before exploding wide again to stretch the play.

In the 31st minute, he nearly shattered Santos’ resistance.

A slipped pass from Rafael sent him streaking behind the defensive line, his first touch taking him toward the byline at full tilt. The cross he whipped in was a thing of nightmares—low, hard, and skidding through the six-yard box like a cobra strike. Nando arrived a half-step late, his outstretched boot missing connection by centimeters.

Eneas’ roar from the sideline was primal: "That’s it, Thiago! Burn them alive!"

But Thiago was already gone—sprinting back into defensive shape, his lungs burning, his mind already processing the next opportunity.

Neymar’s response five minutes later nearly broke the game open.

Picking up the ball near midfield, he embarked on a run that defied logic—dribbling past two defenders with ease, drawing three more toward him like moths to flame, then somehow wriggling through the smallest possible gap. Only a last-ditch slide tackle from Palmeiras’ center-back preserved the slender deficit.

Yet as Neymar picked himself up from the turf, something remarkable happened—the crowd rose not for the Santos star, but for the defender who’d stopped him. The roar wasn’t one of awe, but of recognition.

They saw the heart.

They saw the fire.

As halftime approached, Palmeiras threw themselves forward once more.

Rafael started the move with a pirouette away from pressure near the box, floating a delicate pass toward Thiago’s position. The first touch was perfection—killing the ball dead while simultaneously turning his marker inside out. The right-back’s desperate lunge came a fraction too late—

Thiago chopped the ball behind his standing leg with surgical precision, sending the defender sliding past into empty space. The crowd’s roar was deafening as he surged forward, eating up the yards before delivering a cross that seemed to defy physics—low and vicious, yet somehow avoiding every desperate clearance attempt.

When the ball was cleared, Rafael collected and immediately recycled possession back to Thiago. This time, he cut inside onto his weaker right foot, lofting a more measured cross toward the penalty spot.

Nando’s header was firm, true—

And miraculously saved.

The halftime whistle cut through the tension like a guillotine.

Thiago jogged toward the tunnel with sweat stinging his eyes, his pulse pounding in his temples. Rafael fell into step beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder:

"They’re cracking. Keep pressing the seams."

Thiago nodded tersely. He didn’t glance toward the Santos tunnel, though he could feel Neymar’s presence like static electricity in the air. Two players. Two wings. Two completely different expressions of the same relentless hunger.

The dressing room at halftime was a study in controlled chaos. Players gulped down electrolyte drinks, physios worked on tightening muscles, and Eneas stood before the tactical board with markers in hand.

"They’re bending," the coach said, his voice calm but urgent. "Keep the tempo. Keep overloading the weak side. Thiago—every time you beat that fullback, you’re pulling a second defender. That’s where the space opens. Read it. Decide fast."

Thiago wiped sweat from his brow with a towel that already dripped with exertion. The scoreboard read 0-1, but the numbers lied.

This wasn’t over.

This was just beginning.

The second half loomed—

And it would be fought in fire

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