CHAPTER 66: CHAPTER 66 – TURNING POINT

The locker room door thundered shut behind them, swallowing the stadium’s roar into sudden silence. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of sweat, deep heat ointment, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a split lip someone had suffered in the first half. Thiago collapsed onto the bench, his jersey clinging to his back like a second skin, the fabric darkened with sweat. Around him, teammates peeled off their shirts with exhausted groans, their chests rising and falling like bellows.

The tile floor beneath his cleats was slick with water and discarded tape. Thiago pressed his palms against his knees, feeling the tremor in his muscles—not from fatigue, but from the electric current of a match still very much alive. His boots tapped an absent rhythm against the floor, the studs clicking like a metronome keeping time.

Across the narrow space, Rafael leaned against the lockers, his chest still heaving. A bruise was already forming along his ribcage where a Santos midfielder had caught him with an elbow. "We’ve got them," he murmured, voice hoarse from shouting. The words weren’t boastful—just fact.

Eneas didn’t waste time with speeches. He stepped into the center of the room, a whiteboard marker clutched in his grip like a weapon. The diagram he drew was simple, brutal in its precision.

"They’re leaking space here—" He tapped the left flank. "—and here." The right channel. "Thiago, when you isolate that fullback, their center-half is slow to cover. Rafael, I need you switching play two touches earlier. Nando, stop drifting—you’re clogging the very space we’re trying to open."

The marker squeaked as he circled a critical area. "Next fifteen minutes, we equalize. Then we strangle them."

The whistle from the tunnel official pierced the air. Thiago rose, his body protesting every movement. Around him, teammates exchanged wordless nods—the kind of understanding that only came from shared battles. A defender spat into the drain. The captain cracked his neck. Someone muttered a prayer.

Then they stepped back into the fire.

The noise hit like a physical force as they emerged from the tunnel. The stands were a living entity now, the Palmeiras faithful singing themselves hoarse, their voices weaving into a chorus that vibrated in Thiago’s teeth. The scent of the pitch—freshly cut grass underlaid with the acrid bite of flare smoke—flooded his senses. Above, the stadium lights burned white-hot against the night sky, casting long shadows across the turf.

Second half.

One goal behind.

Everything still possible.

Palmeiras kicked off, and from the first touch, their intent was clear. Rafael demanded the ball immediately, his passes sharper now, more urgent. A quick exchange with the defensive midfielder, then a raking diagonal toward the left flank—

Thiago was already moving.

The ball skipped once, twice, before meeting his outstretched boot. He killed its momentum with the outside of his foot, feeling the defender’s breath hot on his neck. A drop of the shoulder sold the feint left; the chop back inside sent his marker stumbling. The crowd roared as he exploded down the touchline, his strides eating up the turf.

Near the byline, he glanced up. Too many white shirts in the box. No clear target.

So he cut it back—a wicked, low pass that sliced through the penalty area.

Rafael arrived like a thunderclap, his shot struck with venom—

Only to be blocked by a desperate, outstretched heel.

The groan from the stands was deafening.

Every touch now carried weight. Every decision pulsed with consequence. At the 52nd minute, Santos tried to reset, Neymar dropping deep to collect the ball near his own penalty area. But Palmeiras’ press was relentless—a coordinated hunt that forced turnovers in dangerous areas.

Thiago remained patient, a predator conserving energy. He hugged the touchline, stretching Santos’ backline to its limits. Then, at 56’, the dam broke.

Rafael intercepted a lazy pass, his head snapping up instantly.

The ball arced toward the left flank—a perfect, looping diagonal.

Thiago caught it in full stride, his first touch sending it slightly ahead to maintain momentum. The Santos fullback gave chase, but the angle was already lost.

Two defenders collapsed inward as he neared the box.

Nando screamed for the cross—

But Thiago had other ideas.

A sharp cut inside onto his weaker foot, a half-yard of space created—

The shot was pure instinct, curling toward the far corner like a homing missile.

It dipped.

It swerved.

And it missed by inches, grazing the top of the net.

The stadium gasped as one.

By the hour mark, Santos’ defense was fraying at the edges. Their clearances grew panicked, their marking less precise. Thiago exploited every gap—drifting inside to overload midfield, then bursting wide to stretch them thin.

Then came 63’.

A quick one-two between Rafael and the defensive midfielder. A clever dummy. The ball rolled into Nando, who flicked it first-time into the left channel—

Thiago was already there.

Time seemed to slow as he raced onto the pass, the goalkeeper rushing out to meet him.

Options flashed:

Shoot near post?

Round the keeper?

Chip?

He chose the latter—a delicate lift that sent the ball floating goalward.

But it hung just a fraction too long.

The keeper’s fingertips brushed it—

And the crossbar shuddered as the ball cannoned off it.

Thiago slammed a fist into the turf before springing back up. No time for regret. Only the next chance.

That chance came at 67’.

Rafael’s pass wasn’t into space this time—it was a disguised reverse ball, weighted perfectly into Thiago’s path as he darted between defenders.

One touch to steady.

Two to set himself.

Then—

Contact.

The strike was pure, the technique flawless—inside of the foot, low, bending away from the diving keeper.

The net bulged.

GOAL.

The roar that followed wasn’t just noise—it was a seismic event, shaking the very foundations of Allianz Parque. Thiago didn’t sprint to the corner flag. Didn’t backflip or preen. He simply walked to the sideline, fists clenched, eyes closed, drinking in the moment.

Release.

Redemption.

His teammates mobbed him, their shouts lost in the cacophony. Rafael gripped his head, screaming something unintelligible. Nando nearly tackled him in celebration.

1–1 on aggregate.

But they weren’t done.

Eneas made his move—a fresh midfielder to maintain tempo. Palmeiras didn’t sit back. They pressed higher, hunted in packs.

And Thiago?

He kept coming.

A slaloming run past two defenders. A whipped cross that forced a desperate punch from the keeper. A clever backheel to unlock space.

Every touch was a threat.

Every movement, a promise.

But Santos still had their ace.

And as the clock ticked toward 75’, Neymar reminded everyone why.

Picking up the ball deep, he turned on a dime, leaving two defenders grasping at air. His acceleration was terrifying, his dribble a blur of feints and stops.

The storm wasn’t over.

But neither was Thiago’s fire.

And the night’s final act was yet to come