Limitless Pitch-Chapter 110 – Move onwards

It didn’t matter that he already had two assists. The pitch didn’t remember.

Training started at 8:00 AM sharp, and by 8:15, Thiago was already sweating through his base layer. The sky was the kind of washed-out gray that made everything feel colder than it actually was, and the wind had teeth again. He adjusted his neck warmer and kept moving.

One good pass wouldn’t keep him in the squad. One moment of vision wouldn’t protect him from the bench. He’d played two matches for Dortmund—his debut and then the next one, where he’d somehow picked out Barrios again with a cross that looked simple but came from hours of practice hitting the same ball at slightly different angles. Two assists. Two tiny cracks of light.

And still, none of it meant anything now.

What mattered was today. This drill. The next drill. Then tomorrow. Then the next week.

He jogged out onto the pitch with the others, already shifting through mental notes. The mistakes he’d made in the last match. The space he’d failed to close fast enough. The run he should’ve made but hesitated on. His lungs had been tight in the second half. That had to change.

He wanted to be sharper. Quicker.

The warm-up jog turned into short sprints. Then cones. Then ball work. Touch, turn, pass. Again. Thiago kept his eyes on the ball, even when the wind whipped across the field and made his ears sting. His fingers were numb by the time they got to possession drills, but his brain had kicked into gear.

6v3. Two-touch max. Don’t lose the ball.

He stayed light on his feet, intercepting a lazy pass from one of the academy defenders and returning it clean with his left. Götze gave him a quick nod. That was enough. No celebration. Just reset and repeat.

Klopp watched from the far sideline, hands jammed deep into his coat. Buvač stood nearby, occasionally muttering into a notepad.

No one yelled much in the cold. The corrections came quick and clipped.

"Stay compact."

"Move it earlier."

"Eyes up."

Thiago absorbed it all.

When they switched into full-sided play, the tempo shot up. Everyone wanted to impress. Hummels barked instructions like a man possessed. Kuba flared down the wings. Even the fringe players played like they were trying to claw their way into someone else’s spot.

Thiago got dropped into the midfield with Kehl and Götze, and it was a mixed bag.

Some good combinations. Some clever movement. One cut-back pass that nearly led to a goal. But he also misread a pressing cue and left his zone too early once—an error that Buvač clocked and scribbled down.

He cursed under his breath and didn’t make the same mistake again.

Großkreutz slammed into a tackle two feet from Thiago with a wild shout that made him flinch.

"Come on, kid!" the winger bellowed. "You’re not glass!"

Thiago gave him a look, then pushed forward harder on the next sequence.

The coaches blew the whistle after a full hour. Everyone slowed down into cooldown jogs and light stretches, panting in the cold. Thiago walked it off slowly, trying to calm the fire in his calves.

"Decent movement," came a voice beside him.

Kehl, arms crossed. "You’re still thinking about some of the decisions though. Don’t. Just go."

Thiago nodded. "I’m trying."

Kehl shrugged. "Try less. Trust more."

That was all he said before moving off.

After stretching and cooldowns, the squad shuffled back toward the training building in small clumps. Boots caked in grass, sleeves rolled up, steam rising off damp hair and bodies. Someone threw a snowball at Owomoyela. Someone else slipped near the entrance and pretended it was intentional.

Thiago kept to himself mostly. He wasn’t as quiet as he used to be, but he still hadn’t figured out how to flow into every group. He knew how to play with them now—he just didn’t always know how to joke like them. Not yet. But it didn’t bother him as much these days. The silence felt a bit more comfortable now.

They rinsed off, changed quickly, and headed into the tactical room.

The projector was already on.

Thiago sat two rows from the front, beside Kuba and behind Barrios, who was chewing gum like it owed him money. Klopp entered without drama, tossed his coat over a chair, and walked straight to the whiteboard.

"We’re away again this weekend," he said, flipping the board.

The lineups were handwritten. Starters first. Substitutes second.

Thiago’s eyes scanned the list automatically. Goalkeeper. Backline. Midfield. Forward line.

His name wasn’t there.

He checked again. Then again.

Not even on the bench.

There it was. Clear. No number 17 anywhere.

His chest didn’t drop. It just... held still.

Kuba didn’t say anything. Barrios didn’t turn around. The room just kept moving, the names being read aloud, the rotation explained, the formation breakdown on the screen shifting from slide to slide.

It wasn’t personal. He knew that.

Some players were rotated out all the time. Some matches were just a different tactical fit. Some weeks, your legs weren’t as sharp as someone else’s. And he’d played twice already. Two assists. Two good performances.

But not enough. Not yet.

Thiago sat through the rest of the session with his hands folded in his lap.

He didn’t slump. Didn’t sulk. Just listened. Took notes when needed. Nodded when Buvač made eye contact with him.

It didn’t crush him. But it stung. Quietly.

After the session, most of the players filtered out, talking about the opponent’s pressing patterns or where they’d grab lunch. Thiago stayed a little longer in the room, rewatching a clip on the paused projector screen—just a pressing sequence Dortmund had used last match.

He tried to see it again, differently this time. Tried to imagine where he might’ve fit into it. If he had been out there.

Kuba walked past him on his way out, then stopped. Backed up.

"Next one," he said, tapping the projector with the back of his hand. "Be ready."

Thiago gave a small nod.

"I’m not upset," he said softly.

"Didn’t say you were," Kuba replied. "Just... don’t start overthinking. We’ve all been benched before. Sometimes three weeks in a row. Sometimes three months."

He paused, then added: "Your name’s still in the room. That’s what matters."

Thiago looked up. "You sound like Kehl."

Kuba smirked. "That’s the worst insult I’ve heard all week."

Then he walked off.

Thiago shut off the projector a minute later.

He didn’t storm out. He didn’t replay every mistake he’d made in training on a loop. He just walked slowly back down the hallway, his boots tapping lightly against the floor.

Being dropped hurt. But it didn’t break him.

He was still here.

Still part of it.

That had to be enough. For now.

He finished unlacing the rest of his boots and packed them into his bag. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. Somewhere, a janitor’s cart clanked past the hall. Thiago pulled on his jacket and headed out.

Outside, the sky was still grey. Dortmund’s winter didn’t care if you were happy or not. The clouds looked like they’d been stapled in place for weeks. He walked to the tram stop with his hood up, shoulders hunched—not sulking, just thinking.

The tram rumbled in. He stepped in with the rest of the commuters—nurses, schoolkids, one guy with paint-stained overalls—and found a seat near the back.

As the city blurred past the glass, he thought about home.

Not Dortmund.

Real home.

He thought about the leaky pipe under the kitchen sink that dripped into a stained bucket. About the cracked window in the bedroom he and Clara used to share, the one that rattled when the wind picked up. The tile in the hallway that always popped loose when you stepped on it wrong.

That house wasn’t fancy.

But it had held them together.

He remembered coming back late from training, he remembered the feel of the living room couch, the itchy one that sagged in the middle, and how he and Clara would fight over the good blanket during movie nights.

It hadn’t been easy.

None of it had.

But it had been theirs.

And now he was here. Not on the list this week. But still here.

In Germany. With two assists already under his belt. Wearing the same yellow crest that once felt miles out of reach.

That house? It could be fixed. The roof, the windows, the floors. All of it.

He didn’t need a mansion. His mom didn’t either. But they didn’t have to keep living in a place that broke down more every winter.

The money was there now. The chance to breathe. Even a little.

He’d talk to Marina. Get it moving.

But for now... he needed to stay sharp.

The tram hissed to a stop. He got off near his building, shoulders hunched as the wind picked up again. Inside, he tossed his bag to the side, changed into a dry hoodie, and sat at the edge of his bed.

The matchday lineup still hovered in his mind. Names read off. Not his.

It didn’t hurt really but he could feel it, just under the surface.

A reminder.

Not punishment. Just proof.

You’re not there yet.

He stood up and pulled out the ball from under his bed. Moved the small table near the window. Made space. He couldn’t go to the pitch now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move. Couldn’t sharpen.

Taps against the wall. First touch. Control. Quick feet.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty.

Eventually, his legs started to ache. But the ache felt good.

Earned.

Thiago set the ball down, caught his breath, and stretched his arms up toward the ceiling.

He was in Germany.

He’d worn the shirt. He’d made the pass. Twice.

But that wasn’t enough.

Not for where he wanted to go.

He couldn’t beg for more minutes. Couldn’t guess at the coach’s decisions. Couldn’t script when the next chance would come.

But he could train.

He could sharpen every part of his game until it forced Klopp’s hand.

Until not picking him became the mistake.

He looked out the window.

The city was quiet, wrapped in wind and grey skies.

Thiago watched for a moment longer.

Then turned away.

Back to work.