Limitless Pitch-Chapter 111 – Watching from the Sidelines

A/N:

Sorry guys for the recent drop in frequency for Chapters (and quality), Ive just been swamped with uni assignments right now so i cant rly find the time to properly focus on writing. But hopefully tho ill be back to uploading more Chapters later next month after my exams.

yea i just wanted to give a quick update and I hope u guys still continue reading thanks.

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Thiago had always been allergic to stillness.

Even as a child, he’d squirmed through church services, his small feet tapping restless rhythms against the wooden pews until his mother’s sharp elbow silenced him. He’d pace the length of their tiny kitchen while waiting for his sister to finish brushing her teeth, fingers drumming against his thighs in time with some internal metronome. On car rides, he’d press his forehead against the cool glass of the window, counting passing streetlights just to give his racing mind something to latch onto.

That same restless energy coiled in his muscles now, making his right knee bounce uncontrollably as he sat slumped in the corner of his apartment’s couch.

Bundesliga matchday three. Dortmund versus Wolfsburg.

And his name wasn’t on the team sheet.

Not among the substitutes. Not even in the extended matchday squad. No pre-match rituals in the locker room, no adrenaline-fueled warmup under the blinding stadium lights, no chance to prove himself when it mattered most.

He’d given everything in training this week - arriving before dawn to put in extra work, staying late to perfect his pressing angles, running drills until his muscles screamed for mercy. No careless fouls, no half-hearted efforts, nothing that should have given Klopp reason to doubt him. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe this was simply the reality of squad rotation, the cold calculus of managing players through a grueling season.

Still.

The knowledge did nothing to dull the sting.

Thiago sank deeper into the couch, his legs splayed wide, arms draped limply over the backrest like a discarded jacket. The television’s glow painted shifting patterns across the bare walls of his living room, the only decoration a single framed photo of his family back in Brazil gathering dust on the bookshelf. Pre-match footage played - sweeping aerial shots of the Westfalenstadion’s famous Yellow Wall, a pulsating sea of scarves and flags that seemed to move as one living organism. Close-ups of children with faces painted in black and yellow, their wide eyes shining with uncontainable excitement.

His apartment felt suffocatingly small in comparison. The speakers couldn’t replicate how sound physically vibrated through your chest when you stood on that pitch, how the very air seemed to crackle with eighty thousand voices rising in unison. The difference between watching a storm through a window and standing out in the rain.

With a frustrated grunt, he grabbed the remote and turned the volume down a notch, as if creating distance might lessen the ache. Then he hunched forward, pulling his hoodie tighter around his shoulders like a protective shell. The seasons were beginning their slow turn - mornings carried a sharper bite now, his breath visible in the apartment until he remembered to turn on the heating. The tile floor stayed cold underfoot long after sunrise, and the windows fogged over with just a few minutes of cooking.

And yet, his fingers didn’t ache with cold like they had during those first brutal weeks in Germany. Small mercies.

His phone lay facedown on the chipped coffee table, dark and silent. No encouraging texts from teammates. No last-minute updates from the coaching staff. Just the blank screen, heavy with unspoken questions. Part of him hoped for a message - Kuba sending some ridiculous meme to lighten the mood, Großkreutz asking if he was watching, even Marina checking in with her usual blunt assessment of the situation.

Nothing.

The broadcast cut to Klopp in the dugout, his familiar wild hair barely contained under a black beanie, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the pitch with that unnerving intensity. He looked calm. Focused. Completely unbothered by the absence of one young winger from his matchday plans.

The lineup scrolling across the screen was undeniably strong.

Barrios leading the line with his trademark predatory instincts. Kuba and Großkreutz stretching the flanks with endless energy. Götze pulling strings in midfield like the prodigy he was. Hummels marshaling the defense with that rare combination of physicality and intelligence. The bench held experience and reliability - Hornschuh, Owomoyela, Bender - no room for sentimentality, no concessions to potential over proven quality.

Thiago wasn’t bitter.

He just hated watching.

Not because he didn’t care. He wanted Dortmund to win with every fiber of his being. Wanted Barrios to bag another goal, wanted Großkreutz to finally connect with one of those thunderous long-range efforts he attempted every game. But deeper than that, coiled tight in his gut like a spring wound too far, was the need to be out there - to feel the grass crunch under his cleats, to hear his name echo through the cauldron of noise, to matter when it counted.

The referee’s whistle pierced through the speakers.

For a while, he let himself sink into the familiar rhythm of the game. He could read their pressing triggers now - how they shifted as a unit, the subtle cues that signaled when to push or drop. He saw Kuba floating between roles, part winger, part inside forward depending on the phase of play. Noticed how Götze’s slight frame belied his ability to dictate tempo, his head always up, always searching.

Then, in the 21st minute, Wolfsburg nearly scored.

Their striker - a hulking menace with the turning circle of a tank but the acceleration of a sports car - cut inside and unleashed a shot that cannoned off the post with a metallic clang that rang through the speakers like a gunshot.

Thiago flinched, his entire body tensing as if he could will the ball to stay out through sheer force of will.

"Merda," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck where tension had gathered into a hard knot.

Dortmund responded like the champions they were. Kuba forced a smart save with a curling effort. Großkreutz sent a cross sailing just beyond Barrios’ outstretched boot. Then came the breakthrough - Barrios holding up play before laying off to Götze, who danced past two defenders with effortless grace before slotting home with the calm precision of a veteran.

1-0.

Thiago exhaled sharply. Not relief. Something closer to envy, maybe. Or longing. A dull ache settling behind his ribs like a weight he couldn’t dislodge. He wanted to be out there in the cold, in the noise, in the beautiful mess of it all. Not safe on his couch, not a spectator in his own story.

He pushed to his feet abruptly, pacing the short distance to the kitchenette where he poured himself a glass of water he didn’t really want. The condensation beaded on the cool glass, matching the sweat gathering at his temples despite the apartment’s chill. The commentators droned behind him - effusive praise for Götze’s composure, tactical analysis of Klopp’s system, meaningless statistics about Dortmund’s youth development pipeline.

None of it helped.

He dropped back onto the couch with a sigh that did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders, trying and failing to quiet the storm in his mind.

But his thoughts kept circling back to training two days ago - the moment he’d misread a pressing trigger during the second rondo drill. Buvač had stopped play with a sharp whistle. No yelling, just that look. The kind that said fix it immediately or don’t bother showing up tomorrow.

Or maybe it was the 6v6 afterward, when he’d drifted too wide and lost possession under minimal pressure. He’d won it back immediately with a crunching tackle, but hesitation was hesitation. Maybe that was all it took at this level. One misstep. One moment of doubt.

His fist clenched against the couch cushion, nails digging into the fabric hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations in the material.

"Whatever," he muttered through gritted teeth, the words tasting bitter. "Just be better."

He forced his attention back to the screen, where the game continued without him.

Wolfsburg fought with the desperation of a team knowing they were outmatched. Dortmund held firm, their shape compact, their movements precise. They looked assured. Complete.

Like they didn’t need him.

That thought lodged in his throat like a bone, making it hard to swallow.

The match wore on with methodical efficiency. Großkreutz made way for Owomoyela in the 73rd minute, his energy reserves depleted. Bender replaced Götze later to shore up the midfield, his fresh legs closing down passing lanes. No drama. No panic. No last-minute heroics required.

Just a clean, professional 1-0 win that sent them top of the table.

Thiago killed the feed before the post-match interviews could begin, unable to stomach the platitudes and empty praise.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at his distorted reflection in the darkened screen, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced in the dim light.

Then he moved with sudden purpose, grabbing his boots from their spot under the coffee table where they’d sat unused all day. He laced them up with quick, sharp tugs, the familiar routine grounding him somewhat. Without bothering to change out of his sweatpants and hoodie, he headed outside into the waiting night.

The cold air hit him like a slap - bracing, honest, real in a way the sterile apartment hadn’t been. The pavement glistened under the streetlights, still damp from an earlier rain that had left the world smelling faintly of wet concrete and autumn leaves. He jogged the familiar route to the small community pitch he’d discovered weeks ago, tucked unceremoniously between towering apartment blocks. Nothing fancy. Cracked concrete with tufts of stubborn grass pushing through, chain-link fencing that rattled in the wind, a single goal that listed slightly to the left like a drunk leaning on a lamppost for support.

He didn’t stretch. Didn’t warm up properly. Just dropped the ball from his hands and moved.

Touches. Sharp turns that sent gravel skittering. One-twos played against the fence with enough force to make the metal links shudder. Sprints to the halfway mark and back until his lungs burned. Drive. Cut. Spin. Repeat.

He worked like a man possessed, like someone trying to sweat the doubt from his very bloodstream.

Not because he was angry at Klopp for the decision. Not because he resented the players who had been selected ahead of him.

He was angry at himself.

Because he knew - with a certainty that bordered on obsession - that he could be better. Had to be better.

If Klopp had looked at him this week and thought not today, that was on him. Football at this level didn’t care about fairness. Didn’t care about potential. It cared about what you delivered when the stakes were highest.

Thiago hammered a left-footed shot into the net with enough force to send the chain links rattling, watched the rebound arc high into the air, chased it down with teeth gritted.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The nearby church bells tolled eleven by the time he finally stopped, the sound echoing through the empty streets.

His chest heaved like a bellows. His hoodie clung to his back, soaked through with sweat that chilled instantly in the night air. His palms stung from friction, the skin rubbed raw from hours of repetitive motion.

He collapsed onto the grass, legs sprawled inelegantly, head tipped back to stare at the cloud-choked sky. The stars were invisible tonight, smothered by light pollution and incoming weather. Only the orange glow of distant streetlights gave shape to the world around him.

He breathed in the cold, deep and deliberate, feeling it burn all the way down to his lungs.

Then, to the empty pitch, to the indifferent night, to the version of himself that still believed in impossible things:

"Next time, you won’t have a choice, Klopp."

Not a threat. Not defiance.

A promise.

To himself.