Limitless Pitch-Chapter 70 – The Weight of Silence

Rain fell in a fine, misting drizzle over São Paulo the next morning. The kind that didn’t soak you right away—just lingered, settling into fabric, into skin, into the cracks of the pavement until everything felt damp and heavy. Thiago stood beneath the awning outside the Palmeiras training complex, arms folded, hood pulled up against the damp chill, watching the drops trail down the edge of the corrugated metal roof in uneven streams. The sky was the color of wet concrete, pressing low over the training pitches, turning the grass a deeper, richer green.

He hadn’t slept much.

Camila’s voice still echoed in his ears from yesterday.

"I need to think about what you just told me."

She hadn’t looked angry. Not exactly. Just... hurt. Staggered, maybe. Like he’d tilted her world on its axis and expected her to keep walking straight.

He had waited at the café long after she’d left, staring at the untouched pastel on his plate, the golden crust going soft under the condensation from his abandoned coffee. The sound of traffic outside had merged with the swirl of thoughts he couldn’t settle—half-formed apologies, explanations that sounded weak even in his own head. When he finally stood up and walked out into the fading light, the jacaranda petals underfoot now bruised and darkened by foot traffic, it felt like something had cracked—quietly, without ceremony.

Now, on the edge of the training ground, he couldn’t shake it. The weight of it sat in his chest like a stone.

The door behind him creaked open.

Rafael stepped out, already in his warm-up gear, his cleats scraping against the wet pavement. He paused when he saw Thiago, squinting through the drizzle.

"You good?"

"Fine."

"You don’t look fine."

"I’m just tired."

Rafael didn’t push. Just offered a nod and nudged Thiago’s shoulder as he passed, his touch firm, grounding. "Don’t let it eat you. We’ve got a final to prepare for."

Thiago followed a few minutes later. The locker room was alive with chatter—music playing low from someone’s portable speaker, the tinny bassline vibrating against the metal lockers; cleats clacking against the tile floor; jokes and playful insults thrown back and forth. The air smelled of sweat, damp fabric, and the sharp citrus of muscle balm. But he felt removed, like a spectator moving through fog, the sounds muffled, the colors dulled.

He suited up without saying much, methodically pulling on his training jersey, lacing his boots tighter than necessary. freёwebnoѵel.com

Eneas entered with his clipboard tucked under one arm, rain still streaking down his waterproof jacket. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on Thiago for half a second longer than necessary before clapping his hands. "Focus today. No cameras, no press. Tactical walkthroughs and match scenario drills only."

Thiago caught the coach glancing at him again during warm-ups, his expression unreadable.

The drills were sharp. High tempo. Simulated plays against Corinthians’ pressing structure, their defensive shape recreated with cones and reserve players standing in as markers. Eneas rotated Thiago back to his usual spot on the left, tasking him with exploiting space when the opposing fullback pushed too high.

But he didn’t glide like he usually did. His timing was off by a half-step. His dribbles lacked venom, his feints telegraphed. A heavy touch here sent the ball skidding too far ahead. A delayed release there killed a potential counter. Nothing disastrous—but enough for Rafael to notice, enough for Eneas to frown slightly as he scribbled notes.

During a water break, Rafael leaned in, his voice low under the patter of rain on the canopy above them.

"She didn’t take it well?"

Thiago didn’t answer right away. He had asked Rafael for advice on how to break the news to her earlier, back when it still felt abstract, when the idea of leaving was just words and possibilities. Now it was real. Now it had weight.

He stared at the ground, droplets darkening the dirt near his boots.

"She left," he finally said. "Didn’t even say goodbye."

Rafael let out a low breath, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. "That sucks."

"I didn’t expect her to be happy. But I thought..." He stopped, jaw tightening. "I don’t know what I thought."

They stood in silence for a while. Around them, teammates laughed and refilled water bottles, the storm of emotion invisible to anyone else. Someone tossed a ball back and forth, the rhythmic thud-thud of it against the wet grass punctuating the quiet.

"You think she’ll come around?" Rafael asked finally.

Thiago exhaled, watching his breath fog in the damp air. "I don’t know."

The rest of training passed in a blur.

Eneas didn’t call Thiago out, but during the last set of patterns, he stopped play briefly after one of Thiago’s crosses floated too high, sailing over the intended target and skidding harmlessly out of bounds.

"You’re allowed to feel things," the coach said, not unkindly, stepping close enough that only Thiago could hear. "But not here. Not now."

Thiago gave a short nod.

It wasn’t a scolding. Just a line drawn. A reminder.

He stayed behind after the session. Ran sprints alone along the far touchline while the sky finally opened up for real, turning drizzle into downpour. The soaked pitch clung to his studs, each step kicking up sprays of water. His breath came ragged, chest burning, but he didn’t stop until the groundskeepers began rolling up the nets, until the floodlights flickered off one by one.

Later, back in the dorms, he sat on his bunk, towel draped around his shoulders, hair still damp. The room smelled of rain and laundry detergent, the faint mustiness of damp towels left too long in a pile. Outside, the storm continued, rain tapping against the window in a steady rhythm.

He scrolled through his messages.

Nothing from Camila.

He pulled up the System.

It blinked into view, quieter than usual, the blue holographic text hovering just above his forearm.

SYSTEM STATUS

Level: 15

EXP: 212 / 600

Skill Points: 11

Attributes:

Pace – 70

Dribbling – 71

Shooting – 67

Passing – 69

Physicality – 66

Mentality – 64

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control – 72

Trick Execution – 63

Stamina – 64

Vision – 67

Perks:

Anchored Presence

Active Quest: Crowning Glory

Win the Campeonato Paulista final vs Corinthians

Reward:

+1 to all base attributes upon success

He stared at the quest title for a long time.

Crowning Glory.

He was close. So close.

But right now, it felt distant. Like something meant for a different version of himself—one not carrying the weight of fractured conversations and unsent messages.

He closed the System.

Tomorrow they’d review video. The day after, set pieces. Then the final.

It was coming fast.

And he couldn’t let himself be anything less than ready.

But tonight? Tonight he sat still, listening to the storm, the patter of rain on the window, and the whisper of everything he might be leaving behind.

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