Limitless Pitch-Chapter 76 – The Shape of What’s Coming

The day before the second leg began not with a whistle, but with a pen.

Thiago sat hunched at his desk in the Palmeiras dormitory, flipping through a spiral-bound notebook filled with scribbled diagrams and coach Eneas’ sharp block handwriting. The pages were worn at the edges, some corners folded from repeated use, others stained with the faint rings of coffee cups pressed too eagerly against them. Half-spilled Gatorade sweated beside his elbow, forgotten in the midday heat, its neon orange hue dulled by the sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. Outside, the sounds of São Paulo filtered in—the rhythmic honking of rush-hour traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from the youth team jogging past his window, the distant whistle of a coach drilling set pieces on the far pitch.

But inside, everything had narrowed to one focus: Corinthians.

The final. The last leg. The biggest match of his life—so far.

The first leg had ended 2–1 in their favor, but no one was under the illusion that it was over.

Not with a one-goal lead.

Not against Corinthians.

The room’s small television played back footage from the previous game on loop, the screen flickering with the same moments over and over: his assist to Nando, the ball curling perfectly into the striker’s path; Rafael’s perfectly timed interception, a lunging tackle that sent the ball spiraling into open space; the overloads down the left that had stretched Corinthians’ double pivot until it tore like wet paper.

But what stuck with him most was the moment right before Rafael’s winner—the phase of play he’d helped build with a faint disguised pass into midfield, a flick of his boot so subtle even the cameras had nearly missed it. That pass had triggered the entire motion, the domino effect that led to the goal.

He hadn’t touched the ball again after that.

But that pass had changed everything.

"Be the match’s architect," Eneas had told him during recovery yesterday, crouched beside Thiago on the sidelines, his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear. The older man’s breath had smelled of strong coffee and mint gum, his calloused fingers tapping Thiago’s knee for emphasis. "Not just the spark—be the one who draws the map the others follow."

Today, Eneas delivered more than philosophy.

He stood at the front of the tactics room now, arms crossed, the big touchscreen behind him displaying a rough schematic of Corinthians’ likely formation: a 4–4–1–1, compact, aggressive, with their midfielders quick to close space and their full-backs given freedom to bomb forward. The digital markers glowed under the dimmed lights, red arrows indicating pressing triggers, blue zones marking where Palmeiras needed to exploit.

"You’ll stretch them wide," Eneas said, eyes locking onto Thiago’s. "Left wing, like always. We’ll pull their block apart horizontally. Rafael will float into the right half-space to overload their DM."

Thiago nodded, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the playbook in front of him.

"What about their right-back?"

Eneas smirked. "Strong. But hot-headed. You beat him once, he gets reckless. Draw the foul. Draw the yellow. Then punish."

He tapped the board again, the screen shifting to show a heat map of Corinthians’ defensive vulnerabilities. "Nando will drop deeper this time, acting more like a false 9. Pull their center-backs out. We create chaos. Thiago, you’ll need to pick your moments to invert."

"Got it."

Eneas shifted the screen to defensive shape. "If we’re leading late, we drop into a 5–4–1. Thiago, you track back fully. You’re fast, but it’s your discipline I’m counting on."

There were no objections. Just heads nodding. Shoulders squared. Jaws set. Everyone locked in.

The meeting broke up after another twenty minutes, the players filtering out into the training ground under a blazing São Paulo sun. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and the faint tang of sunscreen from the youth team still running drills.

Thiago stayed behind.

His fingers tapped the whiteboard frame once. Then again. The metal was cool under his touch, grounding.

"You alright?" Eneas asked, grabbing his clipboard, his voice softer now that they were alone.

"Yeah," Thiago said, exhaling through his nose. "Just... keeping it all in my head."

Eneas studied him for a long moment before nodding. "You’ve already internalized it. I can see it in how you carry yourself. Let the others memorize. You just read the game."

Thiago smiled faintly. "Thanks, professor."

Eneas offered a nod and left, the door clicking shut behind him. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Alone in the room, Thiago let himself exhale fully, rolling his shoulders to release the tension coiled there. The nerves humming under his skin weren’t fear.

They were focus.

Later that evening, back in his dorm, the sky outside began to turn soft with sunset, streaks of pink and gold bleeding through the smog of the city. He sat cross-legged on his bed, the television muted, flipping through clips on his phone of past finals—some Brazilian, some European—watching how winners handled the moment before the moment. The way Zidane had paused before that volley in Glasgow. How Ronaldinho had smiled before dismantling Real Madrid at the Bernabéu. The stillness in Messi’s posture before a decisive run.

His phone buzzed with a call.

MÃE lit up on the screen.

He swiped instantly.

"Oi, mãe," he said, his voice softening without him realizing.

"I was wondering when you’d finally remember your old mother."

Her voice was teasing, but only barely. Thiago could picture her perfectly—leaning against the kitchen counter back home, the faint hum of the TV in the background, her fingers drumming against the countertop the way they always did when she was pretending not to worry.

"I’ve been training. Coach Eneas is—he’s demanding. In a good way."

"I saw the match," she said, tone dropping into something quieter. "The first leg. You looked... grown."

That stopped him.

"Grown?"

"Not just older. Not just stronger. You looked like someone who knows what he’s doing. That cross? That run? It didn’t look like luck anymore."

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the edge of his phone case.

"I miss you," he said eventually.

"I know," she replied. "And I’m proud of you."

There was a beat. Then—

"How’s Camila?"

Silence.

Thiago swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "We’re not together anymore."

Another beat. But she didn’t sound surprised.

"She’s a good girl," she said.

"She is."

"She’ll be okay. And so will you."

His fingers tightened around the phone. "I know."

They didn’t say anything for a few seconds, just listening to each other breathe across the static of distance.

"I’ll be there tomorrow," she said suddenly, her voice firm.

Thiago blinked. "What?"

"I’m taking the first bus in the morning. I already talked to Tia Lucia—she’s lending me her car if I miss the last one."

"Mãe, you don’t have to—"

"I want to," she interrupted. "This is your final. Your moment. I’m not watching it through a screen."

Thiago’s chest ached. He could hear the stubbornness in her voice, the same tone she’d used when he was seven and she’d marched into his school to demand they let him try out for the older kids’ team.

"Okay," he said, his voice rough.

"Okay," she echoed.

That night, Thiago stood once again under the single bulb in the dorm hallway, staring out the window at the lit-up training pitch. The floodlights cast long shadows across the grass, the empty field looking almost ghostly in the quiet dark. Nando passed by on his way to the bathroom, ruffled his hair without stopping.

"Rest that left foot. We’re gonna need it."

Thiago didn’t answer.

He already knew the role he’d play.

Tomorrow wasn’t just another match.

It was a promise—to himself, to Camila, to his mother, to Palmeiras.

And the time for thinking had passed.

Tomorrow, he’d speak with his feet.

Visit freewe𝑏(n)ovel.co(m) for the b𝘦st novel reading experience