Limitless Pitch-Chapter 78 – Ashes and Ascent

The Palmeiras locker room was a furnace of silence.

Not the quiet of exhaustion, but the kind that pressed against skin, that filled the lungs heavier than air. Shinguards had been tossed to the floor, straps still undone. Water bottles sat untouched, condensation dripping onto the bench. Three goals down, with forty-five minutes left to play—against Corinthians, in their own den, where the very walls seemed to vibrate with hostility.

Eneas stood at the center, arms crossed, his jaw locked so tightly the vein on his temple pulsed like a metronome. No clipboard. No tactics board.

Just his voice.

"Three-nil."

He let the words hang, sharp as a blade.

"Three goals. That’s what they gave you. Not because they’re better." He pointed a finger, the gesture slicing through the room. "But because you let them."

No one spoke. Not Thiago, his hands clenched at his sides. Not Rafael, whose usual fire had dimmed to embers. Not even Nando, whose fingers still trembled where they gripped his knees.

"They’re not smarter. They’re not faster. They’re not stronger." Eneas paced now, his boots thudding against the tile like a drumbeat. "But they want it more. They showed up to a war, and we came dressed for a parade."

His voice climbed, raw and unrelenting.

"They came to break us, and we let them. One bad touch, and we panicked. One goal, and we forgot who the hell we are."

He turned sharply, jabbing a finger at the Palmeiras badge above Thiago’s chest.

"You think they fear that shirt? They don’t. Not anymore."

Rafael’s jaw twitched. Nando exhaled hard through his nose. Thiago didn’t move, his gaze fixed ahead, unblinking.

Eneas dropped his voice, slower now. Cold. Cutting.

"You have forty-five minutes to remind them. You don’t need a miracle. You need to fight. One. Fucking. Goal. At a time."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Thiago."

The room shifted.

Thiago looked up.

"You wanted to be the difference?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Then be it."

The whistle blew, and Palmeiras stepped back onto the pitch with a new ferocity. The midfield compressed, the passes snapping like whips. Thiago, still stationed on the left, dropped deeper to collect—and this time, when the fullback lunged at him, he didn’t dance.

He drove.

60th minute.

It started with Rafael, throwing himself into a crunching slide tackle in midfield. The ball squirted loose, bouncing toward the left flank—and Thiago was already in motion, his legs pistons, his breath sharp in his lungs.

He scooped the ball with one touch, dragging it into space, shrugging off a desperate tug at his jersey. The field opened before him like a parting sea.

He cut inside, his body a coiled spring.

Corinthians tried to close the trap—two defenders converging—but Thiago saw the sliver of space ahead. Rafael, surging forward like a battering ram, screaming for the ball.

A flick of the boot.

The pass slipped between two defenders, weighted to perfection.

Rafael didn’t break stride.

One touch to kill it.

Then—blast.

The ball rocketed toward the top corner, a missile past the keeper’s flailing fingertips.

3–1.

The Palmeiras bench erupted, water bottles flying, substitutes leaping over the railing. Thiago didn’t celebrate—just jogged back, lips pressed tight, his focus narrowing to a razor’s edge.

He wasn’t done.

67th minute.

Corinthians responded like a wounded beast. Their counter was lethal—two passes, and suddenly their winger was in full flight down the right, the crowd roaring back to life.

The cross came in, hard and flat, a bullet aimed for the six-yard box.

But Silva—Palmeiras’ grizzled center-back—threw his body into the path like a human shield. The ball thudded against his chest, and before it could drop, he hacked it into the stands.

A roar of approval from the traveling fans. Belief flickered again.

72nd minute.

Palmeiras pressed higher now, their hunger palpable. Thiago’s heatmap would later show a wildfire across the left flank—every touch, every run, a spark.

He received a switch-pass just past midfield. The fullback charged at him, overcommitting.

Thiago touched it past him with the outside of his boot.

A stutter-step froze the covering midfielder.

Then—the chop inside.

And suddenly, space.

From 25 yards out, the moment stretched, the world slowing.

He didn’t think. He felt.

His right foot wrapped around the ball, the outside of his boot connecting with a vicious snap.

The shot curled like a scimitar, bending away from the keeper’s desperate dive.

Goal.

3–2.

This time, Thiago celebrated—a single pump of his fist, teeth bared in a silent snarl.

Eneas on the sideline clapped once, hard.

"Again!" he barked.

76th minute.

A turnover in midfield. Their winger exploded down the flank again—but Rafael tracked him every step, his lungs burning. At the edge of the box, he launched into a slide, his body a wave crashing against the attack.

The pass was cut out.

A corner followed—but Palmeiras held.

The line was stronger now.

83rd minute.

Another Corinthians thrust—this time through the heart.

A deft through-ball nearly split the defense, the striker poised to kill the game.

But Silva again—his timing immaculate, his outstretched toe poking the ball away at the last possible second.

Palmeiras launched their own counter—Thiago weaving through bodies before slipping a pass to Nando.

Saved.

The tension was unbearable.

88th minute.

Corner for Palmeiras.

Thiago jogged over to take it, the stadium holding its breath. He locked eyes with Rafael.

A nod.

The ball came in—short, intentional.

Rafael stopped it dead, tapped it back.

Thiago, from just outside the box, whipped in a high, curling cross with his left foot.

Except—

It wasn’t a cross.

It hung just long enough for the defense to misjudge it.

Nando rose, nodding it back across goal.

And there—

Thiago.

Chest.

Let it drop.

Volley.

Pure.

The ball screamed through a thicket of legs, the net rippling like a struck flag.

3–3.

His teammates swallowed him whole, roaring, dragging him toward the Palmeiras fans who were now louder than the entire stadium.

But in his head—there was nothing but stillness.

Flow.

No past. frёewebηovel.cѳm

No future.

Just the now.

"UNBELIEVABLE! ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE!" The commentator’s voice crackled through the broadcast, hoarse with disbelief. "Palmeiras, dead and buried at halftime, have risen from the ashes to level this tie! An aggregate score of 5-4 in their favor—they’ve done the impossible!"

The camera panned to Thiago, still breathing hard, his shirt drenched in sweat.

"And what can you say about Thiago? A masterclass in the second half. A goal, an assist, and the composure of a veteran when his team needed him most. This wasn’t just a comeback—this was a statement."

On the pitch, the Palmeiras players collapsed into each other, their bodies spent but their spirits soaring. Corinthians’ players stood frozen, their faces etched with shock.

The final whistle blew.

The Neo Química Arena, once a cauldron of noise, had been silenced.

Except for one corner.

Where green and white roared into the night.

Updated from fr𝒆ewebnov𝒆l.(c)om