Limitless Pitch-Chapter 81 – The First Step

The rooftop café in Jardins didn’t feel like the kind of place a 17-year-old kid from Campinas belonged. White marble tabletops so polished he could see his own nervous reflection in them. Low-slung chairs that looked more like art than furniture. Potted plants spaced just so, like they’d been placed by someone with a ruler and a deep fear of chaos.

And the view.

Christ.

The whole skyline stretched out before them, a jagged tapestry of glass and steel bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon. From up here, even the traffic looked elegant—a slow-moving river of headlights winding between the buildings.

Thiago adjusted his sleeves for the third time. The button-up Marina had insisted he wear was slightly too big in the shoulders, the fabric bunching awkwardly when he moved. He’d never owned a proper dress shirt before this one. His usual wardrobe consisted of club polos, sweat-stained training gear, and the single pair of dark jeans he reserved for family dinners.

Across the table, Marina sat with her legs crossed, her phone face down for once. She looked effortlessly at ease, her sharp blazer and tailored slacks making her seem like she belonged in places like this. Thiago, on the other hand, felt like a kid playing dress-up.

"Relax," she murmured, not looking at him as she stirred her espresso. "This is a conversation, not an interrogation. Just be yourself."

Thiago swallowed. "What if ’myself’ sounds like a kid who’s better at kicking a ball than talking business?"

Marina smirked. "Then that’s exactly what they want."

Before he could reply, a man approached their table.

Late 30s, maybe. Dressed in a tailored black jacket over a black turtleneck, his beard trimmed to that perfect midpoint between stylish and trying-too-hard. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.

"Thiago Silva," he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm but not crushing—the kind of handshake that said you matter without needing to prove anything. "It’s really good to finally meet you in person."

Thiago stood, trying not to overthink the motion. "Nice to meet you too."

The man—Leo, as Marina had called him—turned to her with a nod. "Marina."

"Leo," she replied, her voice smooth. "Thanks for making the time."

They all sat.

Leo didn’t waste words. "I won’t dance around it. I saw the final. I’ve watched the buildup. I’ve read every profile written about you in the last six months." He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. "You’ve been on our youth watchlist for a while, but now? You’re on the board. Not as a maybe. As a priority."

Thiago shifted in his seat. The chair was softer than he expected, the leather sighing under his weight. "Why now?"

Leo didn’t blink. "Because of the way you play. Because of the way you carry yourself. That second-half comeback? The way you spoke after the match? That wasn’t just talent. That was magnetism." He tapped the table lightly. "You’re not just good. You feel like the future."

Then, almost casually, he reached into a sleek leather folder and slid a glossy mockup across the table.

Thiago’s breath caught.

It was a concept campaign—the kind of ad he’d only ever seen starring global superstars. But instead of Mbappé or Neymar, it was him. His silhouette, frozen mid-sprint, a green jersey clinging to his frame. Beneath it, bold lettering:

NO CEILING. NO BORDERS.

THIAGO SILVA. POWERED BY PUMA.

For a second, Thiago just stared. It was surreal, seeing his name like that—like it belonged there.

Leo let the silence hang for a beat before speaking again. "This is just a concept. Nothing’s final. But it’s the energy we see in you. The kind of partnership we want to build."

He leaned in, just enough to make it feel real. "You’d be part of our youth ambassador initiative. Early access to boots. Media training. A signature colorway if things go well." A pause. "You wouldn’t just wear Puma. You’d represent what it means to wear Puma."

Thiago glanced at Marina. She gave him the faintest nod—not pushing, just reminding him: This is yours.

He exhaled. "What about school? My family? The fact I’m not even in Europe yet?"

Leo smiled—a real one this time, the kind that reached his eyes. "That’s exactly why now is the time. You’re still real. Still reachable. Puma doesn’t want finished products. We want stories that are still being written."

Thiago sat back, the weight of it all pressing against his ribs. This wasn’t a pro contract. Wasn’t fame. Wasn’t fortune.

But it was a door.

The first one.

He looked down at the mockup again, at his name beneath those bold, impossible words.

No ceiling. No borders.

He swallowed.

"I’m in."

Leo extended his hand again. "Welcome aboard."

They shook, and this time, Thiago’s grip was steadier.

As they settled back into their seats, Leo flipped to the next page in the folder. Numbers. Charts. Projections that made Thiago’s head spin if he stared too long.

"Now," Leo said, "this part’s a little more technical, but I want you to hear it from me, not just lawyers and email chains."

Thiago leaned in, his fingers tapping absently against his knee.

"We’re offering a two-year youth ambassador contract to start," Leo continued. "Quarterly payments, beginning around fifty thousand reais—per quarter. It’s structured to grow with you. Hit certain benchmarks—playing time in Europe, media exposure, international caps—and it scales up. Fast."

Thiago blinked. "So... like... two hundred thousand a year?"

Leo nodded. "Base compensation. Then there are performance bonuses, a boot deal—Futures or Ultras, depending on what fits your game—and once you move abroad, we start talking image rights and merchandising."

"Wait," Thiago muttered. "Image rights?"

Marina smirked. "Means you get paid when they use your face to sell shoes."

"Oh."

Leo chuckled. "We’ll keep it simple. No sneaky clauses. You’ll also have full access to Puma athlete services—nutritionists, physios, early access to gear. And, if you’re up for it, we’d love to fly you to Germany later this year. Meet the global team. See the factory. Test some prototypes."

Thiago’s eyebrows shot up. "Prototypes?"

"Boots," Leo clarified. "Ones that don’t exist yet. Maybe even ones designed with your feedback."

For a second, Thiago just sat there, trying to process the idea that somewhere in Germany, people were sketching out shoes... for him.

Marina nudged the conversation forward. "And his schooling stays untouched. No obligations that interfere with education or club commitments."

Leo nodded. "We’re not asking you to be an influencer. We’re asking you to be you. Just keep doing what got you here."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Thiago sat back, slowly, and nodded. "So when do I actually... y’know... sign?"

Leo checked his watch—a sleek, silver thing that probably cost more than Thiago’s entire wardrobe. "We’d like to lock things in next week. Tuesday or Wednesday. You pick. We’ll bring the legal team, go through everything line by line."

Thiago glanced at Marina. She didn’t push. Just waited.

"Wednesday," he said.

Leo stood, collecting the folder. "Done. We’ll send over the documents for review. Take your time. No rush."

One last handshake. Firmer now. More certain.

"Congrats," Leo said, then turned to Marina. "Always a pleasure."

And just like that, he was gone, weaving between the tables with the same easy confidence he’d arrived with.

Aftermath

For a long moment, Thiago just stared at his untouched coffee, the steam long since faded.

Marina let out a slow breath. "You okay?"

He exhaled. "I think so. That was... a lot."

"It’ll get easier," she said. "This is just the first."

Thiago glanced out over the city again—the skyline now painted in streaks of orange and pink as the sun dipped lower. Somewhere out there, his mom was probably setting the table for dinner. Clara was doing homework. His old neighborhood was alive with the usual evening chaos—kids playing futsal in the streets, vendors packing up their carts, the distant hum of televisions broadcasting the day’s highlights.

And here he was, in a world that felt miles away from all of it.

"You think I can really do all this?" he asked quietly.

Marina didn’t hesitate. "You already are."

Thiago turned the mockup toward him again, tracing the edge of it with his thumb.

No ceiling. No borders.

For the first time, he let himself believe it

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