Limitless Pitch-Chapter 86 – Ink and Intentions

The office wasn’t quite what Thiago expected.

Puma’s São Paulo headquarters sat in a low-rise building near Avenida Faria Lima, all sleek glass walls and soft white lighting that made everything look expensive but not flashy. The reception area had smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and expensive coffee when they’d walked in, the kind of place where assistants in tailored suits answered phones in three different languages.

But the actual meeting room was smaller than he’d imagined. Just a matte-black table that reflected the overhead lights like still water, two snake plants in the corners that looked like they’d been watered exactly enough to survive but never thrive, and a tray of untouched bottled water sweating in the air conditioning. The chairs were too stiff, the kind that made you sit up straight whether you wanted to or not.

And right in front of him, thick as a textbook and just as intimidating: the contract.

Thiago sat stiffly, trying not to fidget. He could feel the new fabric of his button-down sticking to his back—his mom had made him wear it, said it looked "professional," but the collar kept rubbing against his neck. Across the table, Leo from Puma lounged in his usual black turtleneck, looking completely at ease as he spun a pen between his fingers. Beside him, a woman from legal with perfect manicure flipped through an identical stack of papers, her highlighter squeaking against the pages with each underline.

Marina, his agent, sat next to him, her sharp blazer making him feel even more underdressed. She scanned the document with the focus of a chess player studying the board, occasionally making a small noise in her throat when she found something interesting.

"So," Leo said, nudging the contract toward him with two fingers. "This is it. What we talked about on the rooftop, now in writing." His voice was calm, but there was an energy underneath it, like he was trying not to smile.

Thiago swallowed. His mouth felt dry. "Yeah."

The legal woman smirked without looking up. "Nervous?"

"A little obvious, huh?" he admitted, rubbing his palms against his slacks.

Marina didn’t look up. "Good. Means you’re paying attention."

Leo flipped to a page marked with a red tab, the paper making a crisp sound. "Two-year youth ambassador deal. Payments every three months—€50,000 per quarter. That’s your base."

Thiago’s fingers twitched against the table. The numbers sounded unreal. "So... €200,000 total?" fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

"Correct," Leo said. "And that’s just the start. Hit certain targets—first-team appearances in Europe, national team call-ups, social media growth—you could add another €100,000 to €150,000 on top. Maybe more." He tapped the page. "There’s a whole bonus structure in Appendix B."

Marina tapped a clause near the bottom with one manicured nail. "Full athlete support too. Puma physios, nutrition plans, gear testing. Everything the senior players get."

"Including boots?" Thiago asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Leo grinned. "Especially boots. We want your feedback on every new prototype." He leaned forward slightly. "Maybe even a signature model down the line, if you’re good."

The legal rep cleared her throat, flipping to another section with a rustle of paper. "There’s also a performance clause here. If things go well—and we expect they will—we’ll discuss upgrading you to full ambassadorship in 18 to 24 months." She glanced up. "That comes with significantly better terms. Merchandising rights. Appearance fees. Possibly even input on future designs."

Thiago’s throat went dry. The numbers were dizzying. More money than his parents made in years, all for kicking a ball and wearing some shoes. He could already imagine his mother’s face when he told her—the way her eyes would widen before she inevitably asked if he was sure he deserved it.

"This doesn’t mess with my club stuff, right?" he asked, suddenly worried. "Like, if I sign with someone in Europe—"

"No," Marina cut in firmly. "We made sure of that. There’s exclusivity clauses for footwear and apparel, but nothing that interferes with your football."

Leo nodded. "Football first. Always. No forced events during crucial training periods, no stupid obligations that’ll piss off your manager." He spread his hands. "If you’re in Europe, we come to you. Simple."

Thiago stared at the last page, where his name was already printed neatly above the signature line in crisp black ink. His stomach did a slow flip.

Marina slid a pen toward him—some fancy metal thing that probably cost more than his first bicycle.

He hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Not because he didn’t want it. But because this was real. Not some daydream or hypothetical conversation with his friends after training. This was actual money. Actual expectations. A massive company betting real euros that he’d be worth it.

He looked up, suddenly needing to break the tension. "I don’t have to win the Ballon d’Or, do I?"

Leo laughed, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Just play football. We’ll handle the rest."

Thiago took a deep breath, then scrawled his name. It came out shaky, the ink smudging slightly where his sweaty palm had dragged across the paper.

Perfect.

"Done," he said, voice quieter than he’d meant it to be.

Leo clapped once—a sharp, satisfied sound—and reached across the table. "Welcome to the family."

The legal rep handed Marina her copy, and she signed with quick, efficient strokes, her signature all sharp angles and confidence. Leo leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head like he’d just finished a tough workout.

"Feels good, huh?"

Thiago let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "Weirdly, yeah."

As they stood to shake hands—Leo’s grip firm, the legal rep’s hand surprisingly cold—Marina’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, and for half a second, her eyebrows twitched in what might have been surprise before her face smoothed over.

"Problem?" Leo asked, already reaching for his own phone.

"No," she said smoothly, slipping it into her pocket. "Just another European club asking for Thiago’s availability."

Leo raised an eyebrow. "Already popular?"

Thiago shrugged, trying to play it cool even as his heart rate kicked up again. "Guess so."

They stepped out into the hallway. The air felt colder out here, the fluorescent lights too bright after the dim meeting room. Somewhere down the hall, a printer whirred to life, and a phone rang faintly behind a closed door. The receptionist they’d passed earlier was now typing furiously, her long nails clicking against the keyboard.

Marina walked beside him, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the tile. "One door closes," she said quietly.

Thiago waited.

"Ten more open."

He didn’t answer right away, too busy replaying the last hour in his head—the numbers, the promises, the way the pen had felt in his hand.

But after a second, he grinned, the reality of it all finally sinking in.

"Good thing I brought my boots."

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