Limitless Pitch-Chapter 88 – a phone call

The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of Marina’s office, casting long slashes of golden light across the floor. Thiago sat on the couch by the window, his legs stretched out in front of him, head leaning back against the wall. For once, he wasn’t checking his phone, wasn’t thinking about training or Europe or anything in particular.

Just quiet.

It lasted all of thirty seconds.

Marina stepped into the room, her heels clicking against the polished tiles, a sleek tablet in hand and a look on her face that made Thiago sit up without needing to be told.

"Bad news?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

She shook her head. "Depends how you define it." She crossed the room and handed him the tablet. "You’ve got a request."

Thiago blinked at the screen. It wasn’t an email. Not a contract. Just a name.

Jürgen Klopp

Borussia Dortmund – Head Coach

He looked up at her slowly. "Wait... like... he wants to talk to me?"

Marina nodded. "He saw the Paulista final. Twice, apparently. Had his analysts run a full review. He wants a call today. Soon."

Thiago let out a low breath, his pulse already picking up. "What does he want to talk about?"

She tilted her head. "What do you think?"

He didn’t answer. His thoughts were already racing—Klopp was one of those names that carried gravity, even in Brazil. Dortmund were on the rise. He’d seen a few of their games on late-night TV—fast, intense football. High press. Passion. The kind of energy that didn’t feel far off from how he played.

But still. This was different.

Real.

Marina watched him carefully. "He wants to speak directly. No scouts, no intermediaries. You ready?"

Thiago nodded, slower this time. "Yeah. I think so."

Fifteen minutes later, the tablet was propped up on the table in front of him, Marina seated off-camera to the side. The screen flickered once—then stabilized.

There he was.

Jürgen Klopp. Shaggy hair, stubble along his jaw, wearing a black training jacket with the yellow Borussia Dortmund crest stitched proudly over the heart. Behind him, the faint blur of Brackel’s training facility office—whiteboard, desk, window half-open to the spring air.

"Thiago," Klopp said, smiling warmly, "it’s good to finally see you—well, see you off the pitch."

Thiago gave a nervous laugh. "Nice to meet you, coach. I... didn’t expect this, honestly."

"I did," Klopp said, eyes crinkling with that familiar intensity. "After watching you in the Paulista final? I absolutely did."

The words caught Thiago off guard. Compliments never came easy in Brazilian football. Certainly not from a European head coach.

"I just played my game," Thiago said carefully.

Klopp nodded. "Exactly. And it’s that game we want at Dortmund." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Listen, I won’t waste your time. You’re getting offers. We know that. Ajax are circling. So are French clubs. Lyon, maybe others."

Thiago stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.

Klopp continued, "But here’s what I think matters. You’re seventeen. You’ve got talent—real talent—but what you need now isn’t just a badge or a league. You need a team that lets you play. That gives you space to grow, fail, succeed, learn."

Thiago met his eyes. "And you think that’s Dortmund?"

Klopp’s smile widened. "I don’t think. I know."

There was no arrogance in the way he said it. Just belief. Like he could already see the future, like it had already happened in his mind and Thiago just hadn’t caught up yet.

"I’ve been building something here," Klopp said. "Young players. Hungry players. The club has money, sure, but more than that—it has vision. And I don’t want you buried in some youth system with fifty other ’next Ronaldinhos.’ I want you on the pitch."

Thiago blinked. "First team?"

"From the moment you’re ready," Klopp said firmly. "And that won’t take long. We’ll train you, polish the rough edges. But your instincts? Your mentality? You already have what most players twice your age never figure out."

Marina’s eyes flicked up from her notebook at that.

Thiago cleared his throat. "What if I’m not ready?"

"Then we help you get there," Klopp said. "But you won’t be alone. We have young blood here. Mats Hummels. Kevin Großkreutz. Mario Götze’s already making waves. You’d be part of a generation."

Thiago raised an eyebrow. "And what do you want from me, exactly?" freewebnoveℓ.com

Klopp threw his head back and laughed. "Chaos! Beautiful, calculated chaos!" He mimed dribbling with his hands. "That moment when defenders shit themselves because they don’t know if you’re cutting inside or burning down the line. I want a left winger who plays like his boots are on fire."

Thiago couldn’t help it—he grinned.

Klopp’s tone shifted, slightly softer now. "I saw how you carried your team in the final. That wasn’t luck. That was leadership. At seventeen. You can’t teach that. And that’s why I want you."

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.

"Borussia Dortmund is going to challenge for the Bundesliga title in the next two years. With you, we’ll get there faster. I believe that. So here’s my pitch, plain and simple: come to Germany. Play real football. Grow into the player you’re meant to be."

Silence settled for a few moments. The kind that wasn’t awkward—just heavy with everything that had been said.

Thiago finally spoke. "I don’t even speak German."

Klopp laughed. "Neither do half the players when they arrive. You’ll learn. You’re smart. And football? It’s its own language."

Thiago ran a hand through his hair. His heart was thumping. "And you’re sure I’ll play?"

"I’m not handing you minutes," Klopp said, serious again. "You’ll earn them. But I’ll give you the chance. I don’t care if you’re seventeen or thirty-seven. If you perform, you play."

He let that hang for a moment, then added, "And unlike some other clubs, we’re not waiting to see who else calls. We’re ready now. We’ve already prepared an offer to your club—even though we technically don’t have to. One million euros, to show respect."

Thiago blinked again. That was... new. "You don’t have to?"

Klopp shrugged. "Palmeiras doesn’t have a professional contract with you. But we want them to know this isn’t a raid. It’s an invitation."

That landed harder than Thiago expected. A show of class. Of long-term thinking.

"Talk with Marina," Klopp finished. "Take a few days. We’ll be here. But I meant what I said—I want you. Not the version the papers are dreaming up. You."

The call wrapped with a short farewell. No pressure, no desperate closing statement.

Just belief.

As the screen went black, Thiago sat in stunned silence. His thoughts twisted into loops. Dortmund. Klopp. First-team football. Bundesliga. He looked at Marina.

Her face was unreadable.

"Well?" he asked quietly.

She exhaled, closing her notebook. "That," she said, "wasn’t a sales pitch. That was a blueprint."

Thiago looked out the window where the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the city in gold and shadow. Somewhere out there, kids were playing pickup games in the streets, dreaming of moments like this.

And somehow, against all odds, he was living one.

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