Limitless Pitch-Chapter 90 – On the Edge

Thiago had never been so tired without running a single sprint.

His bedroom felt smaller than usual tonight. The walls, covered in peeling posters of Ronaldo and Ronaldinho, seemed to press in closer. The desk lamp buzzed softly, casting long shadows across the mess of papers covering every inch of his floor.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, knees aching from staying in one position too long. The Puma folder—sleek black with silver lettering that caught the light—lay open near his foot. The Ajax contract, slightly crumpled from being handled too much, sat in the center like some kind of trophy. Notes from Lyon and Osasuna were scattered around it, some with coffee stains, others with scribbled thoughts in the margins.

And then there were the Dortmund papers.

He’d pulled them from the back of his drawer where he’d hidden them, like he wasn’t ready to face them yet. Just scouting reports, really. No official offer. But Klopp’s name was on one of the pages, and that made them feel heavier than anything else.

Thiago leaned back until his shoulders hit the edge of his bed frame. The wood dug into his skin through his thin t-shirt. He stared up at the ceiling, where a single crack ran from one corner to the middle like a lightning bolt.

"Too much," he muttered to the empty room. His voice sounded strange—too loud and too quiet at the same time.

His phone was warm in his hand from being held too long. He scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering over João’s name. They’d been friends since they were kids kicking a half-deflated ball in the streets. If anyone could make sense of this, it was him.

The call connected after two rings.

"Bro!" João’s voice came through, slightly breathless like he’d been walking fast. "What’s up? You alive?"

Thiago let out a laugh that was more air than sound. "Barely."

"You sound like you’ve been run over."

"Worse," Thiago said, rubbing his forehead. His skin felt tacky with sweat despite the fan spinning lazily in the corner. "I’ve been offered €200,000 to wear shoes. Then €12,000 a week to live in Amsterdam. Lyon’s circling. Osasuna too. Klopp called me."

Silence. Then a low whistle. "Damn."

"Yeah. Damn."

Thiago’s eyes traced the mess on the floor. The numbers kept swimming in his head—€200,000, €12,000 a week—numbers that didn’t feel real no matter how many times he said them.

"I thought I’d feel excited," he admitted. "But now that it’s all here, I just feel... like I don’t want to mess it up."

"Because you can mess it up," João said, not meanly. "That’s what makes it real. Before, it was all ’one day, Europe.’ Now it’s ’which part of Europe?’ And which one changes your whole life. Like, bro, that’s insane."

Thiago sighed. The sound came from deep in his chest. "So what do I do?"

"You pick what fits you best," João said simply. "Not the biggest name. Not the flashiest paycheck. Just... the one that makes you the next coming of fuckin Ronaldinho. The one where you’ll actually live the game you know."

Thiago closed his eyes. The image flashed behind his lids—himself in some European stadium, the roar of the crowd vibrating in his bones.

"You sound like Klopp," he said.

"Then maybe he’s right. Or maybe Ajax is. I can’t tell you what to do, Thi. I can only say one thing."

"What?"

"Don’t choose for the ten-year-old you who wanted a cool jersey," João said. "Choose for the guy you’re about to become."

The words hung between them, heavy and true.

"Thanks, man," Thiago said quietly.

"Anytime. Let me know when you’re a millionaire."

Thiago chuckled and hung up. But the weight in his chest didn’t lift.

---

Dinner had been quiet. His mom made feijoada—his favorite—but he could barely taste it. She didn’t ask questions, just let him push the food around his plate until he finally muttered something about needing air.

The night outside was warm but not sticky, the kind of Campinas evening where the air smelled like jasmine and distant barbecue smoke. He pulled on a hoodie even though he didn’t need it—something to hide in—and stepped out.

The streets were different at night. The usual chaos of honking cars and shouting vendors was gone, replaced by the occasional hum of a distant TV or the clatter of dishes being washed in an open window.

He walked without thinking. Past Senhor Batista’s bakery, where the smell of fresh bread used to make his stomach growl after school. Past the park where he and João had snuck onto the pitch after dark, using the glow of streetlights to practice until their legs gave out. Past the crumbling wall where Clara had fallen trying to do a handstand, the scrape on her knee bleeding through her jeans.

Every corner held a memory.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably Marina with another update—but he ignored it. For once, he didn’t want to think about contracts or clauses or commitments.

Eventually, his feet carried him to the community futsal court. The metal fence rattled in the breeze, and the old basketball hoop—the one missing half its backboard—creaked like it might fall any second. He sat on the curb, the concrete rough under his palms, and closed his eyes.

The smells hit him first: dust, dried grass, the faint tang of sweat still lingering from the day’s games. Underneath it all, the sharp scent of the orange trees someone had planted along the far side.

"Europe," he whispered.

The word still didn’t feel real.

Lyon came to mind first. A good club. Respectable. But he didn’t speak a lick of French, and the only contact had been through intermediaries—no coach reaching out personally.

Osasuna was Spain, at least. But they were fighting relegation battles, not chasing titles. The offer lacked the confidence of the others, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with him.

And Ajax—structured, legendary Ajax—made the most sense on paper. The money was good. The pathway clear. They’d made stars out of raw talent before.

But then there was Klopp.

That call replayed in his head constantly. The way Klopp’s voice had cracked with excitement when he talked about Thiago’s potential. The way he’d said, "We don’t just want you to play. We want you to change games."

Thiago imagined it—the yellow wall of Dortmund’s stadium, the roar of the crowd as he cut inside, the net rippling—

His phone buzzed again.

This time, he pulled it out. The screen cast a blue glow on his face in the dark.

One message to Marina:

Let me know when Dortmund’s official offer comes in. I’ll decide after that.

He stood, brushing dirt from his jeans. The night air was cooler now, slipping under his hoodie as he turned toward home.

The answer wasn’t clear yet.

But the question had changed.

No longer if.

Just when.

And where.

And for the first time all night, his steps felt lighter.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l