Limitless Pitch

The training ground hummed with its usual morning energy, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and damp earth. Cones dotted the field in neat patterns, their bright orange color standing out against the green. Training mannequins stood like silent sentinels, waiting to be knocked over by powerful shots. Footballs lay scattered across the dew-covered pitch, their black and white panels glistening in the pale morning light.

Thiago stepped out of the locker room, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his training jacket to ward off the chill. His muscles ached pleasantly - the kind of deep soreness that reminded him he'd left everything on the pitch yesterday. The kind that felt like an accomplishment rather than just fatigue.

"Look who decided to show up," Großkreutz called from across the field, his voice carrying easily in the quiet morning air. He was pulling a bright yellow bib over his head, his messy dirt blond hair sticking up in all directions. "Our new golden boy finally graces us with his presence.

Thiago offered a crooked grin as he joined the circle of players warming up. "Didn't even get a proper welcome," he said. "What happened to the balloons and the cake?"

"Oh, sorry," Hummels chimed in, stretching his arms lazily overhead. "We figured your two goals yesterday were celebration enough."

"Two goals, and one point," Owomoyela said flatly. "Could've used three."

"Oi, let the kid breathe," Schmelzer added, clapping Thiago on the back. "He did more than most of us."

"Speak for yourself," Großkreutz muttered, drawing a round of chuckles.

Thiago laughed with them, shaking out his arms. It felt strange. Good strange. There was no tension in his chest, no constant pressure behind his eyes. Just the low hum of satisfaction. He'd been so unsure after the Wolfsburg match, watching from the stands. And now? Now his name was in people's mouths, his goals replayed on screens.

"Götze, your assist was a fluke," Großkreutz teased as Mario jogged up late to the warm-up.

"Sure, but a beautiful fluke," Götze shot back, grinning. "Wasn't my fault Thiago happened to be in the right place."

Thiago scoffed. "Please. You saw the run. Don't pretend you didn't mean to find me."

Mario raised his hands. "I didn't say that."

Kuba, who was sitting on the bench lacing up his boots, chimed in. "Still can't believe you actually buried that second shot. I was fully expecting you to sky it into the stands."

Thiago shrugged, trying to play it cool even as his chest swelled with pride. "What can I say? I've got a decent left foot when I remember to use it."

"Okay okay," Klopp's voice broke through, bringing everyone to attention. "Enough chit-chat. Let's get the legs moving. Easy rondo to start."

As the session kicked off, Klopp kept things light. He made no mention of Hamburger SV or the goals conceded. No review session yet, no tactics. That would come tomorrow. For now, it was about recovery and rhythm.

Thiago slotted into a passing triangle with Bender and Santana, the ball zipping between them with little effort. His movements weren't flashy, but his touches felt cleaner than ever. It was like the game had slowed down, just enough for him to breathe.

Midway through the session, Klopp called him over.

"You recovered alright?" the coach asked.

Thiago nodded. "Sore legs, but I feel good."

Klopp's mustache twitched in what might have been a smile. "That second finish..." He whistled low. "Ice in your veins, kid. Absolute ice."

"Thanks," Thiago replied automatically, then hesitated. "I know I still messed up some defensive coverages though. And that missed chance in the 79th minute-"

"You're seventeen," Klopp interrupted, waving a hand. "You're allowed to make mistakes. What matters is you didn't disappear when things got tough. Even when we were down, you kept asking for the ball, kept trying to make things happen."

The words settled in Thiago's chest like something solid and warm. He found himself nodding, suddenly unable to find his voice past the lump in his throat.

Klopp clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't let your foot off the pedal now. This is just the start."

As training resumed, the buzz of Klopp's words stayed with Thiago, playing on repeat in his mind even as he focused on the drills.

Later that afternoon, Thiago sat in the locker room, towel draped around his neck, scrolling idly on his phone. The rest of the squad was still finishing up, the sound of showers and conversation echoing faintly.

A notification popped up.

"Teen Sensation: Thiago's Two Goals Ignite Dortmund's Left Flank"

He blinked.

It was from a German football blog. One he hadn't heard of, but the layout was professional. His fingers moved before he even thought about it, tapping into the article.

"While Dortmund dropped points at home, a silver lining emerged in the form of 17-year-old Brazilian Thiago. Making his first Bundesliga start, the winger scored twice, both goals showcasing composure far beyond his age. His second goal, in particular—a low curling finish after a smart pass from Götze—gave fans a glimpse of a partnership that could define the future of the club's attack."

Another article followed. Then another.

"The Boy from Palmeiras: Thiago's Breakout Game"

"Left Foot, Right Moment"

Some had pictures of him mid-celebration. Others zoomed in on the goal itself. A couple even referenced his debut assist against Stuttgart.

Thiago leaned back, letting the screen dim in his hand. He wasn't used to this kind of attention. Even in Brazil, Neymar had taken most of the spotlight, his name always bigger, his plays more viral. Thiago had always been the second name, the other kid with potential.

Now he wasn't so sure that was still the case.

"Oi, celebrity," Großkreutz plopped down beside him, catching a glimpse of his phone. "You reading your fan mail?"

Thiago chuckled, locking the screen. "Didn't know I had fans."

"Well, you do now. Though half of them are probably thirsty teenagers who only saw your photo."

"Thanks," Thiago said dryly.

"Just saying. Enjoy it. First start and you made headlines. Doesn't always happen like that."

"You ever score a brace in your first start?"

"Yeah, in my dreams," Großkreutz said. "But I don't have a Götze to serve me assists on a silver platter."

Mario passed by at that moment, towel over his shoulder. "You're welcome."

Thiago smirked. "We made a good team."

"Damn right we did."

------

Back at his apartment, the evening was quiet.

Thiago shut the door behind him and let out a long, tired breath. The soft click of the lock echoed more than he expected. The hallway was still, dimly lit by the pale glow of the city filtering in through the high windows. He didn't bother turning on the main lights. Just dropped his keys in the bowl near the door and kicked off his sneakers, each landing with a soft thud against the wooden floor.

His legs felt like lead. The soreness in his thighs had deepened into something dull and persistent, the kind of fatigue that told you you'd given everything. It wasn't pain. It was proof.

He padded into the living room, flicked on the small standing lamp in the corner, and was greeted by the warm hum of amber light washing over the apartment's minimal furnishings. A half-finished protein bar sat on the kitchen counter from this morning. His jacket hung off the back of a chair. One of his new Puma shoeboxes was still unopened on the floor near the TV.

The place still felt a bit too clean. Too untouched. He'd only moved in recently, and the walls were still bare. No photos, no clutter. Just space. But for once, it didn't feel empty.

He slumped down onto the couch, his body sinking deep into the cushions. One hand reached for the remote, but he paused. The silence was nice. He let it linger.

The hum of distant traffic came through the window. Somewhere below, a couple was arguing—sharp voices in German that he couldn't fully make out. A dog barked. A car honked.

Normal life. Ordinary noise.

And yet everything felt a little different now. Like something had tilted. Not drastically. Just enough to make him sit a little taller. Think a little further ahead.

His phone buzzed again. More notifications.

He ignored them for now and let his eyes fall on the coffee table, where his matchday boots rested—used, smeared with traces of grass and earth from the Signal Iduna Park pitch. He leaned forward and picked one up, holding it in both hands.

The mud was still damp. The sole was scuffed where he'd slid in the buildup to his first goal. It was tangible, gritty proof that it hadn't all been a dream.

He thought about the sound of the crowd when the ball hit the back of the net. The moment of stillness right before it. The adrenaline, the disbelief, the way Götze had sprinted toward him with arms wide. It replayed again in his head, unprompted, crisp as high-definition.

He smiled to himself.

This was real.

This was happening.

And now, people were watching.

Not just Klopp. Not just his teammates. But strangers. Fans. Writers. Analysts. Bloggers. People who didn't know him yesterday and had now typed his name into search bars. Debated him in comment sections. Shared clips of his goals.

He gently set the boot down again, then leaned back, arms spread along the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

There was still so much left to do.