Limitless Pitch

Two days had passed since the Hamburger match, but Thiago could still feel the aftershocks of that brace humming beneath his skin. A full ninety minutes, two goals, and the entire team pulling him into the moment like he'd always belonged. The buzz hadn't gone away. Not even a little.

But now, the mood at Brackel had shifted.

This wasn't about celebration anymore.

It was Tuesday morning, and the training ground was quieter than usual. Not in volume—there were still voices, balls smacking against turf, cleats pounding into grass—but in vibe. The casual banter had thinned out. The swagger was measured. Everyone was still smiling, but only slightly. It was more of a calm before a storm.

Everyone knew what was coming.

The second leg against Udinese.

The first had ended in a scoreless draw. 0-0 at home. A scoreline that left everything open, and nothing safe. One away goal and they'd be staring down the barrel. Klopp didn't need to shout about it. The players could feel it in the way the staff moved, in how each training cone was placed with more purpose, in how nobody was joking as loudly as before.

Thiago showed up a little earlier than usual. His legs weren't sore anymore, not exactly, but there was a kind of tension that clung to him like static. He'd barely slept the last two nights. Not because of nerves—though maybe a little—but because his brain just wouldn't shut off. He kept replaying the goals in his head. The way the crowd roared. The way Großkreutz had slapped the back of his neck yelling something in half-German, half-laughter.

He parked his bike, the one he'd bought after missing the bus twice in the same week, and walked toward the facility with his hood up against the wind. It wasn't even that cold, but it made him feel focused. Like nothing else could get in.

Inside the locker room, the usual suspects were already there.

Großkreutz was tapping his shin guards like a drummer with too much caffeine. Sahin lay on the floor, stretching with a resistance band looped around his foot. Weidenfeller leaned against the wall sipping from a giant silver thermos.

"Morning, kid," Großkreutz called out, not looking up.

Thiago dropped his bag by his locker and sighed. "Had a good rest, yeah. Are you gonna stop calling me kid anytime this year?"

Großkreutz smirked. "Kid, you're seventeen. You're practically a fetus."

"Mario's the same age as me and no one calls him a toddler."

"Yeah, well, you complain more. It's more fun messing with you."

Sahin chuckled from the floor. Even Weidenfeller raised his eyebrows with a grin.

Thiago rolled his eyes and started pulling on his training top. "You're all just jealous."

"Oh definitely," Großkreutz said dramatically. "Jealous of your baby face and that weird hair gel you use."

"It's not gel. It's cream."

"Same difference. You still look like you walked out of a shampoo ad."

"Better than looking like you walked out of a potato sack."

"Oi!"

The banter eased the mood a bit. It always did. But once they were out on the pitch, it vanished again like mist in the sun.

Klopp didn't give them a big speech. He didn't need to. He stood near the center circle, arms crossed, his voice steady and low.

"Zero-zero," he said. "Not bad. But definitely not good. They've got the advantage now. Not on the scoreboard, but in situation. One goal, and they've got us chasing. So let's train like we're already losing. Focus like we're down one-nil. Fight like it's do or die."

He clapped his hands once. Sharp. "Warm-up, then we split."

The air shifted. Not dread. More like clarity. Everyone seemed to click into gear at once.

Thiago joined the rondo group with Bender, Götze, Schmelzer, and Hummels. Götze looked sharp—flicking the ball around with the kind of elegance that made you forget he was still only seventeen. It was annoying and impressive at the same time. Thiago got caught in the middle twice before settling into the rhythm. He stopped thinking and just let the ball guide him.

Then came possession drills under pressure. Short-sided games where you had no time to breathe. Then transition drills—defense to attack in two passes. Klopp's staff weren't messing around today. No fluff. No coasting. Just sweat and tactics and more shouting.

"Thiago!" Klopp barked at one point. "Stay wide. Wide! If you crowd the middle, there's no space for the third man run."

"Mario! Closer to Sahin. That's your safety net when the press comes."

Every player got instructions. No one was coasting. Thiago could feel his brain trying to soak in every word, every detail. He was back on the left wing again, just like against Hamburg, and Klopp had him working on timed runs down the channel. The opposing unit was mimicking Udinese's low block—5-3-2 with barely a gap to breathe through.

In one play, Sahin chipped the ball toward the left sideline, Thiago brought it down, darted past a stand-in defender, and curled a cross to the far post. It was millimeters away from Barrios's forehead.

Klopp nodded, not smiling. "Better. But one extra touch and that gap closes. Think faster."

Thiago nodded, chest heaving. "Got it."

They rotated again. Another round. More combinations. By the time they broke off for cooldowns, the players were dripping with sweat, jerseys soaked, lungs burning.

As Thiago sat on the grass, untying his boots, Götze dropped down beside him and tossed his training bib over his face.

"You're getting quicker," Mario said from under the bib. "Still too nice, though."

Thiago blinked. "Nice?"

"You had a shot on that overlap. Instead, you passed it off. Don't always give it up, man."

"I'm just—figuring things out."

Götze sat up and looked at him. "Your instincts aren't wrong. Trust them. The pass will still be there if you change your mind. But sometimes, you gotta go for it."

It stuck with Thiago, that sentence. It reminded him of that second goal against Hamburg. When he didn't think. When he just... acted.

He showered quickly, kept his head down in the cafeteria, and skipped lunch altogether. His appetite was weirdly off. Too much adrenaline or maybe too much on his mind. He hopped on the bus alone, earbuds in, music low.

By the time he climbed the stairs to his apartment, the clouds were thick above Dortmund. The kind of gray that pressed against the windows. He let himself in and stood at the doorway, staring at the space.

It still didn't feel entirely like home. But it was getting there.

The carpet felt soft under his socks. There was a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. His boots from the weekend were sitting near the balcony door, cleaned but still smelling faintly of grass and mud. A hoodie was tossed over the back of the couch from the night before.

He grabbed a bottle of water, took a long drink, and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. His body wasn't sore, but there was a heaviness. Like his limbs remembered everything, even if he didn't.

His phone buzzed.

Marina.

He sat up and answered. "Hey."

"Hope I didn't wake you," she said, chipper.

"Nah. Just got home. What's up?"

"I just got off a call with Puma. They want you in a photoshoot this weekend."

He blinked. "Wait, for real?"

"Yes, for real. Saturday, most likely. They said something casual—promo shots for the new boots, maybe some catalog stuff. Shouldn't take more than half a day."

He blinked again, slower. "Okay… wow."

"You didn't think scoring two goals in your first Bundesliga start would go unnoticed, did you?"

"I mean… maybe? I don't know. This is nuts."

"They're sending a stylist too. Some gear for you to keep. And probably a cheque."

He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jesus. Uh… yeah, I'm cool with it."

"Good. I'll confirm the time and send you the details later tonight. Just focus on Udinese for now, okay?"

"Got it. Thanks, Marina. Seriously."

"You're welcome. I told you to be ready. This is only the beginning."

They hung up. Thiago dropped the phone on his lap and leaned back again.

He stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster with his eyes. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the apartment, mixing with the distant sounds of traffic outside. His legs twitched slightly with residual energy, muscles still remembering every sprint, every cut from training.

The photoshoot news should have excited him more, but his mind kept drifting back to Udinese's defensive shape from the first leg. The way their backline had closed every gap, suffocated every attack. He could still picture their center backs - two towering Italians who moved in perfect sync.

Thiago reached for his phone again, pulling up footage from their previous match. As the highlights played, his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, mimicking passes and feints.

"Need to be sharper," he muttered to the empty room. "Quicker decisions."

Outside, the first raindrops began pattering against the window. He barely noticed. His mind was already in Italy, visualizing every possible scenario, every chance to break through.

Because this wasn't just another game. This was his chance to prove Hamburg wasn't a fluke.

That he is going to be the next big thing.