Limitless Pitch-Chapter 114 – Shifting Foundations

The first light of dawn painted the hotel room in muted blues and grays when Thiago opened his eyes. He lay still for several long moments, staring up at the ceiling—its bland beige surface marred by faint water stains and hairline cracks that branched like tiny rivers across plaster. Weak sunlight seeped through the half-closed blinds, casting slatted shadows that crept slowly across the carpet as morning deepened.

He’d grown accustomed to this temporary space—the persistent hum of the radiator that rattled through the night, the slight creak in the floorboard near the bathroom that groaned underfoot, the flickering fluorescent light in the hallway that maintenance never seemed to fix. These imperfections had become familiar, almost comforting in their predictability. But no matter how long he stayed, the room never lost its transience. The generic landscape prints bolted to the walls, the stiff armchair in the corner that no one ever sat in, the faint smell of industrial cleaner that lingered no matter how often housekeeping came—it all whispered temporary.

And he was tired of temporary.

Thiago blinked away the last remnants of sleep and sat up, wincing as sore muscles protested. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant burn across his back, the dull ache in his calves—each twinge a reminder of hard-fought minutes earned against Wehen Wiesbaden. Good pain. The kind that settled deep in the bones and made him crave more.

A sharp buzz shattered the quiet. His phone lit up on the nightstand, casting an eerie glow across the rumpled sheets.

Marina:

Ready to talk apartments? Meet in the café downstairs in 15?

Thiago didn’t reply. He pushed back the covers, the hotel’s starched sheets clinging briefly before releasing him. The carpet was rough under his bare feet as he crossed to the window, drawing back the curtains to reveal Dortmund stretching awake below—red rooftops emerging from dissipating fog, church spires piercing the pale sky, the distant silhouette of the Westfalenstadion just visible through the morning haze.

For the first time, the view didn’t feel like someone else’s city.

The hotel café smelled of over-roasted coffee beans and buttery pastries fresh from the oven. A handful of guests occupied scattered tables—businessmen with laptops open and ties loosened, an elderly couple sharing a newspaper, their glasses perched on the ends of their noses. Most of the team hadn’t come down yet; the space was quiet save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Marina sat in their usual corner booth, the one farthest from the entrance but with clear sightlines to the door. Her tablet glowed on the table before her, illuminating the sharp angles of her face as she scrolled. A half-finished cappuccino sat at her elbow, the foam art slowly collapsing into the dark liquid beneath.

"You look like you wrestled a bear," she remarked without looking up as Thiago approached.

"I feel like I lost," he muttered, sliding into the chair opposite her. The vinyl squeaked under his weight.

Marina finally glanced up, her dark eyes assessing. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than the mattress deserves." He reached for the orange juice she’d already ordered for him, the glass sweating condensation onto the table. The tart sweetness burst across his tongue, chasing the last of the morning’s cottonmouth away.

Marina turned the tablet toward him. "I narrowed it down to three."

Images flashed across the screen—apartments ranging from sleek modern lofts with floor-to-ceiling windows to cozy spaces with exposed brick and warm wood accents. One listing stood out: a spacious two-bedroom with clean lines and wide-plank oak floors, its minimalist kitchen opening onto a balcony that offered an unobstructed view of the Westfalenstadion’s iconic yellow wall.

"This one," Marina said, tapping the image to enlarge it, "is five minutes from the training ground. Fully furnished but not in that awful corporate way. Building has 24/7 security, underground parking, and—" she smirked, "—it’s sandwiched between two bakeries. The one on the left does a streusel that’s supposedly the best in North Rhine-Westphalia."

Thiago raised an eyebrow. "You vet all your clients’ neighborhoods based on pastry quality?"

"Only the ones I like." She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a faint lipstick stain on the rim. "We can view it tomorrow at nine."

Thiago studied the images—the sunlight pooling on those hardwood floors, the clean lines of the kitchen, the way the balcony looked just wide enough for a chair and maybe a small table. A place to watch the city wake up. A place to come home to.

"I want to be out of here by next week," he said, more decisively than he’d intended.

Marina didn’t react beyond a small nod. "Big step."

"Necessary one." He traced the edge of the tablet absently. "The team... it’s not temporary anymore."

That gave her pause. Marina set her cup down carefully, the porcelain clicking against the saucer. "Oh?"

Thiago didn’t elaborate immediately. Instead, he turned to watch through the window as sunlight finally broke through the haze, gilding the rooftops outside. The morning had settled into something brighter now, more certain.

"I think I’m ready to make this place mine," he said quietly. "For real."

Back upstairs, Thiago dropped onto the bed, the springs creaking in protest. He dialed João’s number without thinking, the familiar sequence of digits muscle memory by now.

The call connected after just one ring.

"Menino mágico!" João’s voice boomed through the speaker, so loud Thiago had to hold the phone away from his ear. "I was starting to think you’d forgotten your poor old friends back home!"

Thiago grinned, settling back against the headboard. "Never."

"Assists in the Bundesliga now, huh? Next you’ll be telling me you’ve started wearing lederhosen and yodeling in the showers."

"Fuck off," Thiago laughed, but there was no heat in it.

João’s tone softened. "Seriously though. How is it? Really?"

Thiago exhaled, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled a misshapen football. "The cold still sucks. The language is... coming along. But Klopp—" he paused, searching for the right words, "—he sees me. Really sees me. Not just as some kid to develop, but as someone who can contribute now."

"Sounds like you’re putting down roots."

The observation sat between them for a moment.

"You coming to visit or what?" Thiago deflected.

"Try and stop me. I’ll bring proper food—none of that sausage and sauerkraut nonsense."

"You’ll burn it."

"Still counts."

They talked until Thiago’s battery warning flashed—about João’s season back home, about the youngsters coming up who reminded them of themselves at that age, about everything and nothing at all.

"Promise me something," João said as they were about to hang up.

"Depends."

"Don’t let it change you. The money, the fame, all that shit."

Thiago rolled his eyes. "I’m not—"

"I’m serious. You start scoring bangers and making millions, I expect a signed jersey and an open invitation to your mansion. I’ll even bring that barbecue you like."

"You’ll burn it."

"Still counts."

That evening, after dinner and an ice bath that left his skin tingling and numb, Thiago called home.

The line crackled to life with the familiar symphony of his childhood—Clara’s loud protests, the clatter of dishes, the distant hum of their old neighborhood.

"Thiaguinho!" His mother’s voice was a balm. "You’re alive!"

"Barely," he joked, but the smile faded as a loud crash sounded in the background. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" Clara’s voice was closer now, indignant. "I was being responsible!"

His mother sighed. "She just finished arguing with the plumber. Again."

"The sink?"

"The sink, the shower, the toilet—take your pick."

Thiago groaned, rubbing his temples. "We’ve paid to fix that thing four times."

"Five," his mother corrected. "But it doesn’t matter now. We signed the papers yesterday. The move’s happening this weekend."

The words hit him like a physical blow. That house—with its creaky floors and peeling paint, the leak in his old bedroom ceiling that they’d patched up every rainy season—was no longer theirs. The walls that had absorbed their laughter and arguments, the kitchen where his mother had cooked countless meals, the front step where Clara had scraped her knees learning to ride a bike—all of it would soon belong to someone else.

"That fast?" he asked quietly.

"We were just waiting on a few things," his mother said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "But now that we have the money, it didn’t make sense to delay."

"You should’ve told me."

"I just did."

Clara’s voice piped up again, closer now. "It has a garden, Thiago! I’m going to plant sunflowers."

"You’ve killed every plant you’ve ever touched."

"This time will be different!"

His mother laughed, the sound warm and bright. "It’s solid, Thiago. No more leaks. No more drafts. Just... home."

The word settled in his chest, warm and heavy.

After the call ended, Thiago stood at the window, watching as the city lights flickered to life one by one. The apartment he’d seen with Marina, João’s unwavering support, his family finally stepping into something better—it all wove together into a single, undeniable truth.

This wasn’t just a new Chapter.

It was a new foundation