Limitless Pitch-Chapter 80 – Crossroads

The morning dawned soft and golden, spilling through the jacaranda trees of Pinheiros like liquid honey. Thiago sat at a wrought-iron café table, its surface cool beneath his fingertips, still groggy from last night’s celebrations. A chilled bottle of water beaded with condensation in his grip, droplets tracing slow, meandering paths down the glass like tears of joy. The plastic wristband from the victory party clung stubbornly to his wrist, its edges frayed from nervous picking during the long, sleepless hours.

Every muscle in his body sang a chorus of exhaustion—his calves throbbed with the memory of relentless sprints, his lower back ached from carrying the weight of expectation, even his jaw felt sore from laughing too hard, too long, with the abandon of a champion. His eyelids, heavy as lead, burned with the grit of too little sleep, but this was the sweet fatigue of triumph, the kind that settled in your bones like warm embers after a roaring fire.

Then he saw her—Marina—cutting through the café crowd like a shark through calm waters.

She moved with predatory grace, her tailored blazer hugging her frame like a second skin, the morning sun glinting off her designer sunglasses. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, so tight it stretched the skin around her temples, giving her an air of relentless focus. She navigated the obstacle course of waiters and tables with effortless precision, sidestepping a tray of steaming pão de queijo without breaking stride, her stiletto heels clicking against the cobblestones like a metronome counting down to some unseen deadline.

"Morning, superstar," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him with the smooth confidence of someone used to owning every room she entered. She removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were sharp, calculating—wide awake despite the early hour.

Thiago blinked slowly, his vision still blurred at the edges from fatigue. "You’re not tired?"

She smirked, the expression carving a faint dimple into her cheek. "Sleep is for players who didn’t just make headlines in three countries." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her manicured nails tapping an impatient rhythm against the polished surface. "You ready?"

He exhaled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, the rough texture of his skin catching against his lashes. "Depends what I’m saying yes to."

Marina didn’t waste time. She unzipped her sleek leather briefcase with a decisive tug, pulling out her iPad with the reverence of a priest presenting holy scripture. The screen flared to life beneath her fingertips, casting a pale glow across her face as she swiped through a series of documents, each marked with the crests of European clubs—emblems that carried the weight of history, of dreams.

"Before the final, we had interest," she said, her voice low and measured. "Now? We have momentum. Real offers, not just scouts lurking in the stands with their notepads and tired excuses."

Thiago’s fingers tightened around his water bottle, the plastic crackling in protest.

"A mid-table Eredivisie team has officially submitted an inquiry," she continued, scrolling through the documents with practiced ease. "Same with a club from Serie A—Lecce. Nothing signed yet, but they’re serious. Then there’s two clubs in Ligue 1 who’ve asked to open negotiations—Strasbourg and Brest." She paused, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "But that’s not even the biggest part."

She turned the screen toward him, the brightness searing his tired eyes.

Borussia Dortmund – Scouting Dossier Request

Ajax – Post-match Analysis: Target: Thiago Silva

His throat tightened, the air suddenly thick as syrup.

"They were watching?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marina nodded, her dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Dortmund and Ajax both ran internal reports on you after the final. They’re not offering anything yet, but trust me—they’re circling. Dortmund especially. You fit their profile like a glove, and their academy director sent a personal message calling you ’one to watch.’ That kind of attention doesn’t come often."

Thiago ran a hand through his damp hair, the strands still cool from his shower. His mind spun with images—training pitches dusted with morning frost in Germany, the echoing roar of Dutch stadiums, the dizzying prospect of learning new languages, new cultures. He remembered stumbling through his last English oral exam, his tongue tripping over unfamiliar words, and felt a flicker of doubt.

"This is... a lot," he admitted, his voice rough.

Marina softened slightly, her expression shifting from businesslike to something almost maternal. "You earned it," she said, her tone gentler now. "But we’re not rushing into anything. We’ll sit down next week with whoever makes a formal offer. You’ll have time to think."

She reached into her bag again, this time producing a slim, cream-colored envelope. The Puma logo gleamed in the corner, embossed in gold leaf that caught the sunlight like a wink.

"This came last night," she said, sliding it across the table with the care of someone handling a live grenade.

Thiago stared at it, his pulse quickening. "What is it?"

"They want to meet," Marina explained, her voice tinged with barely restrained excitement. "You’re not just on their youth shortlist anymore—they’ve moved you into their high-priority development tier. They’re talking about positioning you as a youth ambassador, part of their ’next wave’ of athletes." She held up a hand before he could react. "It’s not a global sponsorship yet—don’t get ahead of yourself—but this could be your foot in the door."

Thiago reached for the envelope, his fingers brushing against the expensive paper. It felt heavy in his hands, weighted with possibility. He pulled out the letter inside, the crisp sheet whispering as it unfolded. The words swam before his eyes—formal language, corporate jargon, but beneath it all, an undeniable message: We see you.

"What does this mean?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Marina leaned back in her chair, the sunlight catching the gold hoops in her ears. "It means you’re being noticed," she said. "Not just by clubs. By brands. Puma doesn’t just want a player—they want a story. And right now, yours is one they’re interested in telling."

Thiago turned the envelope over in his hands, his fingers tracing the embossed logo. The skin on his knuckles was still raw from last night’s match, the faintest scabs forming where the turf had bitten into his flesh.

"I’m just a kid from Campinas," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Marina’s smile was small but knowing. "Yeah," she said. "But you played like a champion when it mattered. You’ve got fire and humility in equal measure. That’s rare."

He looked up at her, the weight of the moment pressing down on his shoulders. "What do I do?"

"You meet their rep," she said simply. "Tomorrow. Somewhere quiet. No pressure, just a conversation. You listen, they listen. I’ll be there every step of the way."

Thiago nodded, but his chest felt tight, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his ribs. Puma. Ajax. Dortmund. Europe wasn’t some distant dream anymore—it was a tangible reality, looming on the horizon like a storm front.

"I still don’t feel ready," he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Marina studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes unreadable. Then she tilted her head, the sunlight catching the sharp angle of her jaw. "You think anyone’s ever ready when the big moment comes?"

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"You step up anyway."

Around them, the café buzzed with life—the clatter of silverware, the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of a dozen conversations weaving together into a meaningless hum. But for Thiago, the world had narrowed to this: the envelope in his hands, the pounding of his heart, the quiet certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

He had spent his whole life chasing this. Training for it. Bleeding for it.

Now, it was here.

And the choice was his.

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