Limitless Pitch-Chapter 83: The One That Got Away

The air inside the Palmeiras director’s office hung thick with the scent of old wood polish, the kind that had soaked deep into the mahogany desk over decades of use. The air conditioning rattled softly, struggling against the late afternoon heat, circulating a stale breeze that did little to ease the tension in the room. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long golden rectangles across the worn Persian rug, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the still air.

Outside, the training grounds stretched in perfect emerald lines, the freshly cut grass releasing its sweet, earthy perfume into the warm air. Groundskeepers moved with slow precision, their rakes leaving behind neat furrows, the rhythmic scrape of metal against earth barely audible through the glass. The distant shouts of the youth team training drifted in muffled bursts, a reminder of the life continuing beyond this tense conversation.

But inside Director Álvaro Cardoso’s office, time seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

Álvaro sat behind his massive oak desk, a relic from the club’s golden era, its surface scarred by decades of paperwork and the occasional frustrated fist. His thick fingers were steepled in front of him, the knuckles white with tension. A man in his mid-50s, barrel-chested with a presence that usually filled a room, he now seemed diminished by the weight of the conversation. The overhead light gleamed off the smooth crown of his head, highlighting the sweat beading at his temples.

Across from him, Coach Eneas stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest, his silhouette framed by the fading sunlight. His usual composed demeanor was betrayed by the tightness in his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed slowly through his nose. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper today, etched by sleepless nights and the burden of what was coming.

Álvaro exhaled sharply, the sound like a valve releasing pressure, and tossed a report onto the desk with enough force to send a fountain pen rolling off the edge. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp clatter, the sound startling in the heavy silence.

"You’re telling me," he said, each word measured and deliberate, "that we’re losing him. On a free."

Eneas didn’t flinch. His gaze remained steady, fixed on some distant point beyond the window. "Yes."

Álvaro leaned forward, his leather chair groaning in protest. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and musky—mixed with the faint tang of sweat. "You knew this was coming."

It wasn’t a question.

Eneas turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "I suspected it was coming. You think I’ve been pushing for his pro contract since last year just for my health?"

Álvaro’s fingers drummed against the desk, a restless staccato that matched the ticking of the antique clock on the shelf behind him. "We couldn’t offer terms until he turned sixteen. And then we waited for the season to stabilize. And then—"

"And then we waited too long," Eneas cut in, his voice like a blade slicing through the excuses. "And now he’s going."

Álvaro stood abruptly, the chair legs screeching against the floor. His polished oxfords—always immaculate—clicked against the hardwood as he paced to the window and back, his reflection flickering in the glass like a ghost. "He’s our best academy product in years. Maybe decades." His voice rose, bouncing off the high ceilings. "He was supposed to be the face of the next generation—our goddamn poster boy!"

Eneas didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. "He still is, Álvaro. Just not on our posters."

The words landed like a hammer blow.

For a long moment, the only sound was the muffled shouts from the training pitch outside and the distant hum of the city beyond the club’s walls. The scent of freshly brewed coffee—bitter and rich—drifted in from the adjacent office, a cruel contrast to the tension in the room.

Eneas exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. "He came to me yesterday. Told me himself. He’s not sure where yet—Ajax, Dortmund, maybe France—but it’s happening. The offers are already coming in."

Álvaro stopped pacing, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. He ran a hand over his face, the rasp of his palm against stubble loud in the quiet. "I knew the moment that boy got an agent it was bad news."

Eneas’s eyes narrowed. "You think an agent is the reason he’s leaving? Look at his game. Look at what he did in that final. You think a kid like that was ever going to stay hidden?"

Álvaro turned to the window, his reflection staring back at him—a man realizing, too late, what he was losing. "So we just... let him go? Like that? After everything we poured into him?"

"He’s seventeen," Eneas said, his voice softer now. "Still technically an academy player. No pro contract. No transfer clause." He spread his hands. "We can’t stop him. And we sure as hell can’t charge a fee."

Álvaro’s jaw worked silently before he muttered a curse under his breath, the words swallowed by the room. He dropped back into his chair, the leather sighing beneath him. "Do you have any idea what that final performance did to his value? My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the whistle blew."

Eneas didn’t need to be told. He’d seen the footage too—the way Thiago had taken the game by the throat in that second half, the way the cameras couldn’t look away. "I know," he said simply. "He’s a star now."

"And we lose him for nothing."

"Not nothing," Eneas countered. He moved to the desk, bracing his hands against the polished wood. "We lose him with our name attached. We lose him with the world knowing he came from us. Every time someone tells his story, it starts here. In green and white."

Álvaro scoffed, but there was no heat in it. "Nice sentiment. Doesn’t pay the bills."

"No," Eneas agreed. "But it builds something money can’t buy. And in this game, that matters."

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Outside, the groundskeepers had moved on, leaving behind perfect stripes of grass that shimmered in the golden light. Somewhere, a door slammed, and the distant laughter of players carried on the breeze.

Álvaro’s gaze dropped to the reports on his desk—the spreadsheets and projections, the cold hard numbers that never lied. His finger traced one line in particular, where a name stood out in bold letters:

Silva, Thiago.

He looked up, and for the first time, there was no anger in his eyes. Just resignation. "Is there any chance he stays?"

Eneas didn’t hesitate. "No. And honestly? He shouldn’t. He’s ready."

Another pause. Another breath.

Finally, Álvaro reached for the fallen pen, the movement slow, deliberate. He clicked it once, the sound final. "Fine. Draft the official release. We’ll announce it when the deal is done. But I want it clear—we made him. He’s one of ours."

Eneas nodded. "I’ll handle it."

As he turned to leave, his hand on the brass doorknob, Álvaro’s voice stopped him.

"Eneas?"

The coach glanced back.

Álvaro’s expression was unreadable. "I hope to God you’ve got another one like him in the pipeline."

Eneas offered a dry smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "I don’t. Not yet."

And then he stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft, final click.

The future had already begun to move—and Palmeiras, like it or not, could only watch it leave.

-------

Thousands of kilometers away from São Paulo, in a sleek, wood-paneled meeting room inside Signal Iduna Park, the mood was analytical, not emotional.

The chairs were filled with coats and laptops, murmured German bouncing off the walls. A wall-mounted monitor displayed a paused match clip—Palmeiras versus Corinthians. The video had been rewound to the 74th minute, frozen on the moment Thiago Silva struck the ball from outside the box.

"Rewind five seconds," said Jurgen Klopp, head coach of Borussia Dortmund.

One of the analysts did as instructed, scrubbing the clip back. The frame showed Thiago receiving the ball, two defenders closing him down, and his foot about to wrap around it.

They watched the play in silence. Again. And again.

The shot curled beautifully into the top corner.

"Sechzehn?" Klopp asked, frowning slightly. "Still only sixteen?"

"He’s seventeen now," replied Lukas Brandt, a senior scout. "Turned in March. Just turned."

"And no contract?"

Lukas nodded. "Nothing professional. Palmeiras never locked him down."

Klopp leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. "How does a club let a kid like that slip through?"

A younger scout, Felix, spoke up. "They underestimated the timing. He didn’t break into the senior spotlight until the Paulista. But now? He’s exploded. That final—two goals and an assist in the second half against Corinthians. And the way he played? Mature. Calculated. But still creative."

Klopp tapped the table once. "What’s the competition?"

Lukas replied, "Ajax. PSV. Two clubs from Ligue 1—Rennes and Lyon. Osasuna from Spain as well, but they’re desperate. Dortmund is the only one from the Bundesliga sniffing around right now."

"Have we made contact?"

Felix nodded. "Through Marina Oliveira, his agent. She’s playing it smart—sifting interest, keeping pressure off. But she’s been responsive. We sent initial expressions of interest. No formal offer yet."

Klopp drummed his fingers on the table. "I want a full technical dossier. I want heatmaps, off-ball movement, top speed, and injury history. No more highlights. I want the full player."

"We’re compiling it," said Lukas. "Should be ready in two days. He’s got two potential positions—left winger or central playmaker. Some of his coach’s recent adjustments hint at a tactical evolution."

The monitor flashed another clip. Thiago, backtracking on defense, shielding the ball with uncanny balance before launching a counterattack.

Klopp eyes narrowed.

"He’s got something," he said quietly.

Lukas nodded. "He’s got a lot."

"Then we’re not just watching anymore," Klopp said. "We move soon. Quietly, but decisively."

He stood, straightened his tracksuit top.

"One call from Bayern and he’s gone."

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