Limitless Pitch-Chapter 97 – Cold and Clear

The training pitch stretched out before Thiago, its pristine grass glistening with morning frost. His breath came in visible puffs as he stretched near the sideline, the cold air stinging his lungs with each inhale. The thermal leggings under his training gear helped, but nothing could stop the chill from creeping into his bones. He rubbed his gloved hands together, watching the other players jog through warm-up drills—their movements sharp, their voices carrying across the field in a mix of German and accented English.

Then he heard it—a voice cutting through the crisp air.

"Oi, Thiago! There you are!"

Jürgen Klopp strode toward him with the energy of a man who’d been awake since dawn. Up close, the manager was taller than Thiago expected, his broad shoulders filling out a thick winter coat zipped to his chin. His beanie sat slightly askew, tufts of unkempt hair sticking out from beneath it. The lenses of his glasses caught the pale morning light as he closed the distance, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground.

"Sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday," Klopp said, reaching out to clasp Thiago’s hand in a firm grip before pulling him into a quick, back-thumping hug. The scent of coffee and wintergreen chewing gum clung to him. "Had to sit through meetings in Munich. Boardroom nonsense. Not as fun as freezing our arses off out here, eh?"

Thiago smiled, still adjusting to the man’s presence. "No problem, Coach."

Klopp waved a hand dismissively. "None of that ’Coach’ business unless we’re in front of the cameras. Around here, I’m just Jürgen." He grinned, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Or ’Hey, you’ if you’re feeling particularly German."

Thiago huffed a quiet laugh, his nerves easing slightly.

Klopp clapped him on the shoulder and steered him toward the training pitch, their boots leaving dark prints in the frost. "Listen," he said, his tone shifting into something more serious. "I’ve watched your tapes. That final against Corinthians. Some academy matches too." He stopped walking and turned to face Thiago fully. "You’ve got talent—real talent—but I don’t want you thinking you need to prove everything today. That’s not how we work here."

Thiago nodded, his fingers flexing inside his gloves.

"I mean it," Klopp continued, his breath fogging between them. "No showing off. No pretending to be something you’re not. Just play. Play like you would if no one was watching." He gestured toward the field where the other players were now gathering for drills. "That’s how you’ll find your place here."

Thiago exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the air. "Okay."

Klopp gave his shoulder another firm pat before stepping back. "Now get out there. Let’s see if those Brazilian feet can handle proper winter." He winked. "And try to enjoy it, yeah?"

With that, he strode off toward the coaching staff, his voice already carrying across the pitch as he called out to one of the assistants.

Training wasn’t with the senior squad—not yet. Thiago had been placed with a mixed group of reserves and U23 players for his integration session. The Bundesliga was a different beast entirely, and the club clearly wanted him to find his footing first.

The cold was worse than he’d anticipated. His gloves helped, but the icy air still burned his lungs with every deep breath. His muscles felt tight, his movements slightly sluggish as if the chill had seeped into his joints. The sky hung low and heavy, a sheet of unbroken gray that made the floodlights glow unnaturally bright despite the early hour.

There were about fifteen players on the pitch, most of them German or from neighboring European countries. A few nodded when he introduced himself; others offered polite but reserved smiles. The coach running the session—a lean man with a shaved head and a sharp Northern accent—spoke in clipped English, his instructions concise.

Ball control drills first. Quick passes on the half-turn. Sharp movements between cones. Thiago started stiffly, his timing slightly off, his touch heavier than usual. The ball skidded unpredictably on the frost-laced grass, and more than once, he misjudged a first touch, sending the ball bouncing away.

But then, halfway through the session, something clicked.

A simple drill—receive, pivot, pass, sprint into space—suddenly felt fluid. His feet remembered their rhythm. The ball stayed closer. His body moved without overthinking.

Then came the short-sided scrimmage. Half-pitch, no keepers, quick touches only. Thiago didn’t force anything. No flashy dribbles, no desperate attempts to impress. Just simple one-twos, well-timed runs, and smart positioning.

And then—the moment.

A defender closed him down near the edge of the makeshift penalty area. Without breaking stride, Thiago dragged the ball back with his heel, leaving the man lunging at empty air, before slotting a pass across the box for an easy finish.

No one cheered. No one clapped. This wasn’t Brazil. But one of the older players—a lanky midfielder with a buzz cut—nodded at him as they reset for the next play.

"Guter Pass," he muttered.

Good pass.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

After the session, the players filed into the locker room with minimal chatter. Thiago sat on the end of a bench, his fingers stiff with cold as he untied his cleats. The warmth of the room slowly seeped into his bones, the heat prickling against his skin as circulation returned.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and just breathed.

He hadn’t been spectacular. Hadn’t scored. Hadn’t done anything that would make headlines. But he hadn’t looked out of place either. Hadn’t frozen under the pressure or the cold.

He’d been... okay.

And right now, that felt like victory enough.

When he stepped outside, Marina was waiting near the doors, her phone in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. The steam curled up around her face as she lowered her sunglasses—an unnecessary gesture given the overcast sky.

"Well?" she asked.

Thiago shrugged. "Not bad."

She gave him a flat look. "That’s all I get?"

"I didn’t faceplant. Completed most of my passes. Coach didn’t yell at me once."

Marina’s lips twitched. "So, in other words, better than you expected?"

Thiago cracked a smile. "Yeah. Better than expected."

They walked back to the car in comfortable silence, their breath mingling in the cold air between them. As they drove away from the training ground, the fog on Thiago’s window cleared just enough for him to catch one last glimpse of the pitch through the haze.

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