Limitless Pitch-Chapter 82 – The Exit Conversation

The morning after the Puma meeting, Thiago arrived at the Palmeiras training ground when the night security guard was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. The guard barely glanced up from his newspaper as Thiago flashed his ID, the plastic still warm from riding in his back pocket during the bus ride over. The complex stood silent except for the occasional creak of metal as the facility settled in the cool dawn air.

Thiago’s breath fogged slightly as he stepped onto the pitch, the dew-covered grass soaking through his socks before he’d even laced up his cleats. He chose a spot near the center circle where the grass grew slightly thicker, the blades still bent from yesterday’s training session. The sky above São Paulo bled through shades of indigo to pale gold, streetlights winking out one by one across the city’s sprawling silhouette.

He needed to talk to Eneas.

Not after breakfast. Not when the team gathered for film study.

Now. Before the world woke up and demanded things from them both.

Thiago picked at a loose thread on his training shorts, the fabric still damp from last night’s hasty wash. His phone buzzed in his pocket—another message from Marina, no doubt. He’d left three of them unread since midnight, each one making his stomach tighten. The Puma deal had cracked something open, and now the floodgates threatened to burst.

The sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the staff building as the door groaned open. Eneas emerged with two steaming mugs, his usual pressed training gear replaced by a faded Palmeiras hoodie and sweatpants that had seen better seasons. He moved with the quiet certainty of someone who’d walked these grounds for decades, his boots leaving deeper impressions in the soft earth than Thiago’s had.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Eneas asked as he handed over one of the mugs. The ceramic burned Thiago’s palms, but he welcomed the ache.

"Not really." The coffee tasted bitter—Eneas always brewed it too strong, just like Thiago’s father used to.

Eneas lowered himself onto the grass with a grunt, his knees popping audibly. "You know, when I was your age, I’d get up at 4 AM to help my old man at the butcher shop before training." He took a slow sip, watching the groundskeepers begin their morning routine across the field. "Thought I was so clever sneaking in extra reps before anyone else. Coach caught me after three days."

Thiago smiled despite himself. "What’d he do?" ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

"Made me clean every pair of boots on the squad for a month." Eneas chuckled. "Said if I had energy to spare, I could put it to better use."

They sat in comfortable silence as the sky lightened by degrees. Somewhere beyond the training ground walls, the city was waking up—the distant growl of garbage trucks, the first whistles of street vendors, the occasional blare of a car horn. But here, in this quiet pocket of grass and fading night, it felt like they were the only two people in São Paulo.

Thiago turned the mug in his hands. "I think this is it. My last season here."

Eneas didn’t react at first. He set his coffee down carefully, watching the steam curl toward the lightening sky. "We don’t have you on a pro contract beyond July," he said finally. "No buyout. No clause. Just a handshake and some ink on academy papers."

A breeze kicked up, carrying the scent of cut grass from yesterday’s session. Thiago studied his coach’s profile—the deep lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his stubble, the way his jaw worked slightly when he was choosing his words carefully.

"You knew this was coming?" Thiago asked.

Eneas plucked a blade of grass, rolling it between his calloused fingers. "Suspected since the Paulista semifinal. The way you took charge after Rafael went down?" He shook his head. "That wasn’t just talent. That was..." He searched for the word. "Ownership."

The sprinklers hissed to life along the far touchline, their rhythmic patter filling the silence between them.

"Marina says there’s interest from Ajax. Dortmund. Few French teams." Thiago watched a water droplet cling to a spiderweb between two blades of grass. "Osasuna too."

Eneas whistled low. "Osasuna’s a fighter’s club. Would suit you." He turned to face Thiago fully. "You leaning anywhere?"

Thiago shook his head. The truth sat heavy in his chest. "Still feels like I’m reading about someone else when I see those names."

"They don’t want you, Thiago." Eneas’s voice dropped, taking on that rare intensity that usually preceded a halftime speech. "They need you. Same way we needed you in that final."

A groundskeeper’s radio crackled to life nearby, some morning talk show host’s voice cutting through the quiet. Eneas waited for the noise to pass before continuing.

"You remember your first training session with the first team?"

Thiago snorted. "Got nutmegged three times in five minutes."

"And what’d you do?"

"Came back next day an hour early. Worked on my close control until my feet bled."

Eneas nodded, satisfied. "That’s what they’re buying. Not just the goals. The grit." He stood abruptly, brushing grass from his sweatpants. "This club doesn’t cage its best. We raise them. We send them."

He extended a hand.

Thiago took it, surprised to find Eneas pulling him into a rough embrace. The coach smelled like coffee and cheap aftershave and the liniment he swore by for sore muscles.

"Wherever you land," Eneas murmured, his voice rough, "make sure they see what I saw. Not just the skill. The spine."

Thiago swallowed hard. "I’ll try."

Eneas pulled back, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. "You don’t have to try. Just be. That’s enough."

As the first proper rays of sunlight broke over the training ground, the sprinklers shut off with a final hiss. In the sudden quiet, they could hear the first players arriving—car doors slamming, laughter echoing across the parking lot, the familiar cadence of morning greetings.

The goodbye hadn’t been official.

But as Thiago watched Eneas walk toward the locker room, shoulders squared against whatever the day would bring, he understood—some farewells didn’t need ceremonies. They happened quietly, in the spaces between words, in shared cups of too-strong coffee as the world woke up around you.

And this one had already begun.

Th𝓮 most uptodate nov𝑒ls are publish𝒆d on freew(e)bnove(l).𝓬𝓸𝓶