Limitless Pitch-Chapter 84 – Shadows of the Future

The morning sun filtered into Thiago’s bedroom through worn, half-open blinds. Dust danced in the golden light, floating above the shelves crammed with old cleats, youth tournament medals, and signed Palmeiras posters now curling at the edges. A breeze from the open window carried in the faint smell of wet grass and someone grilling pão de queijo down the street.

Thiago lay in bed, one arm draped across his forehead, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t silent—the city never really was—but there was a strange stillness inside him. The kind that came after a high. After the storm.

On his desk sat the envelope.

Cream-colored. Slightly bent from being tucked in the front pocket of his bag. Camila’s handwriting curled across the front in blue ink. Just his name. Nothing more.

He’d carried it with him since the night she gave it to him. She had pressed it into his hands without ceremony, her eyes not quite meeting his. A goodbye, wrapped in paper and silence.

He reached for it.

Paused.

His fingers hovered, brushing the edge. For a moment, he considered tearing it open. Just to hear her voice again, even if only through ink.

But something inside him hesitated.

Not yet.

Not here, where the shadows of the past still clung to the corners of his room. Not until he had crossed whatever line stood between the boy she knew and the man he was becoming.

With a quiet exhale, he set the envelope back down.

Later that afternoon, Thiago’s phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a familiar name.

João.

He smiled and slid his thumb across the screen. "Hey."

"Moleque!" João’s voice cracked through the speaker. "I just saw the replay of the volley again—are you kidding me?"

Thiago laughed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Which one?"

"You know which one. The final. 88th minute. You hit that thing like you were possessed."

Thiago chuckled. "It felt like I was. I don’t even remember it properly. Just... reacted."

"I swear, they’ve been showing that goal every ten minutes on ESPN Brasil. Even the old commentators are comparing you to Rivaldo."

"Too much," Thiago said quickly, brushing the compliment away. "Way too much."

João didn’t let it go. "Nah, man. Own it. That was your moment. You stepped up and delivered. The whole damn state saw it."

There was a pause.

"You’re still set on leaving, right?"

"Yeah," Thiago said, quieter now. "This summer. Probably."

"I figured. You told me before, I just..." João trailed off, then continued, "It’s weird, man. You’re doing what we all dreamed about."

"It doesn’t feel real," Thiago admitted. "Not yet."

"Promise me one thing?"

"Sure."

"When you’re at some fancy European club, don’t forget that it started here. In futsal. On that court behind the school."

Thiago smiled. "Never."

"And when you win your first Champions League—remember who used to beat you at penalties."

Thiago rolled his eyes. "You never beat me."

João laughed. "Let me believe, bro. Let me have my delusions."

They talked for a while longer, swapping memories and teasing each other about old injuries and awful referees. And when the call ended, Thiago felt lighter.

Grounded.

That evening, Marina showed up at the front gate, punctual as ever. She wore jeans and a crisp white blouse today, laptop bag over her shoulder, clipboard tucked under one arm. His mother let her in with a smile, offering guava juice and slices of bolo de cenoura, which Marina accepted graciously before waving Thiago to the kitchen table.

"We’ve got movement," she said, sliding her laptop open. "And a lot of it."

Thiago raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

Marina nodded. "Your final performance was a spark. But it was everything else—the interviews, your System-level consistency all season, the Puma meeting—that’s the fire."

She tapped the screen.

"Osasuna and Lyon are both in with concrete offers. Written contracts. Ten thousand euros per month starting salary. Signing bonuses, housing stipends, the works."

Thiago blinked. "Ten thousand a month..."

"Not counting performance bonuses," she added. "And it grows if you make senior team appearances or start international matches. Lyon’s more structured, long-term plan. They’ve got a pipeline. They want to develop you over two years into a first-team contributor."

"And Osasuna?"

"Immediate minutes," she said. "They’re struggling in La Liga. They see you as an asset who can help now. It’s riskier. But if you want to play straight away..."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Can I even say no to either?"

"You can," Marina said. "You should."

He looked at her, surprised.

"Thiago, you’re not just choosing a club," she said gently. "You’re choosing a country, a system, a culture, a language. This isn’t just about playing time. It’s about where you’ll grow."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the ceiling. "What if I mess it up?"

"You won’t," she said. "You’re already ready. You just need the right fit."

She clicked to the next slide. Logos of other clubs filled the screen—scouting inquiries, contacts made, not yet formal but clearly circling.

"Dortmund. Ajax. Lille. Torino. Even a Belgian club with a strong youth focus. They’re watching you. Asking questions. Waiting to see if they’re too late."

Thiago blinked. "Dortmund?"

"They haven’t made contact yet," Marina clarified. "But their youth director asked for your last five match videos. They don’t do that unless they’re serious."

He sat there, silent for a long moment.

"It’s really happening."

Marina gave a small smile. "It is."

As she packed up, she paused at the door. "Puma contract signing is Wednesday. We’ll meet Leo again. Their legal team will be there. You ready for that?"

Thiago hesitated.

Then nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."

After Marina left, Thiago stepped out to the quiet of the street. The sun had nearly set, casting the rooftops in soft oranges and deepening purples. A few kids kicked a ball between them in the distance, barefoot and shouting, their joy unburdened by tactics or futures or transfers.

He leaned against the gate, hands in his pockets.

It was all still so much.

He was 17. novelbuddy-cσ๓

And somehow already outgrowing everything around him.

His eyes drifted back to his room, where the envelope still waited on his desk.

Camila’s words, sealed tight inside.

Maybe he’d open it tomorrow.

Or maybe he’d wait until Europe.

But whatever it said, whatever it meant—

The next Chapter of his life had already begun.

New n𝙤vel chapters are published on f(r)e𝒆webn(o)vel.com