Limitless Pitch-Chapter 89 – Dutch Bids

It was already late in the morning when Marina called. Thiago had been lying on the couch half-watching some old football highlights when his phone buzzed. He answered without even checking the screen, figuring it was probably João again.

"Thiago," Marina said right away, her tone more serious than usual. "Are you free this afternoon?"

He sat up a little. "Yeah. Why?"

"A scout from Ajax is in town. They want to meet. Not just talk—they’re bringing a full offer this time."

Thiago blinked. "Wait, already? Like, a proper contract?"

"Yes," she said. "And they want to hand it to you in person."

That snapped him out of his daze.

"Okay," he said. "Where?"

"Hotel Fasano, 4 p.m. Dress decent," she added, as if already imagining him showing up in flip-flops and a training tee.

⸻

Thiago spent most of the day in his room, doing nothing but thinking. He wasn’t even nervous this time—just... tired. Not physically, but in that way where your brain keeps looping through the same thoughts. Dortmund. Ajax. Lyon. Osasuna. Puma. His mom. Clara. Everything was happening so fast.

By the time Marina picked him up, he’d put on a button-down shirt—his only good one, really—and tried his best to smooth out the creases. Marina didn’t say much during the ride. Just scrolled through her messages and muttered something about traffic.

The Ajax scout was already waiting in the lobby when they arrived. He was tall, lean, and looked like he might’ve been a player himself ten years ago. His blazer had the Ajax crest stitched on the inside lining, and he greeted them both in clean, accented English before switching to Portuguese—clearly practiced, but a little stiff.

"Thiago," the man said, shaking his hand with a strong grip. "My name is Willem van Dijk. I scout South America for Ajax Amsterdam. It’s good to finally meet you."

"You too," Thiago said, not really sure how to act.

They moved into a private corner of the hotel lounge. The furniture was all low and modern, and the walls were covered in those strange artsy black-and-white photos that rich places always had.

Willem took a folder from his leather bag and placed it carefully on the table. "I won’t waste your time," he said. "We’ve watched your last six matches in full. Not just the Paulista final. The U-20s, the friendlies, even the short appearances in preseason. You’re not just talented—you’re smart. You read space, you create danger, and you track back."

Thiago shifted in his seat. Compliments still made him uncomfortable.

"And you’re still only seventeen," Willem went on. "We believe you’d thrive in our system. Ajax has a long history of turning young players into world-class professionals. You’ve probably heard the names—Cruyff, Van Basten, Sneijder. But we’re not here to compare. We’re here to offer you a path."

He opened the folder and slid a printed contract across the table. Marina leaned forward immediately, already scanning the pages with her pen ready in hand.

"This is a preliminary contract," Willem explained, "but it’s formal. We’ve cleared it internally. If you sign, you’d be joining us for the upcoming season."

Thiago glanced at the paper. His name was printed at the top. Real, black ink.

"€12,000 per week," Willem continued. "That’s the base wage. Paid monthly. Comes out to around €48,000 a month, before tax. You’ll also receive a €200,000 signing bonus, paid in two installments—one when the contract is finalized, the other after your first official appearance."

Thiago felt his stomach flip. It was more than he’d imagined.

"There are bonuses as well," Willem added. "For goals, assists, and minutes played. The more you contribute to the first team, the more your salary scales. And if you make appearances in the Eredivisie or the Europa League, those numbers jump again."

Marina looked up from the page. "No obligation to play for Jong Ajax first?" she asked, eyes sharp.

"We may start him there briefly," Willem admitted. "But only for integration. The goal is first team. Coach Jol has already reviewed his footage personally. If he arrives fit, he’ll train with the senior squad from day one."

Thiago let out a slow breath. "And... what’s the catch?" he asked, half-joking.

Willem smiled, leaning back in his chair. "The only catch is that we’re betting on you. You’ll be far from home. In a new country. With a new language. But you won’t be alone. Ajax takes care of its players. We’ll provide housing, tutors, and support to help you adjust. But the football? That’s on you."

Thiago looked down at the contract again. The numbers stared back at him, crisp and tempting.

"We want you to make your decision with full clarity," Willem said. "You don’t have to decide today. But we hope you’ll consider us seriously. This isn’t just about money—it’s about becoming the player you’re meant to be."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a jersey.

#17– THIAGO

The red and white of Ajax.

Thiago touched the fabric lightly. The name looked strange there—but also... right.

⸻

They left the hotel with the folder tucked under Marina’s arm. Neither of them said much in the car at first.

Eventually, Thiago broke the silence. "Twelve thousand a week..." ƒгeewebnovёl_com

Marina glanced at him. "It’s a good offer."

"Better than Puma," he muttered.

"Completely different thing," she said. "Puma is sponsorship. Ajax is football. And yes, it’s a serious deal. They’re not playing games."

Thiago nodded, staring out the window as São Paulo rushed past. "And Klopp?"

"We’ll see what Dortmund puts forward in writing. But Ajax isn’t waiting. They’ve made their move."

He leaned his head back against the seat. "It’s weird. Just last year, I was worried about making the U-17 squad. Now everyone wants me to cross an ocean."

Marina smiled faintly. "Welcome to the storm, garoto."

⸻

That night, Thiago sat at his desk and unfolded the Ajax contract again. The numbers felt heavier now, like they carried the weight of a dozen futures.

He reached for the Puma folder too, then the scouting letters from Lyon, the emails Marina printed from Osasuna, and Klopp’s note scribbled after the call:

We’re ready when you are.

They all looked the same on paper—words, numbers, offers. But they would change his life.

He leaned back in his chair, the light of his desk lamp casting long shadows on the wall. Somewhere in the kitchen, his mom was humming to herself while drying dishes. Clara was probably asleep, her phone still playing music under her pillow.

He glanced at the unopened envelope Camila had given him before the final. It was still in his drawer. Still sealed.

One thing at a time.

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