Limitless Pitch-Chapter 91 – The Decision

The morning air in Campinas hung thick with the scent of burnt coffee and diesel fumes as Thiago sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked plaster wall opposite him. The water stain near the ceiling had grown since last summer, its edges creeping outward like some strange continent forming in reverse. His sheets, washed too many times with cheap detergent, scratched against his bare legs as he swung them over the side of the mattress.

Down the hallway, the apartment creaked with familiar sounds - Clara’s off-key humming through her battered headphones, the rhythmic scrape of his mother’s broom against tile floors, the persistent drip from the kitchen faucet no one had ever gotten around to fixing properly. Thiago pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until colors bloomed behind them. Three nights without proper sleep had left his thoughts sluggish, his movements heavy.

When he shuffled into the kitchen, his mother didn’t turn from the stove where she was frying eggs. "You look terrible," she said matter-of-factly, the spatula clicking against the pan.

"Thanks," Thiago mumbled, reaching for the dented aluminum coffee pot. The first bitter sip burned his tongue, just like always.

The knock came precisely at 10:15. Marina stood in the doorway, her crisp white blouse somehow untouched by the humidity already thickening the air outside. She carried a leather portfolio that smelled faintly of expensive department stores, its surface smooth and unblemished compared to the scuffed kitchen table where she set it down.

"Bom dia," she said, accepting the chipped coffee cup Thiago’s mother wordlessly offered. The three of them sat around the table in their usual formation - Marina with her back to the window, Thiago facing the refrigerator covered in Clara’s old drawings, his mother positioned halfway between them like a referee.

The portfolio clicked open with a sound that made Thiago’s stomach tighten. Inside, the Dortmund contract lay in neat, color-coded sections, its crisp white pages glaringly out of place among the oil-stained cookbooks and cracked salt shaker on the table.

"Let’s go through it properly this time," Marina said, adjusting her glasses. The morning light caught the lenses, turning them opaque for a moment. "Base salary first."

Her manicured nail tapped the number - €10,000 weekly, net. Thiago traced the digits with his finger, the ink slightly raised under his touch. It still didn’t feel real. Two months ago he’d been counting coins for bus fare to training. Now they were talking about sums that could buy the entire apartment building.

"Less than Ajax," Marina noted, flipping to a comparison chart she’d prepared. The numbers stared up at them in neat columns - Ajax’s €12,000 base salary, Lyon’s €9,500 but with easier bonus structures, Osasuna’s modest €6,500 but guaranteed starting position.

Thiago’s mother made a small noise in her throat, her fingers tightening around her coffee cup. The chipped "#1 Mom" decal on its side caught the light.

"But look at the bonuses," Marina continued, turning pages with quick, precise movements. "Appearance fees structured differently here - you hit twenty matches and the rate increases. Goal incentives tiered by competition level." She paused at a particular clause. "And this - family travel."

Four round-trip tickets per year. Economy class, but still. Thiago watched his mother’s face as Marina explained, saw the way her eyes flickered toward the framed photo on the fridge - their entire family at the beach years ago, back when his father was still around.

"The coach," Thiago said, rubbing his chin. "Klopp. What do you really think about him?"

Marina gave him a sideways glance. "You spoke with him for twenty minutes last week. You tell me."

Thiago shrugged. "He seemed... intense. But honest."

"That’s the general consensus," Marina said, adjusting her glasses. "Forty-two years old, which is practically a child in coaching terms. Took Mainz from obscurity to the Bundesliga - not many managers can say that." She flipped a page in the contract. "Dortmund hired him because they want to rebuild with youth. You’d be part of that project."

"But is he..." Thiago searched for the right word, remembering Klopp’s raspy voice crackling through the phone line. "Is he as crazy as he sounded?"

Marina’s mouth quirked. "Let’s just say his energy isn’t an act. The man lives football like some people live religion." She tapped the contract. "But here’s what matters - when he says he’ll play you if you earn it, I believe him. That’s rare in this business."

Thiago nodded slowly, recalling how Klopp had laughed when he’d asked about the German weather. "Yeah. That’s how he came across."

The refrigerator kicked on with a rattle, making them all jump. Outside, a vendor’s cart creaked by, the man’s voice calling out prices for mangoes and guavas. The ordinary sounds of morning pressing in around this extraordinary conversation.

After Marina left, Thiago found himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, studying his own face like he might find answers in the stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a childhood fall. The water from the tap ran lukewarm no matter how far he turned the handle.

He walked without direction, his sneakers scuffing against pavement worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The neighborhood unfolded around him in all its familiar imperfection - the corner store where the owner still gave Clara free candy, the broken playground swing that had been dangling by one chain since he was twelve, the lot where the older boys played pickup games every Saturday morning.

At the overlook point - really just a stretch of crumbling concrete barrier at the edge of the favela - Thiago sat with his legs dangling over the drop. Below him, the city simmered in the afternoon heat, a patchwork of red roofs and laundry lines stretching toward the hazy horizon. Somewhere beyond that curve of earth was Germany. A language he didn’t speak. Snow he’d never touched. A stadium that held 80,000 people.

His phone buzzed. Joao.

"Well? You got the offer or what?"

Thiago watched a lizard dart across the warm concrete beside him. "yeah but Dortmund offered less than Ajax."

The reply came fast.

"But?"

He thought about the way Klopp’s voice had sounded on the phone - not polished like the Ajax representative, not slick like Lyon’s recruiter’s, but rough-edged and sincere. About the family travel clause Marina had emphasized three separate times. About his mother’s hands, rough from cleaning other people’s houses, holding a boarding pass with his name on it.

"But I’m leaning more towards them", he typed back.

The sun dipped lower, painting the city in gold and shadow. Somewhere below, a motorbike backfired, setting off a chorus of barking dogs. The sounds of home. Thiago closed his eyes and committed them to memory.

That night, lying in bed, the ceiling cracks looked different somehow - less like flaws in the plaster, more like paths branching outward. He texted Marina just before midnight:

"Tell them yes."

Her reply came instantly

"I’ll call Dortmund first thing and then they will begin the process with Palmeiras."

Outside his window, a drunk couple argued in the street, their voices rising and falling like a song he’d heard a thousand times before. Thiago pressed his palm against the cool glass, already missing a place he hadn’t left yet.

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