Late January 2009São Paulo, Brazil
The morning sun cut through the smog like a scalpel.
Heat shimmered off the turf even before the cones were placed. It wasn't the thick, sticky heat of summer—but the sharp kind that came just as the season opened. Preseason was over. The Campeonato Paulista had begun.
For the first team, that meant media days, team buses, reporters fishing for quotes.
For Thiago?
It meant sweat.
He stood by himself on the far side of the training pitch, boots already laced, bib tucked into his waistband, watching the senior squad go through light stretches.
He'd been here a week.
No debut. No headlines.
But he was here.
Fifteen years old. Barely a year removed from kicking bottles around in Rocinha.
And now, officially listed on the Palmeiras senior reserve roster.
"Da Silva," called Coach Eneas. "Warm up with them today. You're in rotation."
Thiago nodded once.
Then jogged toward the circle of professionals.
He didn't speak much during drills.
No one expected him to.
The senior players were in their own rhythm—years of chemistry, handshakes, inside jokes, mid-drill banter. But they weren't cold. One nodded after a clean first-touch drill. Another gave him a thumbs-up after he floated a perfect pass during possession rondo.
No one treated him like a mascot.
Just a kid trying to earn his place.
That was enough.
Water break.
Thiago crouched near the cones, pouring cold water down the back of his neck.
"Fifteen?" someone asked behind him.
He turned.
It was Rafael, the second-string winger.
Tall, mid-twenties, fast—one of the players he'd studied during academy tape sessions.
"Yeah," Thiago said. "Fifteen."
Rafael raised an eyebrow. "Damn. I was still getting benched in U17s at that age."
"You still might be," said another player, walking past.
Laughter.
Thiago grinned.
He was breathing the same air now.
Even if he still felt a few steps behind.
After training, he sat alone near the lockers.
Towel over his head. Muscles twitching from the extra drills.
His phone buzzed.
João:"Heard you didn't get bodied today. Progress."
He snorted.
Then opened the System—not to check stats, just to see the number.
Level: 12
EXP: 45 / 500
Skill Points: 8
Player Tier: Professional – Reserve
No quests.No flare.No spotlight.
Just progress.
He closed it.
And got back to work.
Three days later, he got the call-up.
Not for a league match—yet.
Just a friendly, scheduled quietly during the gap between State League fixtures. A warm-up match against Ponte Preta's B squad, closed-door, no fans.
Coach Eneas read the line-up off a paper during breakfast.
Thiago wasn't starting.
But his name was on the bench.
He didn't react.
Just nodded once.
That afternoon, the bus was quiet.
He sat near the back, headphones in, the music off.
Just blocking the noise.
Rafael sat beside him.
"Never played against a men's team, huh?"
Thiago shook his head.
"They hit harder. Slower, but smarter. They'll try to pull you out wide and snap you on the counter. Keep your back to the sideline if you can. Buy yourself space."
Thiago glanced over.
"You always give advice to benchwarmers?"
Rafael smirked. "Just to the ones who are better than I was at fifteen."
The first half was sloppy.
Heavy legs. Lazy pressing. The Palmeiras starting unit looked like they were playing not to get hurt.
Eneas barked from the sideline. "I don't care if it's a friendly—move!"
At halftime, the score was still 0–0.
No shots on target.
Thiago didn't expect anything.
But Coach Eneas turned.
"Thiago. Warm up."
Heart spike.
He stood. Jogged. Legs loose, breath controlled.
Then the whistle blew, and he was on the pitch.
First time.Real pitch.Senior squad.
He didn't feel ready.
But he stepped on anyway.
Minute 46 to 55 was a blur.
First touch: heavy.
Second: intercepted.
Third: sideways pass under pressure.
No one barked at him. But the silence from his teammates said plenty.
He reset.
Breath slower.
Let the game settle.
Minute 57.
Rafael dropped wide, dragging a marker.
Thiago cut inside from the left wing and received a grounded pass in stride.
One touch. Then two.
A body closed in.
He turned sharply, shielding.
Pushed the ball back. Received it again.
Now space.
He drove forward—low stance, hips turned. Defender squared up.
He feinted left, shifted right—
—and slipped.
Boot caught in the turf.
He hit the ground hard.
No foul.
No help up.
Just boots jogging past.
Welcome to their world.
He didn't complain.
Just stood.
Minute 63.
Another build-up—this time slower. Midfield triangles forming.
Ball swung wide.
Thiago sprinted diagonally, dragging his marker across the backline.
Rafael played the switch.
Thiago killed the ball mid-run.
Box edge.
No one in the box yet.
He waited.
One touch.
Then whipped a low cross across the six-yard line.
No goal.
But gasps from the sideline.
And one word from Eneas: "Again."
Minute 70.
Same pattern.
Ball came wide.
Thiago trapped, cut inside, and flicked a pass to the striker's feet.
Quick shot.
Saved.
Rebound tapped wide.
Still no goal.
But now the team passed to him without hesitation.
The match ended 1–0—Palmeiras scored in minute 87 from a set piece.
Thiago wasn't on the scoresheet.
But he didn't need to be.
After the whistle, as players shook hands and water bottles were cracked open, Coach Eneas approached.
He didn't say anything.
Just looked at Thiago and tapped once on the clipboard.
Then walked off.
Approval. Quiet. Professional.
Exactly how Thiago liked it.
Later that night, Thiago sat on the dorm balcony with a cooling pack over his shin.
The sky was full of city haze, but he could still see the moon between clouds.
He checked the System.
System Notification:Friendly Match CompletedPerformance Rating: 6.8XP Gained: +15Vision +1 → 69Coach Impression: Neutral → PositivePalmeiras Internal Score: 62 / 100First Senior Match: Logged
Not flashy.
But enough.
Enough to stay another week.
To train another day.
To reach again.
And as he stared up at the sky, his phone buzzed again.
João:"You're on the board now, irmão. Now don't get soft."
Thiago smiled.
Then stood up.
Because tomorrow?
The real season started.
And he was breathing their air now.