"March already."
Caio said it casually, flipping through a folded sheet of paper while Thiago sat across from him on the café's cracked plastic chair.
Thiago looked up. "It's March?"
Caio didn't glance away from the page. "March 4th. Year's flying. You've played what—four matches now?"
"Three and a half," Thiago muttered.
"Right. But on paper, four." Caio tapped the sheet. "And you've started showing up in match reports consistently."
Thiago raised an eyebrow. "That's worth printing?"
"You scored a 7.8 in your last match," Caio said, eyes still on the paper. "That's not nothing."
"It's just numbers."
"It's exactly numbers," Caio said, folding the sheet and sliding it into a thin binder at his side. "Clubs love numbers. Scouts love numbers. And guess what? You don't have anyone keeping track of yours but me."
Thiago sipped his juice. He wasn't used to thinking about his name being printed next to ratings and pass counts.
"You make it sound like a stock," he said.
"You are a stock," Caio replied. "The difference is, most stocks have someone watching the market for them."
Thiago leaned back, thinking. The café wasn't busy. Just a couple of kids playing with a half-inflated football in the street outside, their shoes kicked off and lined against the curb.
He watched them for a moment.
Then asked, "You think I need an agent?"
Caio looked up now. He didn't answer immediately.
"I think you will," he said finally. "Sooner than you expect."
Training the next day was short but sharp.
Post-match recovery drills. Short sprints. Technical combinations. First touch control under pressure.
Thiago partnered with Rafael most of the session. They didn't talk much, but Rafael gave him nods whenever a pass came crisp or a movement was timed well.
Nando, on the other hand, was quiet.
Since the goal, he'd been colder. Not hostile. Just colder.
He still passed when needed. Still made runs. Still did the job.
But he didn't joke anymore.
Didn't toss comments around in the locker room.
And when Thiago entered, he looked away.
Eneas didn't comment on it.
Instead, after drills, he called Thiago over during cool-downs.
"You're not just getting minutes now," he said, eyes on the field. "You're getting expectations."
Thiago nodded. "I'm ready."
"You're not," Eneas said flatly. "But you're improving."
He turned then.
"Don't stop. And don't get comfortable. It's not your spot yet."
That week passed fast.
Palmeiras played Ponte Preta on a Wednesday night — Thiago came on in the 71st minute, played well, didn't score.
Final score: 2–1 win.
Rafael gave him a handshake and said, "Clean minutes."
Nando didn't speak.
Saturday's match came even quicker. Guaratinguetá, another mid-table side.
Thiago came on at 64' with the score at 0–0.
In the 78th, he won a free kick outside the box with a sharp turn. In the 82nd, he had a shot blocked wide. The corner that followed resulted in the winning goal.
Rafael told the press it was "a team effort."
The assistant coach patted Thiago's back on the way out.
No interviews.
But he saw a photo of himself, ball at his feet, on a local football forum the next morning.
Caio had sent it.
"Still stock-rising," the message read.
The following Monday, Caio came to visit again — this time with a folder.
Inside were clippings, ratings, match charts. Circles and arrows drawn in pen.
"You've created three second-assist moments already," Caio said, flipping a page. "The type that don't show up unless someone's watching closely."
Thiago looked at the diagrams. It was his movement, his timing. In still frames.
"How do you even get these?"
"I watch the match three times," Caio said. "Once for fun. Once for stats. Once for you."
Thiago blinked.
Caio leaned forward, more serious now.
"Look, I'm not trying to run your career. I'm not that guy. I'm not even legal to sign anything."
"I know."
"But you need someone who is."
"Why?"
"Because this," Caio tapped the folder, "is value. Not hype. Actual on-pitch value. And you don't want a random scout or some sketchy agent sweet-talking your mom before you even get a pro contract."
Thiago didn't say anything for a moment.
Then asked, "You know someone?"
"I know someone who knows someone," Caio said. "She's been around youth setups before. Legit. No nonsense."
"Where is she?"
"São Paulo. Not far."
"I'll think about it."
Caio leaned back, satisfied. "That's all I'm asking."
In the locker room, Thiago noticed a change that week.
It was subtle.
The way people greeted him.
The way his name was mentioned more in conversations.
Not loud praise — just quiet, steady recognition.
The assistant coach started correcting his positioning less.
The fullback who used to bark instructions during matches started deferring space more often.
Rafael passed to him first now in tight situations.
Nando, though?
Still nothing.
One afternoon, during a rondo drill, Nando passed the ball a little too sharp — skidding hard across the grass.
Thiago trapped it easily.
Didn't say a word.
Just passed it clean to the next man.
Rafael caught the look between them but didn't step in.
After training, he walked by Thiago in the corridor and said, "Keep your head. You're playing, not fighting."
Thiago nodded.
But part of him wondered how long that tension would last.
System Notification (Training Week Summary):Sessions: 4Match Minutes: 49Fouls Drawn: 3Pass Completion Avg: 89%Chance Creation: 2Final Coach Impression: +SlightClub Confidence: 74 / 100No quests active
Skill Points Available: 10
He didn't spend them.
Not yet.
Instead, he shut it down and focused on the next matchday brief.
Because even though people were talking now...
It still wasn't his position.
Not yet