The training ground was still wrapped in the hazy blue light of dawn when Thiago arrived, his breath curling in faint clouds as he stepped out of his car. The air carried that crisp, almost metallic tang of early autumn mornings—cold enough to make his fingers tingle, but not yet bitter enough to numb them.
He was the first one there.
The pitch stretched before him, its surface glistening with dew, each blade of grass catching the pale morning light. Sprinklers ticked rhythmically in the distance, their arcs of water catching the dim glow like strands of silver thread. Groundskeepers moved with quiet efficiency, their boots leaving dark trails in the damp turf as they prepped the field for the day's session. The scent of freshly cut grass hung thick in the air, sharp and earthy.
