By the time training wrapped, the sun had burned off the morning fog, leaving the air warm and dry. Thiago's jersey clung to his back, soaked through, his lungs still recovering from the relentless pace of the final small-sided match.
He sat on the edge of the pitch with a few others, legs stretched out, cleats half-untied. Around him, the team's usual chatter hummed—tired jokes, light complaints, teasing between duos who'd ended up on the losing side. No one took it too seriously. Everyone knew the real competition came tomorrow.
Udinese.
The first leg. The Europa League. At home.
This was where the stakes shifted.
Thiago leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. His chest still rose and fell in shallow rhythm. It had been a good session. Maybe one of his best. He hadn't tried to be flashy. Just clean. Sharp. Reliable.
He didn't know if it would be enough.
