Thiago woke up to a dull ache in his thighs and lower back, the kind of soreness that lingered after high-stakes matches. He lay there for a moment in the dim hotel light filtering through the curtains, letting the stiffness settle into something familiar. It wasn't pain, it was proof. Proof he'd played in Europe. Proof he'd belonged on that pitch, if only for twenty-four minutes.
He turned his head, glancing at the desk in the corner of the room. His training bag was still there, half-zipped. His boots, stained faintly from the Signal Iduna turf, sat next to it like two quiet trophies.
For a fleeting moment, Thiago just smiled to himself.
But then, as always, the stillness evaporated.
You're still on the bench. One match doesn't mean anything yet.
That quiet inner voice—stern, grounded—was as familiar as the soreness. He rolled out of bed and let out a soft groan. Europa League debut or not, it was another day, and Klopp's staff expected him at training.
