The locker room air felt denser than normal that afternoon—humid from yesterday's rain, slightly musty from jerseys drying on hooks, and sharp with the promise of the day to come. Thiago leaned against the cool tile wall, lacing his boots slowly, methodically, his mind already at 100 % match focus.
He'd settled into this routine, this space, this club life. He'd come too far in too short a time to let a few namedrops shake him now. It'd been months since his debut, and every week brought incremental pressure—not the kind that rattled nerves, but the kind that sharpened them.
He nearly jumped when bursts of laughter and excited chatter erupted from the entrance. Players gathered around something—a phone, judging from the glow. Thiago's gaze followed the crowd.
"Ain't seen skills like that since Pelé was a kid!" someone said, voice rich with enthusiasm.
"Neymar da Silva," came another voice. "Sixteen. Just tore it up for Santos yesterday."
Thiago glanced over, alert—but not tense. He heard the clip play: crisp, digital audio, ball on boot, a soft feint, a cross clipped perfectly to the post.
"Did you see that second touch? Filth."
"Filth," Rafael echoed. Then, "That better be the full clip. Show me the through ball after bounce."
As the group drifted off, Thiago leaned forward, shielded his boots. Subtle, but he'd watched the same play they'd been talking about. Yellow-and-green jersey. Light on his feet. Been called "the next Robinho" already? Good. Let them talk.
Nando caught Thiago's eye across the room. No taunt, no grin—just a glance sharp enough. Then Nando returned to packing his gear. Rafael wrapped a towel around Thiago's shoulder lightly.
"He's going viral already," he whispered. "And you're not even in the first team sheet this week."
Thiago sighed quietly. "Good." He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
—
Just over ninety minutes later, the rain cleared, and the pitch dried under a thin sun. Coaches had shaved the blades of grass early; every blade pointed the same direction. There was a small-sided possession drill running alongside a finishing sequence near the far corner flag.
Thiago flowed through the drills with the calm precision Eneas expected. First touch—sharp. Two-touch passing—ripped through his teammates' feet with surgical speed. A quick one-two from Rafael led to a near-post finish that kissed the side netting. Thiago didn't grin, but Eneas nodded—tiny sign of acknowledgment.
In the next rotation, Thiago kept position on the left side of the grid. He received a pass, one touch to spin into space, another to thread through to the striker. Just enough to earn a flick of approval from Eneas. Nando's shoulders tensed when Thiago completed a diagonal ball past him, but nothing else.
The drills ended. Thiago jogged toward the cooler, shoulders relaxed but mind alert. Camouflaged footwork, waiting for openings. No pressure yet—just consistency.
Rafael punched his shoulder. "All tidy, kid. But let's see that apart from drills too."
Thiago waved it off softly. "Soon."
—
Back in the dorm's dimly lit room, Thiago padded into his space and sat cross-legged at his desk. His laptop flickered on. Match footage paused on last Saturday's highlight—his cutback from minute 82. He replayed the sequence four times, scrutinizing body shape, first touch, angle of release.
On his nightstand, his phone buzzed with a light ping. Tapping the screen brought up Caio's message:
Caio: „Santos dropped a wonderkid. Neymar da Silva. You related?"
Thiago smirked. He typed back:
Thiago: "Not unless he plays my position."
No rush. He knew the tag would stick to Neymar; media would chase it. But for Thiago, that name was just another tree in the forest.
He closed the message and reopened the video. Floating over the playback bar was the data overlay he'd added himself—touch quality, distance covered, pass completion percentage, time on ball. This was his ecosystem.
He clicked the play button again.
Epoch by epoch, he fine-tuned footwork on the pitch; vision. Quiet.
—
Over the Following Days
What Thiago hadn't expected was how fast the noise crept in. By midweek, A Bola had run a feature: "Neymar da Silva—forged on concrete, rising fast in Santos youth." They'd snagged a clip of his celebration, that soft, confident hug to a teammate. Screenshots buzzed on social media.
Caio knocked at his door the evening after.
He came in with two bottles of water and a flutter of extra paper in one hand. "Thought you might want these."
Thiago frowned and took them.
Caio slid into the chair across from his desk. "Look," he said gently. "You've got Neymar hype growing. It's building. Don't ignore it. Pressure compounds."
"I'm not worried," Thiago replied. His tone was flat—but far from dismissive.
Caio unfolded the printed articles. "It's not the pressure that matters. It's how they monetize it. Scouts, sponsors—they're already watching Neymar's story. Right now, you're just… playing."
He tapped one article with a neat finger. "You don't want your talent to go unrepresented. You need someone protecting your path—especially if you're heading to Europe."
Thiago stared at the paper. Felt the word Europe slide uneasily through his mind. So far away. Yet.
"I'll consider it," Thiago said finally.
Caio's eyes flicked up. "Sooner is smarter."
Overshadowed? He wasn't yet. But Caio's questions lingered in the lamplight—gentle, persistent. Who controls your narrative? Are you letting your name rise, or letting it slip?
—
On the Eve of the Paulista Opener
By Friday, anticipation had shifted. They'd been informed: this weekend's opener roster included Thiago again—bench, but likely minutes. Roberto Carlos—younger assistant—gave him a curt nod during pre-match stretch.
In the locker room, Thiago sat alone for a moment. Hoodie draped loosely, head down. Phone idle in his hand. He looked up at the ceiling tiles, thought beyond the immediate.
He wasn't dreaming of Europe yet. He couldn't. His focus was pulse, movement, staying right. But whispers—subtle—filled the hall: "Neymar," "rise," "Brazilian wonderkid." Media exposure. Caio's mail.
He lifted his head.
He didn't feel pressure.
He felt potential.
Not the kind that crushes. The kind that builds.
He tucked his hoodie into his bag, set his phone aside.
He tapped his boots once. He was ready.
He tightened his grip on his boots.
Tomorrow, minutes. Distance to cover. Field to claim.
Not a shadow. Not a headline.
Just him.