The concrete steps outside the Palmeiras dormitory were cool against Thiago's thighs as he sat alone in the predawn stillness. Somewhere in the distance, the last echoes of celebration still hummed through the training complex—a distant car stereo playing samba, the occasional whoop of lingering staff members, the metallic clang of cleanup crews collecting bottles and discarded streamers from the victory party.
He tilted his head back, letting the night air brush against his sweat-damped skin. The adrenaline hadn't fully drained yet—his muscles still thrummed with residual electricity, his nerves still alight with the echoes of the match. When he closed his eyes, he could still see it all in perfect clarity:
Neymar's impossible dribbles cutting through their midfield like a hot knife through butter.
The exact moment his cross had left his boot—the perfect weight, the perfect curve—before Nando connected with that diving header.
