The morning after the win should have tasted like victory.
Golden sunlight streamed through the thin dorm room curtains, painting stripes of warmth across Thiago's rumpled sheets. He lay there, his dark brown curls—still damp from the shower—tangled against the pillow, the scent of his coconut shampoo mixing with the musk of sweat that still clung to his skin. The crisp morning air carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the training pitch below and the smoky tang of distant barbecue from the street vendors already setting up for lunch. Through the open window, the rhythmic thump of a soccer ball being kicked against a wall echoed from the courtyard below.
