The day before the second leg began not with a whistle, but with a pen.
Thiago sat hunched at his desk in the Palmeiras dormitory, flipping through a spiral-bound notebook filled with scribbled diagrams and coach Eneas' sharp block handwriting. The pages were worn at the edges, some corners folded from repeated use, others stained with the faint rings of coffee cups pressed too eagerly against them. Half-spilled Gatorade sweated beside his elbow, forgotten in the midday heat, its neon orange hue dulled by the sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. Outside, the sounds of São Paulo filtered in—the rhythmic honking of rush-hour traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from the youth team jogging past his window, the distant whistle of a coach drilling set pieces on the far pitch.
But inside, everything had narrowed to one focus: Corinthians.
The final. The last leg. The biggest match of his life—so far.
