CHAPTER 122: CHAPTER 122 SHIFTING

The thud of boots on damp turf.

The distant echo of a whistle.

And Klopp’s voice cutting through it all like a blade through fog—sharp, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.

Thiago wiped his forearm across his brow, the sweat stinging his eyes as he sucked in shallow breaths from the final sprint drill. The sky over Dortmund hung low and oppressive, thick with August humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement feel heavier. Dark clouds loomed in the distance, threatening a storm, but inside the Brackel training ground, the real storm was already brewing.

They’d drawn their Europa League opener. 0–0. A respectable result on paper, especially away from home. But the Bundesliga was back now, and Klopp didn’t deal in "respectable" when the league was involved.

"Alright, listen up!" Klopp clapped his hands, the sound cracking through the air like a gunshot. The players gathered in a loose semi-circle around him, their training jerseys darkened with sweat, some still panting, others unnervingly silent. The tension was palpable—thick enough to choke on.

"We’ve got Hamburger SV next," Klopp said, his voice carrying that familiar edge—half warning, half challenge. "And I don’t need to remind anyone that they finished above us last season." His gaze swept over them, lingering just a second too long on a few faces. "They’re not a team that gives you space. Not a team that lets you breathe."

Thiago stood shoulder to shoulder with Sven Bender and Kevin Großkreutz, shifting his weight subtly, his fingers flexing at his sides. The grass beneath his cleats was worn thin from hours of drills, the earth beneath it soft from yesterday’s rain.

"But here’s the thing," Klopp continued, his tone shifting into that odd blend of aggressive optimism he was famous for. "We’ve played three games in quick succession. We’re not machines. And so—" he clapped again, once, sharply, "—I’m going to rotate."

A ripple went through the group. Heads turned. Quiet mutters exchanged.

"Younger legs. Fresh energy. Some of you will get your shot."

Thiago felt his chest tighten—not with fear, but with something raw and electric. Hope? Anticipation? He kept his face carefully blank, but his fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms just enough to ground himself.

Klopp didn’t say who. He didn’t need to. That would come tomorrow.

But the implication hung there in the silence, thick as the storm clouds gathering overhead.

Training resumed, but the mood had shifted. Every pass was a fraction sharper, every sprint a half-step faster. Players watched each other differently now—assessing, calculating. Lucas Barrios went hard into a one-touch drill with Mohamed Zidan, their movements almost violent in their precision. Jakub Błaszczykowski snapped at a miscommunication with Dedê, his voice sharp enough to turn heads. Even Sven Bender, usually ice-calm, threw a slight shrug when Sebastian Kehl nudged him off-balance during a possession game, his jaw tightening just for a second before he reset.

Thiago didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. His touches were crisp, his passing clean, his positioning deliberate. And most importantly—he stayed on his feet. No unnecessary risks. No flashy moves. Just focus.

For ninety more minutes, he worked like he always did. Like he had something to prove.

Later that afternoon, Marina met him at the apartment entrance, a slim envelope in her hands. The paper was crisp, the red wax seal at the flap embossed with the building’s insignia.

"Final paperwork," she said, holding it out. "You’re officially a tenant now."

Thiago took it, turning it over in his hands. The weight of it felt strange. Final.

"Feels weird," he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended. "Like... I’m not borrowing someone else’s space anymore."

"You’re not," Marina said simply. "This is yours."

They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor in silence. The building smelled faintly of new paint and lemon-scented cleaner, the kind of sterile freshness that came with untouched spaces. Most units were still empty, but a few showed signs of life—a pair of sneakers kicked off outside one doorway, curtains half-drawn in another, the faint hum of music leaking from somewhere down the hall.

Inside, the apartment hadn’t changed since the last time he saw it. Still spacious, still flooded with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Still strangely, overwhelmingly quiet.

But something felt different now.

He unlocked the windows and let the breeze in, the cool air carrying the distant sounds of the city—car horns, the rhythmic clatter of a tram, the occasional shout from the street below. He stepped into the kitchen and ran his hand along the countertop, the smooth surface cool under his fingertips. He opened every cupboard, even though he knew they were empty, just to feel the weight of the doors in his hands, to hear the soft click as they closed.

Marina handled the final keys and utility confirmations while he unpacked the last of his things—two duffel bags and one cardboard box filled with photo frames and small keepsakes. A worn-out Palmeiras scarf. A chipped mug from his mother. A few books he’d never gotten around to reading. He didn’t own much, but it was enough.

By the time she left, the sky outside had turned a soft orange, the sun dipping behind the Dortmund skyline, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.

He was alone now.

Not in the training dorms.

Not in some borrowed guest room.

His own place.

Thiago collapsed onto the couch with a low groan, his muscles aching from training. He hadn’t even had dinner yet, but he couldn’t stop himself from pulling out his phone.

There was only one thing left to do today.

He dialed.

It rang twice before it connected.

"Thiago?" His mother’s voice, a little crackly over the signal but warm as ever.

"Oi, mãe," he said, smiling automatically. "You’re free?"

"Of course, meu filho. We’ve been waiting for your call all day. Clara’s here too!"

A second voice piped up immediately. "Show us the apartment!"

Thiago flipped the camera around and gave them the tour, starting with the living room and working his way around. The place was mostly bare—no decoration yet, no rugs, just clean floors and plain walls—but his mother nodded approvingly.

"It’s beautiful," she said softly. "And big. Bigger than I expected."

"I’ll add furniture slowly," Thiago said. "Bit by bit."

"You should get a plant!" Clara insisted. "You know, something green. Otherwise, it’ll feel like a dentist’s office."

Thiago chuckled. "Noted."

"Now our turn!" his mom said, flipping her camera on.

Thiago sat back as they gave him the tour. Their new home in São Paulo wasn’t big, but it was clean and freshly painted, with a bright kitchen and two small bedrooms. He could tell they were proud, even though they tried not to make a big deal out of it.

"See? Even Clara has her own room now," his mother said, her voice catching just slightly.

Thiago’s throat tightened.

He remembered the cramped apartment they used to live in. How the bathroom door didn’t close properly. How they could hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. He remembered the leaking ceiling and the tiny gas stove that barely worked.

That place was gone now.

He had done this.

"You like it?" his mom asked quietly.

"Yeah," Thiago said. "I do."

There was a pause.

Then his mother smiled—just a little. "We’re proud of you, Thiago."

Clara leaned into the frame. "Yeah, but don’t get soft now, okay? Bundesliga still exists."

"I’ll try my best not to embarrass you."

"Too late for that," she grinned.

He laughed.

They talked for a while longer—about the match against Udinese, about his new routine, about the weather in Dortmund (still cold, apparently), and his meals (yes, he was eating real food). Eventually, they said goodnight.

As the call ended, Thiago put the phone down and leaned back into the couch.

Outside, the city lights had begun to flicker on, pinpricks of gold against the deepening blue. Somewhere below, a tram rattled past, its bell ringing faintly. In the distance, faint sirens echoed, but up here, it felt removed—peaceful.

Tomorrow, Klopp might say his name.

Tomorrow, he might step onto the pitch again—as a starter.

The silence of the apartment stretched around him, but it wasn’t empty anymore. Not really. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the floorboards settling, the distant murmur of traffic five stories below - these sounds were slowly becoming familiar, stitching themselves into the fabric of his new life.

Thiago pushed himself off the couch with a grunt, his muscles protesting from the day’s training. The wooden floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he padded to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, watching the way the liquid caught the fading orange light from the window. The first sip was cold, shocking against his dry throat.

He wandered to the window, glass in hand, and leaned against the frame. Dortmund spread out before him, a patchwork of rooftops and church spires, the neon glow of the Signal Iduna Park just visible in the distance. The evening air carried the scent of rain-washed pavement and something faintly floral - maybe linden trees from the park down the street.

The shower after training hadn’t quite washed away the tension coiling in his shoulders. He could still feel the ghost of Klopp’s assessing gaze, the weight of those unspoken words about rotation.

The empty apartment seemed to echo with possibility. That bare stretch of wall by the door - perfect for a framed jersey. The corner near the window - maybe a reading chair. The kitchen counter - already picturing his mother’s cooking when she eventually visited.

He grabbed a banana from the counter and peeled it absently, the sweet taste grounding him. Through the open window, he caught snippets of conversation from the street below - German too rapid for him to follow completely, but he picked out "Fußball" and "Bundesliga." The city was buzzing ahead of the weekend’s matches.

His duffel bag sat half-unpacked by the bedroom door. He should finish organizing, but instead he found himself standing in the middle of the living room, turning slowly, taking it all in. This space was his. Not a temporary hotel, not a club-provided dorm. His name was on the lease. His things - few as they were - filled these rooms.

The realization settled over him like the evening shadows stretching across the floor. He was building something here. Not just a career, but a life.

Thiago finished the banana and tossed the peel in the bin. Tomorrow would come soon enough - with its challenges, its possibilities. For now, he had this quiet moment, this space that was becoming home.

He turned off the lights, leaving just the glow from the streetlamps outside to paint stripes across the floor. As he lay in bed, the unfamiliar sounds of the new apartment lulling him toward sleep, one thought circled in his mind:

However tomorrow went, he was ready.