CHAPTER 124: CHAPTER 124 - FRESH LEATHER, FRESH START

Thiago sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes locked on the new pair of boots perched on the floor. The glossy black PUMAs gleamed under the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. He hadn’t even taken the tags off yet.

His fingers brushed the laces, slow and thoughtful. Lightweight. Sleek. A sharper silhouette than his previous pair, with custom stitching that cradled the foot just right. The faint scent of fresh leather and synthetic grip made something in his chest stir—a little boy’s dream finally catching up to a young man’s reality.

"Starting boots," he muttered with a grin, pulling them closer. "Perfect timing."

The apartment still smelled new—cardboard boxes shoved into corners, furniture slightly out of place, towels folded with hotel precision. But the boots were already home.

Downstairs, the city stirred to life—trams humming, people shouting greetings across the cobbled streets. A matchday hum. Thiago reached for his phone, took a quick snap of the boots on the floor, then put it down again before he could send it anywhere.

This one’s for me.

By the time he arrived at the training complex, the place was buzzing. The regular pre-match atmosphere—tight but expectant. Players straggled into the changing room, some bleary-eyed, others already bouncing on their toes.

"Morning, superstar." Großkreutz greeted him with a smirk and a slap on the back.

"Morning," Thiago grinned, slinging his gym bag into his locker.

"Kuba was crying about how you took his spot," Mario joked, stepping in just behind him.

"I wasn’t crying, I was mourning," Kuba shot back from the other side of the room. "Difference."

Mario glanced at Thiago and whispered, "He’s dramatic before big matches. You’ll see."

"Don’t worry," Thiago said. "He can have it back next week—after I’ve made it mine."

A round of ooohs echoed across the locker room.

"Boy’s got balls!" Santana laughed, stretching out his hamstrings on a bench. "Let’s see if they’re brass or glass, eh?"

Thiago laughed along but felt the churn in his stomach begin. It wasn’t nerves exactly—it was more like pressure building in a sealed chamber. One that would burst open when the first whistle blew.

They trotted out to the training pitch for warmups, Klopp already waiting, bouncing in place, windbreaker zipped halfway up his chest.

"Alright, listen up!" Klopp clapped his hands. "Big day today. Home game. HSV. They’re physical, they’re fast, they’ll press high. But—" he pointed, sharp and direct "—we have fresh legs. Young legs. Hungry ones."

His eyes passed over Thiago as he said it, and the boy stood a little taller.

"Zidan, Kuba, Hajnal—rest day today," Klopp added. "Großkreutz, Bender, Santana—you’re in. Thiago, you’re starting."

It was official.

"Fuck yeah," Kevin muttered under his breath.

Thiago’s mouth went dry, but he nodded, shoulders squared.

"Remember what I told you in training this week. Don’t just run. Think. Move between the lines. Drag their fullback out of shape and make space for Nuri. Play it simple if you have to, but be brave when the moment calls. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good. The rest of you—support the kid. He’s earned this."

Warmups were sharper now. Every step Thiago took felt slightly heavier and lighter at once. He focused on the ball when it touched his feet, noting the way the new boots hugged tighter, more responsive.

They moved into a passing rondo—one-touch. Klopp watched everything like a hawk.

"Close the angles, Thiago! Don’t give him space to turn!"

Thiago sprinted to shut down Bender, then immediately turned back as the ball spun to Santana. The defenders laughed as they played keep-away, but it didn’t feel mocking. This was part of the day. Sharpness in everything.

"Oi!" Santana barked as Thiago lunged and nearly clipped him. "Trying to break my ankle before kickoff?"

"Only if you keep passing like that," Thiago shot back, drawing a whoop from behind.

"You’re gonna fit right in, kid," Subotić chuckled.

Inside again, just after drills ended, Klopp pulled the squad together one last time.

"Listen," he said, voice lower now, but firm. "I’ve made these changes for a reason. The schedule’s tight, injuries are building, but more importantly—we’ve got players who are ready."

His eyes moved again.

"Thiago, this is your chance to show the fans why we brought you here. Don’t play scared."

"I won’t," Thiago said, voice steady.

"Good. The rest of you—let’s give this crowd a performance."

The team clapped. Then broke away, some heading to the showers, others grabbing final sips of water.

Thiago stayed behind for a moment, bouncing on his toes. His boots felt like extensions of himself now. The stadium tunnel was just a short drive away. And on the other side of it?

A starting spot.

A sold-out crowd.

And a chance to plant his name in the dirt.

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The team bus rolled to a gentle stop outside Signal Iduna Park, and Thiago was one of the last to stand up. He hovered for a second in the aisle, clutching the strap of his bag a little tighter than usual. The buzz of matchday was in the air—there was something electric about it. It hummed through the floor of the bus, through the soles of his feet, all the way to his chest.

"Oi, kid, you planning on living on that bus?" Barrios called out from just outside the door.

Thiago grinned and stepped off, the late summer air wrapping around him. The crowd outside the stadium gates was already building, fans draped in black and yellow, scarves held high, voices carrying chants that never seemed to lose energy. Even from here, the roar was faint but constant—like the city itself was exhaling football.

Kuba slapped Thiago on the back. "Big day. Don’t trip over your own feet during warm-up, yeah?"

"I’ll try to keep my legs under me," Thiago said, dryly.

They made their way down the tunnel, boots clunking softly against concrete, echoing off the narrow walls. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp sweat—a blend of adrenaline and effort. The closer they got to the dressing room, the more Thiago could feel the game pressing in.

Inside, the dressing room was already humming with noise. Music was playing low in the background—some reggaeton mix that Santana had hijacked the speaker for—and jerseys hung neatly on hooks above benches. Thiago’s eyes were drawn to his own name printed in bold above number 17. His heart jumped a little at the sight.

He dropped his bag beneath it and ran his hands along the fabric of the jersey. It was real. His first Bundesliga start.

As he sat down, Hummels leaned over from a few seats down. "Just another match, kid. Don’t overthink it."

Thiago nodded, then asked, "You remember your first start?"

"Yeah," Mats said. "Nearly shit myself. You’ll be fine."

That got a few laughs.

Barrios, already halfway into his gear, pointed a finger at Thiago. "Just remember the basics. Move, look up, pass, don’t try to be Ronaldinho in the first five minutes."

"I’ll keep the sombreros to a minimum."

The routine took over then. Shin guards taped. Laces double-knotted. Thiago slipped his feet into the new Puma boots—white with a subtle gold streak on the heel. They hugged his feet just right, molded perfectly. Marina had been right; they really were top of the line.

"New shoes," Kuba noted. "Better not be too flashy. If you nutmeg me in training again wearing those, I’m cutting them in half."

Thiago laughed. "You’ll have to catch me first."

"Rookie’s got jokes now," Santana said from across the room.

The banter was soothing. It kept the nerves from boiling over. But when Klopp walked in, everything quieted.

"Alright, listen up."

Klopp stood at the center, wearing his long black coat even though it was warm inside. His eyes scanned the group, lingering a second longer on the younger ones—on Thiago, Bender, and Mario.

"Rotations don’t mean compromises," he started. "You’re here because I trust you. This isn’t a throwaway game. Hamburger SV are top four contenders this season. They’ve got bodies in midfield, power on the flanks, and they’ll test you."

He turned to Thiago directly. "But I’m not putting you in just to survive. You’re in to contribute. So do it."

Thiago gave a firm nod, stomach tight with nerves and pride.

Klopp continued. "Press high. Keep your spacing. And most importantly—play with purpose. Don’t waste a single touch."

They broke the huddle and started to change into their full kits. Thiago followed the rhythm like muscle memory now—compression shirt, socks pulled high, shirt tucked in. The Borussia Dortmund crest felt heavier today. Or maybe it was just the weight of the moment.

A few minutes later, they were in the tunnel.

It was a strange space. Dimly lit, slightly damp. The field was only a few steps away, but right now, it felt like the longest walk in the world. On the other side, the HSV players stood in similar rows, eyeing them with that calm, professional blankness. Thiago didn’t know any of them personally, but he could tell which ones had experience just by how relaxed their shoulders were.

He bounced on his heels. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Steady.

Barrios leaned in, voice low. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? You look like you’re trying to do algebra in your head."

Thiago smirked. "Just calculating how many goals I’m gonna assist you."

"Good answer."

Then came the sound. The thunder of Signal Iduna Park as the announcer called the teams out. It washed over them like a wave.

They stepped forward.

The light exploded out of the tunnel. The green of the pitch. The yellow wall of the Südtribüne. Flags waving, scarves twirling, the entire stadium on its feet, singing.

It was stunning.

Thiago had been here before, of course. On the bench. Warming up. Watching. But this... walking out onto the pitch knowing he was a starter—that he was part of the plan—it was different. The stadium felt like it belonged to him now, at least a little.

They jogged to their side, the grass soft beneath their boots. The warm-up began—simple drills to get the legs moving, the touches sharp. Thiago ran through passing combinations with Bender and Kuba, feeling out the weight of his passes, adjusting for the slight breeze.

Klopp and Zeljko watched from the sideline, occasionally pointing and murmuring. Nothing out of the ordinary. Thiago kept focused.

As they wrapped up the warm-up and jogged back toward the dugout, Klopp gathered them once more.

"Start fast," he said. "Let them feel your weight early. Don’t give them time to build rhythm. And Thiago..."

Thiago looked up.

"Trust your instincts."

He nodded.

Then came the anthem, the handshake line, the coin toss. Thiago barely registered most of it. His mind was narrowing, focusing, drawing into that strange quiet place he only found before kickoff.

He stood on the left wing, the ref blew the whistle and the game began.