Thiago had never been so tired without running a single sprint.
His bedroom felt smaller than usual tonight. The walls, covered in peeling posters of Ronaldo and Ronaldinho, seemed to press in closer. The desk lamp buzzed softly, casting long shadows across the mess of papers covering every inch of his floor.
He sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, knees aching from staying in one position too long. The Puma folder—sleek black with silver lettering that caught the light—lay open near his foot. The Ajax contract, slightly crumpled from being handled too much, sat in the center like some kind of trophy. Notes from Lyon and Osasuna were scattered around it, some with coffee stains, others with scribbled thoughts in the margins.
And then there were the Dortmund papers.
