The snow kept falling, but it refused to stick.
Thiago sat hunched by the hotel window, his forehead nearly touching the cold glass as he watched the flakes dance outside. The radiator beneath the window hissed weakly, doing little to combat the winter chill seeping through the panes. A half-eaten protein bar lay limp in his hand, the chocolate coating smearing across his fingers as he absentmindedly squeezed it. Below, the training ground looked like a half-finished painting—patches of frosty white struggling to cover the stubborn green grass beneath.
Every muscle in his body screamed. His quads burned like he'd run up a mountain. His lower back protested every slight movement with sharp jabs of pain. Even his toes throbbed inside his thick socks, a constant reminder of those extra twenty minutes he'd played yesterday when Klopp had unexpectedly kept him on.
And yet—
A stupid grin kept tugging at his lips.
