The locker room smelled sharper the day before a match.
Not bad—just concentrated. Muscle rub, boot leather, detergent. A cocktail of sweat and tension. Thiago moved through it like someone walking a familiar hallway, quiet and present, not trying to draw attention. He didn't need to.
He was here. He belonged now.
Sort of.
Klopp had split the team into two groups after breakfast. One group stayed in for tactical drills—shuttled into the video room to walk through Stuttgart's set-piece patterns and midfield structure. The other trained light out on the pitch. Thiago ended up in both.
"Your brain doesn't get tired," Klopp had said, pointing at him. "So we'll test how long before your legs argue."
The pitch session was brief. Passing patterns. Shooting drills. Timed rondos. Everything tight and efficient, meant more to stimulate than to strain.
Thiago pinged the ball around with Kuba and Götze. His touches felt clean. His mind felt calm.
Still, there was no denying it anymore.
