The locker room after a win always felt like a mix between a pressure valve being released and a volcano trying not to erupt.
Thiago sat with his back against the cool tile, shirt clinging to his skin, breathing still shallow. Around him, boots thudded against the floor, tape was torn off with exaggerated groans, and laughter bounced from wall to wall.
They'd done it.
Three points.
Stuttgart 1 – Dortmund 2.
But more than that—he had contributed. Not as a body to fill space, not as a courtesy sub. No, Thiago had come on and made a difference. The assist to Barrios wasn't luck. It wasn't a stray deflection or a hopeful lob. It was calculated, clean, and composed.
And that changed everything.
Kuba ruffled his hair with a proud grin as he passed by, half-wrapped in a towel. "First of many, menino."
Großkreutz pointed at Thiago from across the room. "Oi, babyface! You just fed our striker his dinner. Barrios owes you a steak."
