Settling into Inter Milan’s first team was an exercise in reading the room.
Thomas had been there for just over a week, and he’d already mapped the social landscape with the same instinct the Engine used to map a football pitch, identifying clusters, tracking movement patterns, noting who gravitated toward whom and who kept their distance.
The warmest welcome came from Bonazzoli.
The seventeen-year-old Italian striker had been living alone at the Appiano Gentile training base for months, surviving on a youth-team salary that couldn’t stretch to a Milan apartment and a social life that revolved around occasional late-night escapes to the Navigli bars.
Thomas’s arrival had given him a companion – someone his own age, someone who actually slept at the base, someone he could bother at midnight when he was bored.
“Thomas, why are you staring at that screen again?
You look like a statue.
Can you even hear me?” “Thomas, is football really that interesting to watch?
I swear, outside of training and matches, I don’t want to think about a football for one single second.” “Thomas, how did you get Mancini to notice you?
Four hundred thousand a year!
If I had that kind of money, I’d rent a flat in the centre of Milan and never set foot in this dormitory again.” Thomas let him talk.
Bonazzoli was harmless, enthusiastic, and slightly exhausting — the human equivalent of a puppy.
They were an odd pair: one who spent his evenings studying match footage in silence, the other who spent his evenings trying to convince the first one to stop studying match footage.
But the friendship was genuine, and Thomas was grateful for it.
The second-friendliest face belonged to Berni.
The veteran goalkeeper continued the easy rapport they’d built on the bus to the Genoa match, checking in on Thomas during training, offering unsolicited tactical opinions, and maintaining his one-man campaign to convert the entire dressing room to American rock music, which he played at volumes that made the walls vibrate.
“If you ever want extra shooting practice after sessions,” Berni told him one morning, “come find me.
I’m a goalkeeper or at least, that’s what my contract says.
In practice, I’m more of a towel-waving specialist.
But I can still stop a shot or two.” Nagatomo, too, made a point of welcoming Thomas.
The Japanese wing-back was unfailingly polite — a handshake, a direct look in the eye, and a genuine thank-you for the pass in the Genoa match.
“Brenner, I want you to know, that ball you played to me against Genoa made the winning goal possible.
Everyone says it was an accident, but I was the one running onto it, and the weight was right for my stride.
So, thank you.” Thomas appreciated the acknowledgement more than he showed.
In a dressing room where most players viewed him as a curiosity at best and a liability at worst, small moments of professional respect mattered.
Captain Ranocchia was dutiful, he made a point of asking Thomas regularly if he needed anything, if he was settling in, if the training intensity was manageable.
It was the behaviour of a good captain rather than a close friend, but it was more than most offered.
The majority of the squad maintained a professional neutrality.
Polite during training.
Silent afterward.
This was football at the highest level – it was a job, and workplace relationships ran lukewarm by default.
Thomas didn’t take it personally.
But a few players were actively cold.
They didn’t speak to him in the corridor.
They avoided eye contact in the canteen.
And during training, the tackles came in harder than necessary, just enough to send a message without crossing a line that would attract a coach’s attention.
The worst of it came from Guarín.
The Colombian hadn’t forgotten the humiliation of being substituted for a youth-team player at halftime, and he made sure Thomas felt it.
Every fifty-fifty challenge became a full-blooded collision.
Every training drill that put them in proximity ended with Thomas picking himself up off the ground.
Medel, Juan, and Jonathan were subtler about it, but the temperature drop was unmistakable.
When Thomas entered a conversation, they left it.
Thomas noticed.
He said nothing.
He filed it away.
The explanation came over coffee.
It was a bright November afternoon, one of those Mediterranean winter days where the sun had real warmth to it and Thomas and Berni were sitting at an outdoor café on a quiet street near the training ground.
A white pigeon landed on the table, pecking at breadcrumbs.
Berni waved it away with the back of his hand.
“Guarín tackled you again in training today,” Berni said.
Not a question.
“He’s been doing it all week.” “He’s a hothead.
Always has been, he clashed with Mazzarri constantly, and now Mancini’s given him an even bigger reason to be angry.” Berni sipped his espresso.
“But Guarín isn’t your real problem.
Your real problem is that he’s not alone.” Thomas waited.
Berni set his cup down and leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the empty tables around them.
“Every big club has its internal groups.
Inter is no different.
The dressing room breaks down into four roughly – let’s call them circles.” He held up a finger.
“First: the Argentine contingent.
The biggest and most influential.
Icardi, Palacio, Osvaldo, Campagnaro, Álvarez.
Five players, multiple starters.
Palacio is the senior figure, he’s been here three years, carried the attack during the bad times, and commands respect.
Icardi is the rising star.
Zanetti, upstairs in the boardroom, still has connections.
The Argentines are powerful.” A second finger.
“The Italian group.
Ranocchia, D’Ambrosio, Andreolli.
Smaller, but Ranocchia has the armband, and in Serie A, the captain has influence with referees, with the media, with the club hierarchy.
Italian captains at Italian clubs carry weight.” Third finger.
“The Balkan contingent.
Handanović, Kovačić, Kuzmanović, Vidić, Krhin.
Handanović is the number-one goalkeeper — untouchable.
Kovačić is the future.
But as a group, they’re quieter.
They keep to themselves.” Fourth finger.
“And then there’s the South American contingent.
This is Guarín’s circle.
Guarín himself, Medel, Juan, Jonathan.
Colombian, Chilean, two Brazilians.
They’re not the biggest group, but Guarín is loud and aggressive, and the others follow his lead.” “And Hernanes?” Thomas asked.
“He’s Brazilian.” “Hernanes is interesting.” Berni smiled.
“He’s Brazilian, but he doesn’t associate with Guarín’s lot.
He’s pragmatic – he aligned himself with the Argentines when he arrived.
Palacio specifically.
Which makes sense, but it also means he tends to feed Palacio on the pitch rather than Icardi, which is causing its own problems.” Thomas nodded slowly, processing the map.
“What about you?” “Me?” Berni laughed.
“I’m not in any group.
I’m a third-choice goalkeeper on five hundred thousand a year who hasn’t played a competitive minute in three seasons.
I don’t need alliances.
I don’t need protection.
I just need to keep waving my towel and collecting my salary until I retire.
Which, frankly, is the best job in football.” He picked up his espresso again and took a long, contented sip.
“But you’re not me, Thomas.
You’re a young player trying to establish yourself, and you’ve got Guarín’s group actively working against you.
You can’t just ignore that.
You need allies.” “So which group do I join?” “That’s not for me to tell you.
I can describe the landscape, but you have to navigate it.” Berni paused, then added: “I’ll give you one piece of advice, though.
It’s the most important thing I’ve learned in fifteen years of professional football.” Thomas leaned in.
“To gain someone’s support, you have to meet their needs.
Ask yourself: what do they need, and what can I provide?
If you can answer that question, you’ll know exactly where you belong.” That night, Thomas sat at his desk in the dormitory, laptop open but unwatched.
He was thinking about what Berni had said.
What do they need, and what can you provide?
Two moments from the Genoa match kept surfacing in his mind.
The first: Icardi, running back from the restart after the equaliser, glancing over his shoulder at Thomas.
That look, appraising, curious, not yet trust but something adjacent to it.
And then, in the Roma training scrimmage.
The conversation in the shower about Hernanes choosing Palacio.
Icardi needed a passer who would find him first.
Thomas could be that passer.
The second moment: Ranocchia, doubling back across the Genoa pitch while everyone else celebrated, checking on the injured youth-team player lying alone on the grass.
That wasn’t political.
That was character.
The captain who looked after his squad, especially the ones nobody else was watching.
Thomas pulled up Inter Milan’s squad list on his laptop and circled two names.
Icardi.
Inter’s top scorer.
20 years old, seven goals in eleven matches, on trajectory for a historic Golden Boot season.
Ranocchia.
Captain.
Defensive leader.
The man who communicated with referees, who represented the squad to the media, who carried institutional weight.
Two different groups.
Two different kinds of value.
Thomas closed the laptop.
He knew what he needed to do for now, and that was to train.
He opened the Neural Training simulation, selected Iniesta, and began his evening session.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound of passing echoed through the empty simulation pitch, sharp and rhythmic, late into the night.