Thomas spent the week building.
Not just his passing, though that continued to improve, session by session, in the Neural Training simulation, but his position within the squad.
Berni’s advice had given him a framework: What do they need, and what can you provide?
The rest was execution.
With Icardi, the approach was straightforward.
The Argentine needed a midfielder who would find him first, who would prioritise his runs, read his movement, and deliver the ball into his stride without forcing him to check back or compete with Palacio for service.
Thomas could be that midfielder.
Every training session, every small-sided game, every rondo, he made a point of looking for Icardi’s run before anyone else’s.
Not ostentatiously, not in a way that would draw attention or annoy the coaching staff, but consistently enough that Icardi noticed.
And Icardi did notice.
By Thursday, the striker had started making runs specifically timed for Thomas’s passing rhythm.
A subtle shift, a half-step earlier on the trigger, a glance over the shoulder to confirm Thomas was on the ball, but it meant something.
Trust was being built, one pass at a time.
With Ranocchia, the approach was different.
The captain didn’t need passes.
He needed reliability.
He needed a young player who didn’t cause problems, who trained hard, who respected the dressing room hierarchy and didn’t need managing.
Thomas gave him that.
He arrived first to training.
He stayed last.
He never complained about the tackles from Guarín’s group, never ran to the coaches with grievances, never created drama.
When Ranocchia asked how he was settling in, Thomas answered honestly and briefly, without self-pity or bravado.
The captain responded with small gestures of inclusion, a nod across the canteen, a word of encouragement after a drill, a hand on the shoulder when Guarín’s body language turned hostile.
It wasn’t an alliance.
Not yet.
But the foundations were there.
Morning.
Adaptation training at the Stadio Olimpico.
Thomas walked the pitch during the warm-up, testing the grass with his studs, getting a feel for the surface.
During the training scrimmage, he delivered a crisp pass to Icardi — short, weighted, arriving at the striker’s feet without requiring an adjustment.
Icardi finished with a casual sidefoot.
“Good ball, Brenner.” A thumbs-up.
No elaboration needed.
Afternoon.
Three hours before kickoff.
The Inter Milan bus crawled through the streets surrounding the Olimpico, and Thomas got his first taste of a Roman matchday.
It was loud.
It was chaotic.
It was magnificent.
The streets were a river of red and gold — Roma scarves, Roma flags, Roma shirts in every shade from faded vintage to freshly counterfeited.
Street vendors lined the pavement, hawking scarves and replica jerseys from fold-out tables, operating within clear sight of the club’s official merchandise store without anyone seeming to mind.
Rome operated on different rules to Milan, looser, warmer, more anarchic.
The bus rounded a corner and entered the Olimpico’s perimeter.
The boos started immediately, the standard greeting for any visiting team, but they were brief.
Within seconds, the hostility redirected toward the home team’s bus arriving behind them, and the boos transformed into a roar of adoration.
“TOTTI!
TOTTI!
TOTTI!” Through the rear window of the Inter bus, Thomas watched the Roma players’ coach pull in.
One window was open, just one and an arm emerged, waving to the fans with the easy confidence of a man who had been doing this for twenty years.
Francesco Totti.
Thirty-eight years old.
Roma’s captain, talisman, and living symbol.
The only player on either side who could reduce an entire stadium to a single chanted name.
Totti leaned out the window, pointed toward the Inter bus, and made a theatrical fist — we’re going to beat them and the crowd erupted.
[Let the Milanese know what Roma is about!] [Go Totti!
Destroy Inter!] [For Roma!
For the city!] Thomas watched with a mix of amusement and respect.
This was theatre.
This was showmanship.
And it was genuinely terrifying if you were eighteen years old and sitting on the opposition bus.
Berni, beside him, pulled off his headphones with a grimace.
“Roma fans,” he said, shaking his head.
“Every time we come here, it’s like this.
They still haven’t forgiven us for the League titles in ’07 and ’08.
Mancini won both of those, you know, first time around.
So this is personal for them.” “It’s loud.” “You haven’t heard anything yet.
Wait until the TIFO goes up.
Wait until Totti gets the ball for the first time.” Berni put his headphones back on.
“I recommend earplugs.
I’m not joking.” The bus pulled into the stadium garage, and the noise faded to a low, menacing hum.
Thomas checked the squad list pinned to the inside of the bus door.
He was number eighteen, last on the bench.
No starting spot.
No expectation of playing.
But Berni’s advice was still running through his head, and Icardi’s frustration about Hernanes was still fresh, and the Neural Training had sharpened his passing to a level that, for the first time, felt like it might be able to keep up with the pace around him.
What do they need, and what can you provide?
Thomas knew the answer.
He just needed the chance to prove it.