Thomas followed Vecchi into the coach’s office, still damp from training, his boots leaving faint marks on the tile floor.
It was only the second time he’d been inside this room.
Five months at the academy, and the first visit had been the day he signed his youth contract – a perfunctory fifteen minutes of paperwork and a handshake.
He’d barely looked around.
This time, he noticed everything.
The office was modest by professional football standards – a desk, a whiteboard covered in tactical diagrams, a shelf of coaching manuals.
But the wall behind Vecchi’s chair stopped Thomas in his tracks.
A framed photograph, poster-sized.
Inter Milan’s treble-winning squad, 2010.
There they were, arms around each other, confetti in the air: old captain Zanetti hoisting the Champions League trophy above his head, Diego Milito beaming beside him, Sneijder, Eto’o, and a dozen other world-class players who had, for one extraordinary season, been the best team on the planet.
Thomas stared at it.
He’d watched that Champions League final – the real one, in the life before this one, on a battered TV in a cramped living room, shouting at the screen until the neighbours banged on the wall.
He’d grown up idolizing Ronaldo, the Brazilian Fenômeno, and it was Ronaldo who’d made him fall in love with Inter Milan in the first place.
By the time the 2010 treble happened, Thomas was already a devoted Nerazzurri, and watching that final was one of the purest moments of joy he could remember.
Vecchi noticed the look on his face and grinned.
He handed Thomas a freshly made cappuccino from the machine in the corner.
“You’ve seen that match, I take it?” Vecchi nodded at the photo.
“I watched it from a bar in Bergamo.
I was coaching in Serie C at the time, but I’d been an Inter kid since I was fifteen, won a Primavera Scudetto here back in ’89.
That night in Madrid, I cried like a baby.
Zanetti lifting that trophy…
there’s nothing like it.” Thomas took the coffee and nodded, still half-mesmerized by the image.
“Coach Vecchi, if I could ever represent Inter Milan in a Champions League final…
that would be the greatest moment of my life.
No question.” Vecchi blinked.
Then he let out a genuine, surprised laugh.
“Ha!
Now that’s ambition.
You know, I’ve had a lot of academy kids sit in that chair over the years.
You’re the first one who’s ever looked me in the eye and said he wants to win the Champions League with this club.
Most of them just want to know if they’re getting renewed.” Thomas caught himself.
The Champions League?
He was an eighteen-year-old with a Serie C rating who couldn’t land a pass with his weaker foot.
He was dreaming out loud, and Vecchi was kind enough not to call it delusional.
“Right.
About that,” Thomas said, bringing himself back to earth.
“My contract’s up in a month, Coach.
You know how much this club means to me, I’ve been a fan since I was a kid.
Is there…
any chance of a renewal?” Vecchi swirled his cappuccino thoughtfully.
Then he shook his head.
“No.
I can’t renew your youth contract.” Thomas’s stomach dropped.
The warmth from the scrimmage, the praise from his teammates, the coffee in his hands, all of it turned cold in an instant.
He’d known this was a possibility.
The Engine had given him vision, but his technique was still raw, still full of holes.
One good scrimmage didn’t erase five months of mediocrity.
He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say – thank you for the opportunity, maybe, or is there anything I can do, but Vecchi wasn’t finished.
“I can’t renew your youth contract, Brenner, because a player with your vision has no business being in a youth team.” Thomas went very still.
“What I want to do,” Vecchi continued, leaning forward with a spark in his eyes, “is recommend you to the first-team staff.
The level of competition in the youth league is too low for you.
Your awareness of space, your reading of the game, it’s already beyond anyone your age in this academy.
You need to be training with the senior squad.
That’s where you’ll grow.” The first team.
Thomas’s heart hammered.
This was the dream.
The thing he’d been too afraid to even articulate to himself in the early weeks – that maybe, somehow, through this impossible Engine in his head and a lot of hard work, he could get close to Inter Milan’s first team.
Close to the shirt Ronaldo had worn.
Close to the pitch where Sneijder had orchestrated a treble.
“I’ll sign right now,” Thomas blurted.
“Where’s the pen?
I’ll sign whatever you need.” Vecchi stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.
“Easy, easy.
I’m messing with you.” He held up both hands.
“I’m a coach for the U18s.
I don’t have the authority to hand out first-team contracts – that’s Ausilio’s department, and about six levels above my pay grade.” Thomas felt his cheeks flush.
He’d walked straight into that one.
“What I can do,” Vecchi said, still chuckling, “is renew your youth academy contract for another year.
Which I fully intend to do.” Thomas exhaled.
A year.
Twelve more months at Inter Milan.
Twelve more months to improve, to close the gap between the Engine’s vision and his own ability.
It was exactly what he’d been hoping for, more than he’d expected, honestly, given how the last five months had gone.
“Thank you, Coach.
Seriously.
That means a lot.” “Don’t thank me yet,” Vecchi said.
There was something in his voice now – a careful, measured excitement, like a man trying not to oversell a hand of cards.
“There’s something else.
Next weekend, Inter Milan play Genoa at home.” Thomas straightened in his chair.
“It’s November, and the first team is dealing with an injury crisis.
Mancini is short on bodies, he can barely fill an eighteen-man squad.
If things stay as they are, he’ll need to call up a youth player to round out the bench.” Vecchi paused to let that land.
“I’m going to put your name forward.” Thomas’s mouth went dry.
“You mean…
I’d be on the bench?
At the Meazza?
For a Serie A match?” “That’s exactly what I mean.
You’d be in the matchday squad, probably won’t get on the pitch, let’s be realistic.
If we’re winning 3–0 or 4–0, Mancini might give you five minutes for experience.
But even if you don’t play, you’ll be there.
In the dressing room, in the tunnel, on the bench, watching the warm-up.
You’ll see how a Serie A squad operates up close, and Mancini will know your name.
That matters.” Thomas nodded slowly.
“I understand.
Even just being there – that’s huge.” “Good answer.” Vecchi slid the contract renewal across the desk.
“Sign this first.
Then go get some rest.” Thomas signed the papers, shook Vecchi’s hand, and walked out of the main building into the November afternoon.
The Milan sky was a cold, brilliant blue, and the low autumn sun cut sharp shadows across the training pitches.
He stood there for a moment, just breathing.
He was staying.
He was still an Inter Milan player.
And in a few days, he might be sitting on the bench at the Giuseppe Meazza Stadium for an actual Serie A match.
Thomas closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun.
For the first time since he’d woken up in this strange new life, the future didn’t feel like a dead end.
It felt like a door cracking open.
Three days later, Vecchi kept his word.
He submitted Thomas’s name to Mancini’s staff.
The first-team head coach didn’t question it, squad fillers from the youth team were routine when injuries piled up, and Mancini trusted his coaches to send someone who wouldn’t embarrass the club if a camera happened to land on them during the broadcast.
Thomas Brenner’s name appeared on the official eighteen-man squad list for Inter Milan’s Round 11 Serie A fixture against Genoa.
The night before the match, Thomas couldn’t sleep.
He lay in his narrow dormitory bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind running through scenarios on an endless loop.
He pictured the Meazza under floodlights.
The roar of sixty thousand fans.
He imagined receiving the ball in midfield, seeing the Engine light up a corridor, and playing a perfect through ball to Icardi.
He imagined the striker wheeling away in celebration, pointing back at him.
He imagined the crowd chanting his name.
He knew it was fantasy.
He’d probably spend ninety minutes on the bench without touching a ball.
But the dream was there, vivid and stubborn, and he let himself live in it until exhaustion finally pulled him under.