Become A Football Legend-Chapter 212: What If?

Instagram was exploding.

Twitter, now X, was like a wildfire.

Clip after clip after clip of his winner from halfway up the pitch. The long run, the impossible strike, the shirt-whirl celebration, teammates chasing him, the stadium shaking as the ball crossed the line. Edited montages, slow-motion angles, commentary reactions from ten different countries, fan cams, tactical analyses, freeze-frames of Valverde clutching his head — everything.

His mentions were a battlefield of takes.

"Once-in-a-generation goal."

"Teenager doing Messi numbers."

"Best wonderkid in the world right now?"

"This kid is SCARY."

"Lukas Brandt & chaos are synonyms."

"TOP 3 TEENAGERS: 1. Yamal 2. Endrick 3. Lukas... OR IS IT THE OTHER WAY AROUND???" 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Barcelona fans were fighting for Yamal.

Madrid fans were campaigning for Endrick.

But anyone with eyes could see it: Lukas wasn’t just competing with them — he was outpacing every teenager and most adults too.

His stats since debut? Ridiculous. Inhuman. Unbelievable.

Over 2 goal contributions per 90 minutes.

Sixteen years old.

Dominating European knockout ties.

Dragging his team to semifinals through sheer will and talent.

And of course — Manchester United fans had entered the chat.

Clips of Toppmöller casually saying "It doesn’t matter who we face, we can beat anyone" were circulating with United fans laughing hysterically over it. Others were trying to downplay Lukas entirely:

"Let him try that at Old Trafford."

"He won’t even be available for the first leg, we’ll cook Frankfurt early."

"He’s not scoring from halfway against us."

Lukas rolled his eyes, smirking.

He kept scrolling — highlight compilations, tactical threads breaking down his movements, German media calling his goal "one of the greatest in Waldstadion history," Spanish papers mourning Bilbao’s collapse, English pundits debating whether United should change shape specifically to stop him in the second leg.

It felt unreal.

Then his phone began to ring.

Marco.

Lukas straightened slightly, thumb hovering for a moment before he accepted the call.

He inhaled.

"Hey Marco... what’s up?"

And his morning truly began.

Marco’s voice came through calm, measured, but unmistakably pleased.

"I watched the interview," he said. "Every second of it. Congratulations, Luke. You carried them into the semifinals. Old Trafford next."

Lukas smiled faintly, leaning back against the headboard, phone resting against his ear. The adrenaline of the night before had finally worn off, replaced by that familiar post-match stillness where everything replayed in fragments. He thanked Marco, almost sheepishly, and listened as his agent continued.

"You handled the press conference well," Marco went on. "Composed. Honest. You didn’t let them drag you into transfer talk." He paused, then added, "I’ll be honest, I completely forgot about Atlético for a moment. That whole proposal landed the same day the blackmail situation exploded."

That caught Lukas’s attention. He shifted, sitting up straighter.

"They’re serious," Marco continued. "Serious enough that Carlos Bucero himself wants to fly to Germany. He wants to meet you, your father. They’re even offering a call with Simeone—he wants to explain, personally, how you’d fit into his system."

Lukas exhaled slowly through his nose. "I already told you," he said, not sharply, just firmly. "I want to stay one more season."

"I told them that," Marco replied immediately. "Very clearly. I’m not pushing for anything this summer, and I won’t advise you to leave either. Not at sixteen. Not after six months." There was a brief hesitation before he added, "Unless the club decides to sell. I don’t think it would be wise—but I can’t pretend it’s impossible."

Lukas stared at the ceiling for a moment, absorbing that. "If the club accepts a bid," he said at last, "I won’t beg them not to."

Marco hummed softly. "I figured you’d say that. We’ll take it step by step. For now, enjoy what you’ve done. Focus on United."

They spoke a little longer — about recovery, about school, about how surreal it all felt — before ending the call.

Lukas walked out onto the balcony, the cool Frankfurt air brushing against his face. Below him, the city stretched out in steel and glass, traffic humming softly, life moving forward at its own pace. He rested his forearms on the railing and breathed in deeply.

"Atlético Madrid, huh?" he murmured to himself.

It wasn’t a bad place. A fierce club. A demanding league. A coach who lived and breathed intensity. In another life, Joanna had studied there. Madrid had always been her first choice, even now, even after she’d said she’d follow him anywhere. The thought lingered longer than he expected.

It would be a good option. Maybe even a great one.

Just not yet.

Not after only six months. Not while Frankfurt still felt like home. Not while the roar of the Waldstadion still echoed in his bones.

But if the club decided otherwise — if the door was opened for him — he knew he would walk through it.

For now, though, he stayed where he was, looking out over the city, grounded, steady, and very much not done yet.

* * *

At the Puma office that morning, Lena had barely settled into her chair. She had just clocked in, jacket draped over the backrest, a paper cup of coffee warming her hands as she leaned against the counter and chatted with a coworker about Lukas’s recent ad shoot. The numbers had been ridiculous since it dropped the previous week—engagement through the roof, comments pouring in from everywhere. They laughed about how surreal it still felt to see a sixteen-year-old moving product like an established global star.

Mid-sentence, a man from down the hall slowed his pace and stopped beside her. He glanced at his phone, then at her.

"Lena," he said, a little out of breath, "Markus wants to see you. Now."

She blinked. Markus rarely called people in before noon, and never without notice. She handed her coffee to her coworker, muttered a quick "I’ll be right back," and made her way down the corridor, heels echoing softly against the polished floor.

"I wonder why he wants to see me this early morning. I hope nothing bad happened," she thought as the elevator chimed and the door to the executive floor opened up.

Outside an office with the name "Markus," she paused, straightened her blouse, and knocked.

There was a brief silence.

"Come in."

Lena froze for half a second at the doorway before catching herself. The office was immaculate in the way executive offices always were—glass walls, muted lighting, a faint scent of espresso and polished wood—but it was the second man in the room that made her pulse jump.

Markus stood near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the posture of someone already deep into a long morning. Beside the desk sat a man Lena had never met in person, but whose face she recognised instantly from articles, press photos, and whispered conversations in football circles.

Markus gestured toward the chair opposite them.

"Lena, come in. Please, have a seat."

She did, smoothing her skirt automatically, eyes flicking back to the stranger despite herself.

"Lena," Markus continued, calm and deliberate, "this is Txiki Begiristain."

The name landed fully now. Manchester City. Sporting director. One of the most influential figures in European football.

Txiki smiled politely and inclined his head.

"Nice to finally meet you," he said, his Spanish accent soft but unmistakable.

Lena returned the greeting, still trying to understand why she was sitting here.

Markus didn’t waste time. He leaned lightly against the desk, arms folded.

"Txiki was told that you’re the person who has worked most closely with Lukas Brandt on his contract matters, branding work, and general liaison from our side."

Txiki picked up seamlessly, his tone direct but not aggressive.

"That’s correct," he said. "And because of that, I would like your help."