Become A Football Legend-Chapter 226: Results

He drifted through the room, stopping here and there. A few words to Koch. A nod to Skhiri. A brief exchange with Knauff, who still looked annoyed at himself more than anything else. Then he sat on the edge of a bench next to Larsson, who was viewing something on an ipad he collected from the analysis team, the two of them leaning forward, elbows on knees.

"Did you see how they step out after the flick?" Lukas said, already back in analysis mode. "Casemiro drops, Ugarte goes, and Bruno runs straight off Koch’s blind side. It’s always the same trigger."

Larsson nodded, replaying it in his head. "I saw it once, but not the second time."

"They could try it again at Old Trafford," Lukas said. "We just need to be ready for it."

The door at the far end opened.

Toppmöller walked in, jacket unzipped, expression tight. Ekitike followed him, still breathing a little heavier than usual, towel around his neck. The room straightened almost instinctively. Conversations died out. Heads turned.

Toppmöller stopped in the middle of the room and looked around.

"I’ll be honest," he said. "That third goal."

He paused, letting it hang.

"We were on top. We had the crowd. We had momentum. We equalize, and then we switch off. Completely."

No one spoke.

"We cannot," he continued, voice rising slightly, "play like that and expect to go to Old Trafford and survive. You don’t switch off in Europe. Not for five seconds. Not after kick-off. Not ever."

He pointed vaguely toward the pitch, as if the goal was still playing in front of his eyes.

"No pressure on the first ball. No challenge in the air. No one tracking the runner. That’s not tactics. That’s mentality."

He took a breath, steadied himself.

"But listen to me," he said, softer now. "This tie is not finished. Not even close. We go there two goals down, yes. That’s hard. But it’s not impossible."

He scanned the room, making eye contact with as many players as he could.

"If you want to stand any chance next week, you have to be switched on for ninety minutes. Every duel. Every second ball. Every transition. Together."

A brief pause.

"We’ve done harder things than this."

He clapped his hands once. Sharp. Final.

"Recovery tomorrow. ProfiCamp. 8 a.m. No exceptions."

He nodded toward Ekitike, then toward the room. "Get yourselves sorted."

As he turned away, the silence lingered for a moment longer. Then slowly, the room began to move again. Boots came off. Tape was peeled away. Quiet conversations resumed.

Lukas leaned back against his locker, eyes distant now, already somewhere else.

Old Trafford was waiting.

* * *

Friday night came quietly, without the roar of a stadium or the weight of a whistle. Training had ended under the floodlights, the pitch slowly emptying as players drifted off in twos and threes, laughter and fatigue mixing in the cool air. Lukas showered, changed, and made the short walk back to his apartment at the ProfiCamp, his body tired in that deep, honest way that only weeks like this could produce.

When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, he stopped.

Javi was standing near the small kitchen counter, arms folded, while Anne sat on the edge of the couch, her coat already on, keys in her hand. They both looked up at the same time.

Lukas blinked. "What’s up?"

Javi didn’t waste time. "Today’s the day," he said gently. "The results are out. We need to go."

For a split second Lukas just stood there, then nodded. "Right. Okay."

He moved automatically, dropping his bag, washing his face, changing into something clean. The motions were familiar, grounding. When he came back out, Anne was already by the door, giving him a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite hide the tension in her eyes.

The drive to the hospital was quiet at first. Javi drove, focused, both hands steady on the wheel. Anne sat in the front passenger seat, staring ahead. Lukas leaned back in the rear seat, head resting against the headrest, eyes closed, the city lights of Frankfurt sliding past in soft streaks through the windows.

[*Are you nervous?*] TT asked, the voice reverberating inside Lukas’s mind.

"No," Lukas replied without hesitation. "I know I don’t have it."

[*Even if you did, you would be fine.*]

Lukas frowned slightly, eyes still closed. "What are you trying to say?"

TT didn’t answer.

From the front seat, Anne glanced at the rearview mirror. She saw Lukas with his eyes shut, jaw set, fingers loosely intertwined over his stomach. She leaned slightly toward Javi and whispered, "He looks worried."

Javi flicked his eyes to the mirror, then back to the road. "Lukas," he said softly, but firmly. "It’s going to be alright."

Lukas exhaled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m not worried," he said, for what felt like the thousandth time. "I’m fine. Really."

Javi hummed, unconvinced but not pushing. After a few seconds, he shifted gears and changed the subject. "How’s school going?"

Lukas opened his eyes now. "Good. It’s fine."

"Exams soon, right?" Javi asked.

"Yeah. They start Monday."

Javi glanced at Anne, then back to the road. "Monday? Do you even have time to study with everything going on?"

Lukas shrugged lightly. "I manage. I’m not behind."

He didn’t say more. He didn’t say that he studied every day, methodically. He didn’t say that in the system, time bent and stretched, that hours of revision fit neatly between training sessions and matches. He didn’t say that he was already ahead of the syllabus, that formulas and concepts were stacked cleanly in his mind, waiting.

The car rolled on toward the hospital, headlights cutting through the night, the quiet inside broken only by the hum of the engine and the unspoken weight of what awaited them.

* * *

Later that night. Lukas lay stretched across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through his phone. The room was dim except for the glow of the screen, shadows climbing the walls as cars passed outside. TikTok clips rolled by in a blur of edits and music — slow-motion dribbles, the halfway-line goal, his shirt spinning in the air at the Waldstadion. He smirked and double-tapped a few, even opened the comments on one and replied to a fan who had declared the strike "illegal under the laws of physics."

His phone buzzed again.

Joanna.

He didn’t hesitate. He answered instantly, the screen filling with her face, her hair loose, wrapped in a soft nightgown that he knew very well.

"Wow," he said immediately, eyes widening theatrically. "That’s a very dangerous outfit to be wearing."

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "As if you haven’t seen this a hundred times."

"I don’t care," he replied, grinning. "It still looks like the first time."

She leaned closer to the camera. "I miss you."

Lukas scoffed lightly. "We saw each other yesterday. It’s been, what, less than twenty-four hours?"

She tilted her head. "So you don’t miss me because it’s less than twenty-four hours?"

"No," he said quickly, then softened. "I started missing you the moment you walked out the door this morning."