Become A Football Legend-Chapter 228: João’s Turn (II)

Kohfeldt finally leaned forward, palms flattening against the desk.

"So that’s it," he muttered. "Final two matches. Pfeiffer out. Maglica banned."

He glanced down at the squad list in front of him, mentally crossing out names.

"That leaves us with two fit center-backs," Heck continued, "and no natural cover on the bench."

Silence filled the room for a moment. The kind that only exists when everyone understands the implications without needing them spelled out. Two matches left. Promotion already slipping away. And now the spine of the defense held together by tape and hope.

Kohfeldt turned his head slowly toward the man seated opposite him.

Björn Kopper, the academy manager, had been quiet so far, listening, arms folded loosely across his chest.

"Björn," Kohfeldt said at last, voice measured but urgent, "is there anyone we can call up from the reserves right now?"

Björn Kopper leaned back in his chair and didn’t answer immediately. He folded his hands together, thumbs rubbing slowly, eyes drifting to the whiteboard behind Kohfeldt’s desk where the squad list was still half-erased from the last matchday meeting.

"There is one option," he said finally, carefully. "But it’s not the obvious one."

Kohfeldt looked up at him. Heck stopped shuffling his notes. Even Dr. Lesch tilted his head slightly, interested.

"Go on," Kohfeldt said.

Björn nodded once. "João Gimenez. From the U23s."

The name hung in the air for a second longer than usual.

Heck was the first to react. "The center-back?"

"Yes," Björn replied. "Eighteen years old. Left-footed. Physically ready. Mentally... more than ready, if I’m honest."

Kohfeldt leaned forward now, elbows on the desk. "Talk to me."

Björn didn’t hesitate anymore. "He’s started fifteen league games for the U23s this season. Seven clean sheets. Only conceded more than one goal in a match against the top three teams in the league. He’s dominant in the air, reads the game well, and he’s comfortable stepping into midfield with the ball."

Heck raised his eyebrows. "That’s a strong résumé for an eighteen-year-old."

"There’s more," Björn continued. "Two goals. Three assists. All from center-back. Mostly from set pieces, but not just that. He’s calm under pressure. Organizes the line. Talks constantly."

Dr. Lesch glanced at Kohfeldt. "Any injury concerns?"

"None," Björn said immediately. "Clean medical history. Excellent recovery metrics."

Kohfeldt exhaled slowly, processing it. "And character?"

Björn hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then said, "He’s... grounded. Serious about his career. Very professional. Comes early, leaves late. Watches clips of his own games without being asked."

Heck smirked faintly. "Sounds familiar."

The room went quiet again.

Björn cleared his throat. "There’s also something else you should be aware of."

Kohfeldt looked at him. "Which is?"

"He’s Lukas Brandt’s closest friend," Björn said. "They grew up together in the academy. Same agent. Same family circle. Very tight."

That did it.

The mood shifted palpably, like someone had opened a window on a cold day.

Kohfeldt leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. Heck looked down at the table. Even Dr. Lesch’s expression sobered.

"Of course," Kohfeldt muttered. "Brandt."

Björn nodded, not defensive, just honest. "I know. And that’s exactly why I hesitated. But João is his own player. And if we’re talking purely footballing reasons, he deserves to be in the conversation."

Heck rubbed his face. "Hard not to think about it, though. Letting Lukas go."

No one contradicted him.

A year ago. A decision framed as necessary. As practical. As reasonable.

Now Lukas Brandt was tearing up Europe.

Björn broke the silence. "We can’t change that. But we can decide not to repeat it."

Kohfeldt straightened, resolve settling into his posture. "Agreed."

He turned to Heck. "If Pfeiffer’s out and Maglica’s suspended, we don’t have the luxury of hesitation."

He looked back at Björn. "You believe João can handle it?"

"I do," Björn said without blinking. "At least to be involved. To be tested."

Kohfeldt nodded once. "Alright."

He stood up, decision made. "I’ll be at the U23 match tomorrow. I want to see him myself. Ninety minutes. No shortcuts."

Heck smiled faintly. "And if you like what you see?"

"Then we bring him up," Kohfeldt said. "Train with the first team next week. Let him feel the level. Let him know he’s seen."

Björn allowed himself a small smile. "I think he’ll be ready."

Kohfeldt picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "Good. Because we’re not letting another one slip through our fingers."

* * *

João’s phone buzzed softly against the mattress just as he was settling back, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the house at night. He picked it up without much urgency, thumb swiping the screen out of habit more than expectation.

The message was short. Just one line.

Play your best game tomorrow. Someone will be watching.

— Mr. Kopper

João stared at it for a second longer than necessary. No emojis. No follow-up. Nothing else. There was no need for one. He knew exactly what it meant, and he knew better than to reply. A nod was enough, even if it stayed unspoken.

A grin spread across his face, slow and uncontrollable. He let the phone fall back onto his chest and exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. His heart felt lighter than it had all season.

Tomorrow.

He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, mind already racing ahead. The pitch. The warm-up. Every touch mattering just a little more. Every clearance, every header, every step of positioning suddenly under a different kind of spotlight. He imagined himself calm, assured, doing the simple things right. No forcing it. No trying to impress. Just playing his game.

Someone will be watching.

The words echoed, growing larger the more he replayed them. First team minutes. A call-up. Maybe training sessions that didn’t end with him peeling off toward the U23s while the senior squad stayed behind. Maybe a chance to prove he belonged higher up, not next season, not eventually, but soon.

He lay there with the phone resting on his chest, the glow of the screen already fading, unaware that the message he had just read marked a hinge point he could not yet comprehend. João could imagine a good performance tomorrow. He could imagine impressing a coach, earning a nod, maybe a call-up, maybe a chance. What he could not imagine was scale.

He could, however, not imagine how far this road would stretch, how violently it would bend upward, how the quiet weight of this single sentence would echo years into the future. He could not imagine stadiums far larger than this room, flags draped in unfamiliar colours, anthems sung by millions rather than thousands.

He could not imagine that the boy he joked with, trained beside, and teased through walls thin enough to hear laughter, would one day stand across from him not as a friend, but as an opponent, separated by lines of paint and history, in a match that would stop the world.

For now, all he knew was tomorrow. And that was enough.

* * *

Saturday afternoon sunlight spilled through the tinted windows of the Eintracht Frankfurt team bus as it rolled steadily down the Autobahn toward Mainz. The city thinned out behind them, concrete giving way to stretches of green and low industrial buildings, the hum of the engine settling into a constant, almost hypnotic rhythm. The players were scattered throughout the bus in various states of alertness. Some leaned back with eyes closed, others scrolled through their phones, a few chatted in low voices.

Lukas sat midway down the bus in a black Frankfurt tracksuit, legs stretched out slightly, shoulders relaxed. Larsson was beside him, half-turned in his seat, animated as he spoke to Bahoya who sat one row ahead.

"I’m telling you," Larsson said, gesturing with his hands, "this fixture is always miserable. Doesn’t matter the form, doesn’t matter the table. Mainz fans, Frankfurt fans, everyone’s angry before kickoff even happens."