Become A Football Legend-Chapter 230: Butterflies II

Down on the pitch, João had barely celebrated. A quick shout, a raised fist, then straight back into position. Businesslike. Calm. Like he had done this before. His teammates slapped his back, one of them ruffling his hair as they jogged back toward their half. João nodded, eyes already scanning the pitch, resetting.

The rest of the match followed the same rhythm.

Every interception brought a small clap from the stands. Every clean tackle drew a murmur of approval. João stepped into duels early, timed his jumps, used his body intelligently.

When the second goal went in, the celebrations felt inevitable. The Gimenez family stood again, clapping, laughing, hugging. Carlos leaned down to Reuben and said something that made the boy nod furiously, eyes still locked on the pitch.

At the final whistle, a simple one blown without ceremony, João high-fived his teammates in a neat line. A clean sheet. Job done. He lingered a second longer than most, thanking the reserve keeper, exchanging a few words with the right-back, then finally jogged toward the tunnel.

At the far corner of the stand, Florian Kohfeldt lowered his binoculars.

"Well?" he asked.

Martin Heck didn’t hesitate. He shook his head slowly, more impressed than surprised.

"I’m honestly shocked we haven’t had him training with the first team already," he said. "I’ve been going through his numbers since January. Most tackles in the U23s. Most duels. Ground and aerial. Only three bookings all season."

Kohfeldt glanced back toward the pitch, where João was disappearing down the touchline.

"That tells you everything," Heck continued. "Timing. Discipline. He doesn’t dive in. He reads the game. And he’s eighteen."

There was a pause. The kind where a decision settles into place.

"We’re short at center-back," Heck added. "Two games left. Nothing to lose in the table. We could bring him in, see how he handles the step. Even just off the bench."

Kohfeldt nodded once, decisive.

"Message the reserve coach," he said. "Tell him we want him with us this week."

He took one last look at the quiet little stadium, at the families packing up bags and folding scarves, at the boy who had just played like it meant everything.

"We’re not making that mistake again," Kohfeldt said quietly.

* * *

Later that night.

The restaurant level of the hotel in Mainz was already buzzing when the Eintracht squad filed in. Long wooden tables were arranged in neat rows, plates arriving in steady rhythm from the kitchen. Steak, grilled vegetables, pasta measured carefully, no excess, no indulgence. It was match-eve discipline disguised as comfort. The hum of conversation stayed controlled, voices never rising too high, everyone aware there was still a job to do the next day.

Lukas sat at one of the middle tables with Uzun to his right, Knauff opposite him, and Larsson beside him. Jackets were draped over chairs, tracksuit tops half-zipped. Knauff shook his head as he cut into his food and muttered about the reception they had received outside the hotel earlier that evening. Mainz scarves. Whistles. A few choice words shouted from across the street.

"They really don’t like us here," Knauff said, half amused, half resigned.

Larsson snorted. "Derby vibes. Always like this."

Knauff nodded. "They need it. They’re seventh right now. Just outside Europe. Three games left. This is a must-win for them."

Uzun leaned back slightly. "They’re trying to leapfrog Freiburg or Dortmund, right?"

"Exactly," Knauff replied. "They’ll come at us hard tomorrow."

Lukas listened quietly, chewing slowly, then looked up. "Dortmund won’t drop out of Europe."

Knauff raised an eyebrow. "You sure? They’re sixth. Leipzig and Freiburg both ahead."

"I know," Lukas said calmly. "Still think they make Champions League."

Uzun laughed. "On vibes?"

Lukas shrugged. "Just a feeling."

Larsson shook his head. "You and your feelings."

Before Lukas could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, then stood up immediately.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing his chair in. "I’ll be right back."

Larsson grinned. "Girlfriend?"

Lukas shot him a look. "Shut up. It’s my friend from the game earlier. Too noisy in here."

He stepped out of the dining area into the quieter hallway, glass doors sliding shut behind him. The hum of the restaurant faded as he answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Bro—bro, you won’t believe this, I swear you won’t," João burst out the moment the call connected, his words tumbling over each other. "The game, man, it was unreal. Clean sheet, two–nil, and that header... I felt it the second it hit my forehead, like bang, perfect contact, straight down into the net. I didn’t even hear the ball hit the net at first because Reuben was screaming my name so loud I swear half the stand turned around to look at him. Mum was hugging random people, Dad too, I think they forgot where they were."

He didn’t stop for breath.

"After the whistle, while I’m still trying to calm down, Heck and the reserve coach pull me aside. Just like that. And they say, ’Report to first-team training this week.’ Just that. And I’m standing there nodding like an idiot because if I opened my mouth I think my voice would’ve cracked. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know what to say. I walked back to the dressing room and it felt like I wasn’t even touching the floor."

His voice dipped, then surged again.

"I tried to act normal after, you know? Showered, packed my bag, joked with the boys. But inside my head I was replaying every tackle, every pass. Later I’m lying on my bed just staring at the ceiling, heart going crazy, hands shaking, thinking, this is it... this is the door opening. And at the same time I’m terrified, man. Like actually scared. What if I mess it up? What if this is my one shot?"

He let out a short, breathless laugh.

"I didn’t know who to call first. I wish you’d been there in the stands. I swear, I’ve never felt anything like this."

Lukas leaned against the wall, smiling wider with every word, letting João talk until he finally ran out of breath.

"Alright, alright—breathe, man. Breaathee."

João laughed again, a little embarrassed now that the rush had emptied out of him.

"You don’t get it," he said. "I still feel like I’m dreaming."

"I do get it," Lukas replied, tone firm but warm. "And you deserve every bit of it. Don’t tiptoe around it. Grab it by the neck. This is your chance."

There was a pause, then João’s voice came back, steadier, more playful.

"Careful," he said. "At this rate I’ll be facing you in the Bundesliga sooner than you think."

Lukas snorted softly. "Then hurry up. I’m waiting."

That made João laugh properly this time, the tension finally breaking.

"Good luck tomorrow," João said. "Go win your game. I’ll let you get back to your fancy team dinner now. Lemme go brag to our classmates."

"Do that," Lukas replied, smiling. "You deserve it."

The call ended. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Lukas stood there for a moment with the phone still in his hand, the noise of the restaurant muffled behind the door. A quiet smile settled on his face as he thought about how different this all felt. In his previous life, João had not even touched first-team training until nineteen. Now doors were opening earlier, faster, almost as if the world had shifted slightly to accommodate them both.

It struck him then that success never moved in isolation. It rippled outward, nudging other lives onto new paths.

"A butterfly effect I can live with," he thought.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, took a breath, and turned back toward the dining room, ready to rejoin his teammates.