Become A Football Legend-Chapter 236: Levels

Later that same Monday, at the SV Darmstadt 98 first team training ground. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

The first-team training ground felt different the moment João stepped through the gates. It was subtle, not something he could immediately put into words, but he felt it in his chest. The pitches were the same immaculate green, the lines just as crisp and white, but everything else carried more weight. The air was quieter, more focused. Conversations were shorter, movements sharper. There was no sense of looseness here, no wasted motion.

He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and slowed his pace for a moment, letting his eyes wander. The buildings were newer, the gym doors heavier, the equipment neatly lined up in ways he had never seen at the academy. This was where the margins were thinner, where mistakes stayed with you longer. He took a breath before walking toward the pitch.

"João," Martin Heck called out.

João turned immediately. Heck was already waiting near the sideline, clipboard tucked under his arm, tracksuit zipped up against the light breeze. There was no rush in his manner, no need to raise his voice.

"Good," Heck said as João approached. "You’re on time."

They shook hands, firm and brief, the kind of handshake that said more about expectations than welcome. Heck nodded once, satisfied, then gestured toward the rest of the squad beginning to gather.

"This is João Gimenez," he said evenly, turning to the group. "Centre-back. From the U23s. He’ll train with us this week."

That was it. No speech. No build-up.

A few heads lifted. A few players nodded. One or two murmured greetings drifted his way. No one stared. No one made a show of it. João appreciated that more than he expected. Being noticed without being examined.

As the group loosened up and began light movement, João scanned the pitch again, grounding himself. Then he saw him.

Clemens Riedel stood a few metres away, already tying his boots, shoulders loose, posture familiar. João felt tension slip from his back before he realised it had been there.

"No way," Riedel said, looking up and breaking into a grin. "They finally dragged you over."

João laughed, the sound coming easier now. "Looks like it."

They bumped fists, a small gesture but one that settled him. The conversation slipped into place naturally, like they had only trained together yesterday instead of months ago.

Riedel tilted his head toward a tall striker stretching nearby. "Come on," he said. "I’ll introduce you."

"João," Riedel said as they walked over. "This is Isaac. Isaac Lidberg."

Isaac straightened and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you," he said with a smile. "Welcome to the real chaos."

João shook his hand. "Good to be here."

They fell into the stretching routine together, movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, there was only the sound of boots on grass and controlled breathing. Then Isaac glanced sideways, curiosity clearly bubbling under the surface.

"So," Isaac said casually, "is it actually true?"

João raised an eyebrow. "Depends what you’ve heard."

"The Lukas Brandt thing," Isaac continued. "That he was here. In the academy. And that you two are close."

João nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. We grew up together. Same academy, same pitches. Known him since we were kids."

Riedel let out a short laugh, shaking his head as if the thought still didn’t sit right with him. "Still insane to think about. The club spends years developing him, then lets him walk. Must be tearing their hair out now."

Philip Förster, stretching just behind them, leaned in slightly. "I still don’t get it," he said. "Why would you release someone like that if he was always this good?"

João paused for a second, considering his words. "He wasn’t," he said finally. "Not like this. He had talent, sure. But something changed after he left. It’s like being let go flipped a switch."

Isaac nodded slowly. "Pressure works differently on different people."

"Exactly," João said. "As crazy as it sounds, I think letting him go unlocked everything. If that hadn’t happened, maybe he wouldn’t be who he is now."

Riedel smirked, rolling his shoulders. "So what you’re saying is, I should ask the club to release me and see if I turn into a superstar?"

João laughed, shaking his head. "If that works, let me know first."

The moment was cut cleanly by a sharp whistle slicing through the air.

"Alright," Heck’s voice followed. "Let’s go."

The players shifted immediately, conversation ending without resistance. João straightened, took one last look around the pitch, and jogged forward with the group.

Training had begun.

The first drill started simply enough. Short passing, positional movement, nothing João hadn’t done a hundred times before. But even then, he felt it. The tempo was a notch higher. Not frantic, just sharper. Passes arrived half a second sooner. Teammates expected the ball to move on immediately, not after a touch to settle.

The first time the ball came to him, João took an extra fraction to open his body.

"Play," someone called.

Not shouted. Just stated.

He shifted it on, clean enough, but he registered it. At the academy, no one would have noticed. Here, everything was noticed.

As the drill progressed, he adjusted. Fewer touches. Earlier decisions. He started scanning before the ball reached him, neck muscles tightening from the constant movement. When he stepped into a passing lane and intercepted a ball meant for the striker, there was no applause, no nod of approval. The drill simply flowed on, as if that was the baseline expectation.

Which, he realised, it was.

During a small-sided game, he found himself paired against Lidberg. The striker leaned into him on a long ball, testing his balance. João absorbed it, planted his feet, and nudged him just enough off the line to win the header. The ball dropped to a midfielder, play continued.

"Good," Riedel muttered as he ran past.

One word. Quiet. Meant everything.

A few minutes later, João mistimed a step forward. Nothing dramatic, just half a metre too aggressive. The ball slipped past him into space. The attacking midfielder didn’t score, but the chance lingered long enough to be felt.

No one said anything.

That was worse.

He reset quickly, jaw tightening, shoulders squaring. From then on, he chose his moments more carefully. When to step. When to hold. When to drop a yard instead of chasing the interception. He focused on shape, on distances, on being boring in the best possible way.

At one point, as play paused briefly, João caught movement on the far side of the pitch. Florian Kohfeldt stood with his arms folded, not speaking, not gesturing, eyes fixed forward. João couldn’t tell if he was being watched specifically. He suspected that was the point.

The final drill pushed the intensity again. Transitions. Second balls. Quick recoveries. João tracked a runner all the way from midfield into the box, slid across the passing lane, and forced the attacker wide. No tackle. No heroics. Just prevention.

As they jogged back into shape, his lungs burned lightly. Not from exhaustion, but from concentration. From holding himself at a level where there was no room to relax.