Become A Football Legend-Chapter 242: Manchester

Lukas came into view, hands in his jacket pockets, casual but put together. Black jeans. A clean white tee under a fitted dark jacket. On his feet, a fresh pair of Puma sneakers, one of their newest releases. They had arrived at his apartment barely a week earlier, still smelling like new leather and glue. Puma sent him a new pair every time they dropped something big now. He had stopped being surprised by it.

Uzun let out a low whistle. "Of course you show up looking like that."

Larsson laughed. "Man packed for Europe and fashion week."

Lukas smirked. "If we get caught, I’m naming all of you immediately. No hesitation."

Knauff grinned. "Fair."

The elevator doors slid open and an executive Uber rolled up moments later, sleek and quiet. Lukas stepped in last and buckled up.

"So," he said, glancing between them. "Where are we actually going?"

Knauff leaned back, satisfied. "We’re going to see Stan."

Lukas raised an eyebrow.

"Stan?"

Lukas said it slowly, testing the word, like he was waiting for the punchline to reveal itself.

Knauff grinned. "Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner but I’ve just been busy."

"Shut Up!" Uzun said as he nudged Knauff in front of him. "Stan. The dinosaur."

Larsson blinked. "You snuck us out of a team hotel, past security, in a foreign country... for a dinosaur?"

"A very famous dinosaur," Uzun corrected. "Stan the T-rex. Manchester Museum. Iconic."

The Uber rolled to a stop a few minutes later, streetlights washing over the pavement as they stepped out into the cool Manchester night. Lukas pulled his jacket tighter and glanced up at the building in front of them.

Dark windows. Locked doors. A very clear sign announcing opening hours.

Closed.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Knauff let out a long breath. "Uzun."

Larsson folded his arms. "Tell me this is a joke."

Uzun squinted at the door, leaned closer to the glass, as if the museum might suddenly spring to life if he stared hard enough. "That’s... strange."

Lukas laughed first, a quiet shake of the head. "You didn’t check if it was open?"

Uzun spread his hands defensively. "I assumed."

"Assumed," Knauff repeated. "You assumed."

Larsson gave him a gentle shove with his shoulder. "You owe us for this. Emotionally."

"I brought you culture," Uzun said. "It’s not my fault culture sleeps early."

They were still standing there, half amused, half debating whether to turn back, when Lukas’s eyes drifted down the street. He stopped mid-sentence.

"Wait."

The others followed his gaze.

A head rose above the crowd, unmistakable even at a distance.

Ekitike.

Even in a hoodie, even trying to blend in, he was impossible to miss. Walking beside him were Bahoya and Chaïbi, deep in conversation, hands moving as they talked.

Lukas burst out laughing. "No way."

He stepped forward and called out, "You too?"

Ekitike turned, recognition flashing instantly. "Luke?"

Bahoya looked from one group to the other, then at the museum doors. "Please tell me you didn’t also come to see the dinosaur."

Uzun groaned. "Don’t."

Chaïbi smiled slowly. "You didn’t check if it was open, did you?"

Knauff pointed at Uzun. "This is on him."

Ekitike laughed, a deep, easy sound. "We had the same idea. Thought it’d be quiet. Cultural."

"Footballers," Larsson said. "Travel across Europe, end up locked out of a museum."

For a second, they all just stood there, the absurdity of it settling in. Two separate groups, same plan, same mistake.

"So," Lukas said eventually, "do we go back and pretend this never happened?"

Bahoya shrugged. "Or we walk. Clear our heads."

That decided it.

They drifted away from the museum together, eight players moving through the streets in loose formation, hands in pockets, voices overlapping. The city buzzed around them, trams rattling past, laughter spilling out of pubs, the glow of shopfronts reflecting off wet pavement.

Conversation turned, as it always did, to football.

"Old Trafford," Chaïbi said. "Different animal."

Ekitike nodded. "You feel it when you walk out. Even in warm-up."

Knauff glanced at Lukas. "You’ve never played there."

"Not yet," Lukas replied. "But I’ve watched enough."

Uzun smirked. "And they’ve watched you."

Larsson tilted his head. "City offer still a thing?"

Lukas exhaled lightly. "Seems like it."

Bahoya raised an eyebrow. "Does it mess with your head?"

"Only if I let it," Lukas said. "Thursday comes first."

Ekitike bumped his shoulder lightly. "Two goals down isn’t the end."

"Especially not for him," Knauff added.

They stopped at a small convenience store on the corner, lights buzzing overhead. Inside, it smelled of coffee and packaged food. Lukas grabbed a small carton of milk from the fridge without thinking.

Larsson raised an eyebrow. "Milk?"

"Habit," Lukas said. "Don’t judge."

Uzun loaded up on bananas and protein bars. Bahoya picked up yogurt. Knauff grabbed a bag of mixed nuts. Chaïbi added bottled water.

At the counter, Uzun tapped his card with confidence.

Declined.

Everyone stared at him.

"...Try again," Knauff said.

Uzun cleared his throat and tried again. Accepted.

"Add interest," Larsson muttered.

The cashier looked up halfway through scanning, eyes flicking to Lukas, then snapping back.

"No way," he said. "You’re Lukas Brandt."

Lukas smiled. "Yeah."

The guy’s grin stretched wide. "City fan. Didn’t expect to see you in here."

Uzun leaned on the counter. "He gets that a lot."

The cashier laughed, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Dump United out, yeah? Then come over to us next season."

Lukas chuckled. "We’ll see about that. Expecting your support on Thursday."

"Oh, you’ll have it," the guy said immediately. "One hundred percent."

They stepped back out into the night, bags rustling, spirits lighter than before. No dinosaur, no grand adventure, just teammates walking together, talking nonsense, the weight of a massive match somehow easier to carry when shared.

Eventually, the Lowry loomed back into view.

Uzun sighed. "Worth it."

Knauff shook his head. "Next time, we check opening hours."

Lukas smiled to himself as they headed inside.

* * *

The bus rolled to a slow stop beneath the looming steel of Old Trafford, the grey morning light washing over its red exterior. Even before the doors opened, the noise seeped in. Not the roar of a full stadium, but something rawer. Shouts, chants, whistles, phones held high. An ocean of fans pressed up against barriers, jackets zipped tight, scarves raised, eyes searching the tinted windows.

The players felt it immediately.

As they stepped off the bus, heads lowered, hoods up, the sound swelled. Some jeers. Some applause. A lot of shouting Lukas’s name, some of it welcoming, some of it anything but. He kept his gaze forward, jaw set, walking beside Larsson as stewards ushered them through the narrow corridor carved out by security.

Inside, the noise dropped away like a door slamming shut.

Old Trafford was empty now. Vast. Silent in that unsettling way only huge stadiums could be when stripped of people. Red seats rose in endless tiers, banners hanging limp, the pitch immaculate under the pale sky filtering through the open roof.

They jogged out together, boots tapping against the concrete before hitting grass. The first touch of the turf sent a familiar calm through Lukas. Whatever waited tomorrow, this part never changed.