Become A Football Legend-Chapter 243: Matchday (GT)

They ran laps, stretched, passed the ball in tight circles. Voices echoed more than usual, every shout bouncing back from the stands. A misplaced touch sounded louder here. A clean strike echoed longer.

Toppmöller watched for a few minutes with his hands on his hips before lifting his whistle and blowing sharply.

The players gathered.

"We’ve done the hard thinking already," he said, voice carrying easily in the open space. "Today is about details. Corners. Free kicks. Movements. Timing. We polish what we started earlier this week."

He paced once, eyes scanning faces.

"This stadium won’t win the game for them. We decide that."

A pause.

Then he stopped.

Uzun was standing there, eyes half-lidded, rocking slightly on his heels, very clearly somewhere else.

Toppmöller didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even sigh. He simply took the pen from behind his ear and flicked it with practiced accuracy.

It bounced off Uzun’s forehead.

Uzun jolted. "Ow!"

Laughter exploded around him.

"Welcome back," Toppmöller said dryly. "We need you awake, not dreaming about museums."

Uzun rubbed his head, grinning. "Yes, boss."

The whistle blew again.

"Set-piece groups. Now."

The set-piece coach stepped forward, already calling out names, cones being dragged into place, balls lined up at the corner arc. Lukas jogged into position beside Larsson and Chaïbi, glancing up at the towering stands one more time before focusing back on the drill.

Tomorrow would be loud. Tomorrow would be hostile.

But for now, it was just grass, a ball, and work to be done.

* * *

Jane was already halfway down the hallway for the third time when she turned back, keys clutched in her hand, impatience written all over her face.

"Roger, honestly," she said, glancing at the clock again. "It’s five already."

Roger emerged from the bedroom, tugging his jacket into place, the faded red of a 1995 Cantona shirt visible beneath it. He stopped short when he saw her standing there, already dressed, already ready.

"We’ve got three hours," he said. "Kick-off’s not until eight."

"And traffic won’t wait for kick-off," Jane replied, slipping on her shoes. She was wearing a current United home shirt, clean and plain, no name on the back. "Neither will security checks. Or queues. Or people who don’t know where their seats are."

Lexi came out next, phone in hand, hair tied back, an old 07/08 Ronaldo jersey hanging loose on her. She looked between her parents, eyebrows raised.

"Why do I feel like we’re late for a flight?"

Roger shook his head, amused. "That’s what I’m trying to work out. Since when do you rush us to Old Trafford?" he asked Jane. "Usually I’m the one standing by the door while you’re still deciding which bag to bring."

Jane waved him off, already grabbing her coat. "I’m just being organised."

Lexi smirked. "You’re excited."

Jane paused, just for a fraction of a second. "I’ve never been to a European semi-final before," she said lightly. "Can you blame me?"

Roger laughed. "Fair enough. Big night."

They did a quick final sweep of the house. Tickets. Wallets. Phones. Scarves. Jane checked everything twice, then once more for good measure before finally nodding.

"Right. Let’s go."

They stepped outside into the cool early evening, the sky still holding onto daylight as Roger unlocked the car. Jane climbed into the passenger seat immediately, already adjusting her belt, eyes fixed ahead. Lexi slid into the back, still scrolling, already buzzing with anticipation.

As Roger pulled away from the curb and turned toward the main road leading into Manchester, he glanced sideways at his wife.

"You’re more excited than both of us," he said.

Jane smiled, eyes forward. "It’s a big night."

And as the car joined the growing stream of traffic heading toward Old Trafford, the feeling that something important was about to happen settled quietly over all three of them.

* * *

The roar inside Old Trafford barely dipped as the Frankfurt players jogged out of the tunnel, red shirts spilling onto the pitch beneath a wall of sound. At the same moment, Jane, Roger, and Lexi were squeezing past knees and bags in the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand, finding their row just as the noise swelled again.

Lexi dropped into her seat and let out a breathy laugh, eyes already shining. "I swear," she said, looking around as scarves waved and chants rolled from end to end, "I can never get tired of this. It doesn’t matter how many times you come. It still hits you."

Roger grunted as he sat down beside her, adjusting his jacket, while Jane settled quietly on Lexi’s other side.

Lexi leaned forward and pointed down toward the pitch. "There," she said. "That’s him."

Lukas had just stepped out in his tracksuit, jogging lightly with his teammates, head up, eyes scanning the stands as the boos grew sharper, more focused. The volume spiked as soon as the big screen caught him.

Roger shook his head, amused. "Careful," he said. "You’re meant to be a United fan, not a Frankfurt scout."

Lexi rolled her eyes. "I can like a player and still want United to win, you know." She watched Lukas bounce on his toes, roll his shoulders. "Honestly, why aren’t we going for someone like that? That’s exactly the kind of player we’re missing."

Roger scoffed. "Because he’s not as good as people think. Bundesliga hype. Happens every time. They look world-class over there, then they come here and disappear."

Lexi turned to him, smiling. "We’ll see about that in ninety minutes."

Roger glanced at her sideways. "You’re not actually hoping we lose, are you?"

She laughed. "Relax. I just like good football. If he’s as overrated as you say, you’ll be right by the end of the night."

Jane hadn’t said a word. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the pitch, following one figure as he moved from drill to drill. The noise, the conversation, even Lexi’s teasing seemed to pass around her without touching her.

Down on the grass, Lukas was already in rhythm. A sharp one-touch pass into Larsson, a quick return, then a cushioned layoff into Ekitike’s feet. The ball never stayed with him long. It didn’t need to.

Ekitike jogged alongside him for a few steps. "They’re quick, but they step up," he said under his breath. "If they hold a high line, just slip me in early. I’m faster than their centre-backs."

Lukas nodded, already seeing it in his head. He clipped the ball back to Ekitike with a single touch and peeled away, scanning the space again.

On the far side of the pitch, Bruno Fernandes stood with his hands on his hips, watching the same sequence. Garnacho drifted over, eyes following Lukas as he moved.

"That him?" Garnacho asked, tilting his head slightly in Lukas’s direction.

Bruno nodded. "Yeah. That’s him."

Garnacho frowned. "He’s younger than Yamal, isn’t he?"

"Yeah," Bruno said. "But don’t let that fool you. He’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Can play wide, can play inside, second striker, ten. He finds space."

Garnacho shrugged. "We’re two goals up. No way we lose by two at home. Doesn’t matter how good he is."

Bruno kept his eyes on the pitch a moment longer before answering.

"I hope you’re right," he said quietly. "I really do."