Become A Football Legend-Chapter 247: Pep Toppmölliola

The dressing room was unusually quiet for a European semifinal halftime. No music. No shouting. Just the low, constant hum of ventilation and the soft shuffle of boots against tile. A staff member moved methodically between benches, handing out hydration bottles, murmuring reminders. The medical team followed behind, kneeling briefly in front of players, squeezing calves, asking quick questions, checking eyes and breathing. No one was injured. That almost made it worse.

They were level on the night, but still two goals down in the tie. Forty-five minutes left. No margin.

Lukas sat on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers interlocked so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His gaze was unfocused, fixed somewhere between the opposite wall and the floor. In his head, the half replayed on a loop. The early goal. The sudden collapse of space afterward. Ugarte glued to his shoulder, Yoro stepping up aggressively, Maguire holding deeper. Every time he tried to drift, a body followed. Every time he turned, another closed the lane. He had felt it. The game squeezing him out. After the goal, the only moment he’d really found daylight was that drop deep, the turn away from pressure, the long ball to Chaïbi. After that, nothing clean. Nothing decisive.

Larsson noticed before Lukas did. He crossed the room and sat down beside him without saying anything at first, just cracking open his bottle and taking a long drink. He nudged Lukas lightly with his shoulder.

"They’re scared of you," Larsson said quietly, almost casually. "That’s why it feels like this."

Lukas exhaled through his nose, a small, humorless smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He nodded once but didn’t reply. He wasn’t frustrated. Not exactly. It felt more like impatience. Like being held back at the start line.

Near the doorway, Toppmöller stood with Buck and Zembrod, the three of them bent over a tablet. Clips replayed in quick succession. Pressing triggers. United’s midfield spacing. The moments where Frankfurt had hesitated instead of committing numbers forward. Toppmöller tapped the screen with two fingers, then gestured sharply toward the left side. Buck nodded. Zembrod scrolled back and froze the frame.

"Here," Zembrod said. "They drop five yards when we recycle. That’s when it opens."

Toppmöller straightened and waved Koch over. Trapp followed immediately, already reading the room. The four huddled for less than a minute. Instructions were short. Clear. Urgent. Koch nodded twice. Trapp said something under his breath and slapped Koch on the back before both walked back toward the group.

Toppmöller waited until everyone had settled again before stepping forward. He didn’t raise his voice at first.

"First of all," he said, looking around the room, "you’ve done the hardest part already. You scored. You stayed in it. You didn’t collapse after they equalized."

A few heads lifted.

"But listen to me now," he continued, his tone sharpening. "Did you feel it? At 1-0? Did you feel how quiet it got? Did you feel the anxiety starting to crawl into this stadium?"

He let the silence answer for him.

"That’s what we play for in the second half. Not desperation. Pressure. One goal," he said, holding up a finger. "Just one. And the whole place starts to shake. They start thinking about it. They start making mistakes. The chance will come. But only if we stay brave."

He turned toward the tactics board and flipped it around.

"We’re changing shape," he said. "4-2-3-1."

He pointed. "Lukas, you’re the ten. No more hiding you in the line. You play behind Hugo. Find pockets. Drag them with you. If two follow, someone else is free."

Lukas looked up fully now.

"Knauff," Toppmöller continued, "you’re on. Width on the right. Be aggressive. Run at them. Make them defend facing their own goal."

Skhiri nodded once, already understanding.

"Our double pivot stays disciplined," Toppmöller said. "We don’t lose the ball cheaply. Fullbacks, you go when the moment is right, not before."

He paused, scanning faces.

"This isn’t chaos football," he said. "This is controlled belief. You don’t need two goals in five minutes. You need one moment. And I trust every single one of you to recognize it."

He clapped his hands once, loud and sharp. "Now let’s go give them something to think about."

The players stood almost as one. Bottles hit the floor. Shin pads were adjusted. Lukas rose last, rolling his shoulders, the knot in his chest tightening into something sharper. Focused. Hungry.

As they filed toward the tunnel, the muffled roar from outside bled back into the room. Louder now. Expectant.

45 minutes.

Still alive.

The concourse behind the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand had emptied in waves, red shirts flowing toward food counters and restrooms, voices overlapping in the familiar halftime hum. Roger was already several steps ahead, disappearing into the crowd with the purpose of a man on a mission for refreshments, when Lexi slowed, her gaze snagging on something a few rows over.

"Mom," she said, lowering her voice instinctively, "look."

Jane followed the line of her daughter’s stare. At first, she saw nothing but backs and shoulders, bodies moving up the steps. Then she saw him.

Only the back of his head. The slope of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward just slightly as he climbed, hands briefly brushing the rail before releasing it again. He was walking away from her, heading toward the refreshment area, swallowed by the movement of people—but it didn’t matter. It had been almost twenty years, and still, she knew. Not from his face. Not even from his hair. From the way he walked. From the rhythm of it. From the posture she had once known so well she could have picked it out in a crowd blindfolded.

Jane’s breath caught, sharp and sudden, like air sucked from her lungs.

She stood up so fast her knees knocked the seat in front of her.

"Mom?" Lexi turned immediately. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," Jane said, too quickly. She reached for her purse, fingers trembling just enough that she had to steady them against the seatback. "I just— I need the restroom. I’ll be right back."

Lexi frowned. "Now?"

"Yes." Jane forced a smile, thin but convincing. "Go on. Catch up with your dad before the lines get worse."

Lexi hesitated, searching her face, then nodded. "Okay. Don’t rush."

Jane didn’t answer. She was already stepping into the aisle, already moving, following the direction he had gone without quite admitting it to herself. She didn’t look for him again. She couldn’t. She pushed through the crowd, heart pounding too loud in her ears, until the signage for the restrooms came into view.

Inside, the air was cooler, the noise muffled. She ducked into the first empty stall she saw and locked the door behind her.

She stayed there longer than she meant to. Long enough for the stadium to rumble again as fans began drifting back to their seats. Long enough for the sharp ache in her chest to dull into something heavy and manageable.

When she finally stood, she dropped the crumpled tissue into the toilet and flushed, watching it disappear as if that could carry the moment with it. Her eyes were red, lashes clumped, makeup smudged just enough to betray her. She ran cold water over her wrists, then her face, breathing steadily. In the mirror, she reapplied her makeup with practiced precision, smoothing, correcting, rebuilding the version of herself the world expected to see.