Become A Football Legend-Chapter 257: Mini Holiday

The team bus rolled slowly through the cordoned-off exit at Old Trafford, blue lights flashing at the front as security guided them out into the Manchester night.

It was strange.

On one side of the road, a cluster of City fans had gathered—not massive, but loud enough. A few sky-blue shirts, phones out, grinning faces.

"Brandt! Come to City!" someone shouted as the bus crawled past.

A handful clapped.

One held up a sign with a crude drawing of a crown over the number 10.

On the other side?

Silence.

United fans stood with folded arms, scarves hanging limp around their necks. Some stared blankly at the bus. Some shook their heads. A few turned their backs entirely.

No boos. No shouts.

Just that cold, stunned quiet that only comes after something has truly hurt.

Inside the bus, a few Frankfurt players glanced out the window.

Uzun whistled softly. "They look like they’ve just watched a funeral."

Larsson leaned over the seat. "Technically they did."

Lukas sat back, hoodie pulled over his head, AirPods in but nothing playing. He wasn’t looking at the City fans cheering. He wasn’t looking at the United fans either.

He just stared ahead.

* * *

They reached the Lowry not long after. The team slipped in through the underground entrance again, security tight, hotel staff efficient and discreet.

Upstairs, in the private room on the floor Frankfurt had booked out, the squad gathered one more time before dispersing for the night.

Some were still buzzing.

Others looked exhausted beyond words.

Toppmöller stood at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back.

"Well done," he said first, voice steady but warm. "You’ve earned this night."

A few nods. A couple quiet claps.

"But," he added, raising a finger slightly, "don’t let the adrenaline fool you. You are tired. All of you. We fly back to Germany in the morning."

He let his gaze sweep across the room.

"Rest. Hydrate. Sleep. No nonsense."

A few smirks at that.

Then his eyes settled on Lukas.

"And you," he said.

Lukas looked up.

"I’ve been told you have... commitments here in Manchester."

A murmur rippled lightly through the room.

Lukas blinked. "Commitments?"

Toppmöller ignored the confusion.

"You’re excused from tomorrow’s flight," he continued calmly. "You have two days. Be back at the training ground on schedule."

Lukas just stared at him.

Two days?

"I expect you rested," Toppmöller added. "Not sightseeing."

A few players chuckled.

Then the coach gave him a short nod, turned, and walked out of the room with his assistants.

For a second, Lukas didn’t move. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

The bus had already delivered them safely into the underground entrance of the Lowry. The security shutters had closed behind them. The lift had carried them up. The adrenaline had followed.

Now they were in the private lounge on their booked-out floor, the night still humming faintly through the glass windows overlooking the river.

Toppmöller finished speaking and stepped out with his assistants.

The room loosened immediately.

Chairs scraped. Laughter broke out. Someone clapped Lukas on the back hard enough to make him stumble a step forward.

"You’re not flying back with us?" Uzun said again, grinning like he’d just uncovered a conspiracy. "That’s suspicious, brother."

"I literally found out at the same time as you," Lukas replied.

Larsson didn’t look convinced.

They began filtering toward the corridor that led to their rooms. The energy was lighter now—victory does that—but exhaustion clung to them all. Ice packs. Protein shakes. Quiet conversations.

Lukas slung his small backpack over his shoulder and headed toward his room.

Larsson stayed glued to him.

"So," Larsson said casually, hands in his pockets. "Two days in Manchester."

"I didn’t ask for it."

"Mhm."

They reached the door. Lukas slid his key card out.

Larsson leaned against the wall beside him.

"You sure you’re not holding secret talks with City?" he pressed, raising an eyebrow. "Pep meeting at midnight? ’Project Blue’ presentation?"

Lukas gave him a look. "Do you genuinely believe I’d negotiate a transfer the night I knock United out of Europe?"

Larsson thought about it.

"...It would be iconic."

Lukas laughed despite himself. "You’re an idiot."

"Listen," Larsson continued, lowering his voice a little, "you’ve had City chasing you for months. Atlético sniffing around. If they gave you two days off, it’s not random."

Lukas paused.

That part... wasn’t wrong.

"I didn’t plan anything," he said again, more to himself this time.

Larsson watched his face carefully.

"You don’t look like someone about to sign for another club," he admitted.

"Because I’m not."

"Good," Larsson said immediately. "Because if you leave before we win something big together, I’ll personally sabotage your medical."

Lukas shook his head and opened the door.

Before stepping inside, he pulled out his phone and sent Marco the message.

Lukas: Did you take the excuse for me?

He looked back up at Larsson.

"You’re overthinking it," Lukas said. "Go to sleep."

Larsson folded his arms. "You’re deflecting."

"I’m tired."

"Suspiciously tired."

"Goodnight, Hugo."

Larsson grinned. "If I see you on Sky Sports tomorrow shaking hands with Txiki, I’m screenshotting everything."

"Get lost."

Larsson finally pushed off the wall and walked down the corridor toward his own room, still chuckling.

Lukas stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned back against it for a moment.

His phone buzzed.

He looked down.

Marco: Your father called me about 30 minutes ago.

His eyebrows knit together.

Another message.

Marco: He asked me to speak to the club and request a few days off for you if possible.

Lukas straightened.

He typed quickly.

Lukas: Why?

The typing dots appeared.

Paused.

Then:

Marco: Talk to your father.

Lukas stared at the screen for a few seconds.

Marco’s last message lingered on the screen.

Talk to your father.

That didn’t sit right.

He didn’t like being the last one to know things about his own life.

He opened his contacts and tapped Dad immediately.

Lukas: Dad, is everything alright? Marco just told me you asked the club for two days off for me.

The message sent.

Seen almost instantly.

That alone made his chest tighten a fraction. Javi was usually quick to respond, but tonight had been chaotic. Flights. Celebrations. Logistics.

The typing bubble appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Then:

Javi: Everything is fine.

A pause.

Another message.

Javi: You don’t need to worry about anything.

Lukas frowned slightly at that.

He typed back.

Lukas: That’s not very reassuring.

A few seconds later:

Javi: Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.

That was it.

No explanation.

No hint.

Just that.

Lukas stared at the screen a little longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard as if he might push for more.

He didn’t.

If Javi said they’d talk tomorrow, they would talk tomorrow.

He dropped the phone onto the small desk by the window and walked over to it, pulling the curtain aside just a little. The Manchester skyline glowed in the distance. Calm. Unbothered. As if nothing historic had just happened a few miles away.

A hat-trick at Old Trafford.

A European final.

Two unexpected days off.

And now this quiet, hanging question mark.

He exhaled slowly.

"Tomorrow," he muttered to himself.

Then he switched off the lights, lay back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling in the dark—sleep coming slower than it should have.