Become A Football Legend-Chapter 258: Rest

Morning arrived quietly.

A thin blade of sunlight slipped through the small gap in the hotel curtains and landed directly across Lukas’s face. He stirred, eyelids fluttering before finally opening halfway. For a few seconds, he just lay there, suspended between sleep and memory.

Then it all came back.

Old Trafford.

The roar.

The goals.

The silence.

He tried to sit up.

That was a mistake.

The moment his upper body lifted even slightly, his abdominal muscles seized in protest. A sharp, tight soreness wrapped around his core and ribs. His hip flexors burned. His quads felt like they had been poured full of concrete overnight. He froze halfway upright, face tightening, then slowly lowered himself back onto the mattress with a defeated exhale.

"Okay... that’s new."

He lay flat again, staring at the ceiling.

His calves throbbed. His shoulders felt heavy. Even the small muscles around his ankles pulsed faintly. It was like every sprint, every pivot, every crunching tackle he had absorbed, every shot he had thrown his body in front of had decided to send him a thank-you note all at once.

One hundred and twenty minutes.

Against a Premier League side.

At Old Trafford.

The intensity hadn’t dipped for a second. Not when they were chasing. Not when they were leading. Not even when the legs should have been gone in extra time.

And now his body was collecting the bill.

He flexed his toes under the duvet. Even that felt stiff.

"I have to recover fast," he muttered to himself. "If I want to be able to move around today."

[Why are you still lying there?]

Lukas’s lips twitched faintly.

"Good morning to you too."

[You are not in the LTC. You are not recovering. You are staring at the ceiling like an old man with back pain.]

He closed his eyes again, the faintest smile appearing.

"It’s my first 120-minute game. Against Manchester United. At Old Trafford. Allow me one minute of dramatic suffering."

[Dramatic suffering acknowledged. But unnecessary. Recovery protocols are most effective when started immediately.]

He let out a slow breath.

The soreness was real. Deep. Honest. But beneath it was something else.

Satisfaction.

It hadn’t been for nothing.

Every cramp. Every block. Every desperate sprint to track back. Every tackle that rattled through bone.

He had dragged them through.

He had stood on that pitch and delivered.

He smiled properly now.

"Alright," he whispered. "Let’s get to work."

[Entering LTC recovery mode.]

He closed his eyes fully this time.

The hotel room dissolved.

About an hour later, on the other side of Manchester, the small Airbnb apartment the gang had rented buzzed softly with morning life.

It was a neat three-room place in a quiet residential block—white walls, warm wooden flooring, a faint citrus scent from whatever cleaning spray the owner had used. The windows overlooked a narrow street where the early traffic moved lazily. It was about a half-hour drive from The Lowry, far enough to avoid any lingering matchday chaos.

João had claimed the smallest room but insisted it was "efficient."

Joanna had the one with the little balcony.

Javi and Anne had taken the master bedroom.

Inside that room, steam still lingered faintly in the air.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Javi stepped out, a bathrobe loosely tied around his waist. His hair was damp, pushed back with his fingers. The hot shower had done its job—washing away the last bits of travel fatigue and something heavier he’d been carrying since the night before.

Anne stood by the bed, folding clothes into her small suitcase. She was whistling softly—some tune Lukas used to hum as a kid. The sound was light, grounding.

Javi walked up behind her quietly and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"You know," he murmured against her hair, "you don’t really have to rush back to Germany."

She smiled without turning around.

"Oh?"

He rested his chin on her shoulder.

"We could stay. A couple more days. England isn’t that bad when your son has just knocked Manchester United out of Europe."

She turned in his arms, eyes warm.

"And leave you and Lukas without space to talk?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

She reached up and gave him a soft peck on the cheek.

"I have work to get back to. Urgent work. And besides... I think you two need a day or two."

He searched her face.

"You always know when I need space," he said quietly.

She laughed lightly. "You’re not that hard to read, Michael."

He stiffened for the tiniest fraction of a second at the name. Then relaxed.

She studied him.

"Are you feeling better this morning?"

He knew what she meant.

He had come back the night before quieter than usual. No jokes. No retelling of the goals. Just silence and a jaw set tighter than normal. He hadn’t told her what had happened. She hadn’t asked.

She had just hugged him.

They had gone to bed in silence, wrapped around each other. And sometime during the night, the weight in his chest had eased.

He nodded now.

"Yeah," he said. "I’m alright."

She smiled softly.

"Good."

He leaned in and kissed her properly this time. Slow. Grateful.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?"

"For not asking."

She squeezed his hand.

"Whenever you’re ready."

They stayed like that for a moment—just looking at each other—before he leaned in again.

And then—

Ding.

The apartment bell chimed sharply through the hallway.

There was a half-second of silence.

Then Joanna’s voice rang out from the living room.

"I’ll get it!"

Her footsteps pounded across the wooden floor—quick, excited, unmistakably hers.

Javi and Anne exchanged a look.

"That was fast," Anne whispered.

Before Javi could respond, the front door swung open.

A split second of silence—

Then Joanna’s delighted gasp.

"Oh my God!"

And then the unmistakable sound of someone flinging themselves at another person.

In the doorway stood Lukas.

Big smile. Casual hoodie. Cap low over his hair. A small duffel slung over one shoulder.

Joanna had launched herself into his arms without hesitation.

He caught her easily despite the residual soreness, laughing as she nearly knocked him back a step.

"Careful," he teased. "I played 120 minutes yesterday."

"I don’t care!" she shot back, hugging him tighter. "You’re insane! You’re actually insane!"

Behind her, João appeared in the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Bro," João said, breaking into a grin, "you just ended a club’s season and came here like it’s a casual Tuesday."

Lukas stepped inside fully now, grinning at them both.

"Morning," he said.

Javi and Anne emerged from the bedroom just in time to see the scene.

For a moment, Javi simply stood there.

Watching his son.

Standing tall. Relaxed. Smiling.

A 16-year-old who had just silenced Old Trafford.

And now was back to being just Lukas.

Their eyes met across the room.

No words yet.

Just understanding.

And something unspoken hanging quietly in the air between them.

"I’m so glad you could make it. I was scared we had to leave before you came," Joanna said, noticing the slightly tense air and squeezing his hands gently.

Lukas smiled as he turned to face her.

"Of course I’d be here, I missed you."

"I missed you too," she responded.

"Ewww! Get a fucking room!" João said, almost rolling his eyes to the back of his head.