Become A Football Legend-Chapter 260: Familia (1)

The hotel door clicked shut behind him.

The silence inside the room felt heavier than the crowd noise from the night before.

Lukas walked in slowly, dropped his small overnight bag by the desk, then drifted toward the bed without really thinking. He let himself fall backward onto the mattress, arms spread, staring up at the white ceiling.

For a few seconds, there was nothing.

Then everything.

His father’s voice replayed in fragments.

She was at the game yesterday.

She wants to arrange a meeting.

She’s been trying to message you.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He didn’t know much about her. In his previous life, she had barely existed as more than a shadow. A name that was never said. A door that was never opened. There had been no reunion, no confrontation, no dramatic return. Just absence.

In this life, the only time he had heard her discussed was a month ago. When she called. When Javi told him. Even then, it had felt distant. Hypothetical. Like something that might happen someday, somewhere far away.

Not here.

Not after a hattrick at Old Trafford.

Not in the same night his entire career had shifted another gear.

He pressed his lips together.

What would he even say to her?

"What do you ask someone who left before you were old enough to form full memories?"

"Why?"

"Sorry?"

"Where were you?"

Do you even get to ask those questions?

Or do you just sit across from a stranger and pretend you’re not strangers?

His chest tightened.

He turned his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, and tried to piece together whatever fragments of her he had. A voice from childhood. A scent. A touch.

Nothing came clearly.

Just emptiness filled with questions.

He blinked.

His vision blurred.

He thought it was just the light at first.

Then he felt it.

A warm line tracing down the side of his face, slipping past his ear into his hair before soaking into the white bedsheet beneath him.

Another tear followed from the other eye.

He didn’t sob.

He didn’t make a sound.

He just lay there, staring upward, as if the ceiling might answer something.

The boy who had silenced Old Trafford the night before now felt very small inside a quiet hotel room. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

A sharp knock at the door jolted him upright.

He wiped his face quickly with the heel of his palm, dragged both hands down over his cheeks, and inhaled deeply.

Another knock.

"Luke?" Javi’s voice, softer this time.

"I’m coming."

He stood up, rolled his shoulders once, forcing steadiness into his breathing. By the time he reached the door, his expression was composed again. Almost neutral.

He opened it.

His father stood there, searching his face carefully.

Lukas stepped aside to let him in.

Javi stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him without taking his eyes off his son.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The room still carried the faint scent of hotel detergent and the city outside hummed distantly through the glass. Lukas walked back toward the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Javi remained standing for a second, then pulled the desk chair closer and turned it around, sitting opposite him.

"You were quick," Javi said quietly.

Lukas gave a small shrug. "Didn’t take long to pack."

Silence settled again.

Javi leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "I’m sorry."

Lukas looked up. "For what?"

"For telling you now. For bringing this up today of all days. After everything. You just played one hundred and twenty minutes at Old Trafford. You should be thinking about recovery, about the final, about..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Not this."

Lukas held his gaze. "You didn’t have to tell me."

"I did." Javi’s voice was firm now. "I wasn’t going to hide it from you. I thought about it. For a second, I really did. But you’re not a child anymore, Luke. Not in the way that matters."

A faint, almost ironic smile flickered across Lukas’s face. "Pretty sure I’m still sixteen."

Javi let out a soft breath that could’ve been a laugh. "You know what I mean."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"When she spoke to me... she didn’t sound reckless. She didn’t sound like someone trying to cause chaos. She sounded... scared." He swallowed. "Regretful."

Lukas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I told her not to reach out. I told her I wouldn’t set up anything. I meant it in that moment." Javi looked down briefly, then back up. "But when I got back last night, I kept thinking about you."

He leaned back slightly in the chair.

"I’ve tried to protect you from this your whole life. From her absence. From questions. From... whatever she represents." He exhaled slowly. "But protecting you doesn’t mean making decisions for you anymore."

Lukas looked down at his hands, which were clasped loosely between his knees.

"You think I can deal with it?" he asked quietly.

Javi didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

There was no dramatics in the answer. No speech. Just certainty.

"You’ve dealt with more pressure in five months than most players do in their entire careers," Javi continued. "You handle crowds of seventy thousand. You handle media storms. You handle transfer rumors worth eighty million euros." His lips curved faintly. "You can handle a conversation."

Lukas’s eyes flicked up at that.

"But," Javi added softly, "just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you have to. That’s the part I need you to understand."

He straightened in the chair.

"This decision is yours. Completely. If you don’t want to see her, we leave it there. I’ll make sure she understands. If you want to meet her once, I’ll arrange it. If you want to speak to her alone, I’ll respect that too. If you want me there, I’ll be there."

He held his son’s gaze.

"I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Not even her. But I also won’t take away your right to choose."

The words hung between them.

Outside, a siren wailed faintly in the distance before fading.

Lukas stared at the carpet for a long moment, breathing steady but deep.

Javi watched him carefully, waiting.

And just as Lukas lifted his head slightly, about to speak—

—he stopped.

* * *

The previous night.

The apartment was silent when Jane unlocked the door.

Not the soft, lived-in silence of a home settling for the night. This was heavy. Unlit. Waiting.

She stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind her without a sound. The hallway was dark except for the faint orange glow of streetlights bleeding in through the living room curtains. Her heels clicked once against the wooden floor before she slipped them off and carried them in her hand.

She didn’t turn on any lights.

She moved through the living room like a shadow, setting her purse down on the console table by instinct, her movements slow, deliberate. The match still rang faintly in her ears. The roar. The whistle. His name.

She walked toward the bedroom.

The door creaked softly as she pushed it open.

The room was pitch black.

For a moment, she allowed herself to believe she could just slip into bed, pretend she had been nowhere unusual, pretend her chest wasn’t still tight from the café, from the words thrown at her like stones.

She stepped toward the bathroom.

Click.

The bedside lamp flicked on.

Warm yellow light flooded the room, cutting through the dark.

Jane froze.