Become A Football Legend-Chapter 269: Down (III) (by Liam_Christie)

Lukas didn’t answer immediately.

He stared ahead, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the television, beyond the room, beyond the moment. His gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular. It was the kind of stare that meant his thoughts were running faster than his voice could keep up with.

After a long silence, he spoke.

"I don’t know."

His voice was low. Honest.

"I haven’t made up my mind."

He inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose.

"But I can’t run away from it forever," he continued. "I know that. At some point, I’ll have to meet her."

He swallowed.

"I just... don’t have the courage right now."

There was no shame in the way he said it. Just fatigue. The emotional kind.

Joanna shifted closer without saying anything and wrapped her arms around him again, holding him firmly but gently. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and rested her cheek against his hair.

"It’s okay," she murmured. "You don’t have to force anything."

He stayed still, letting her hold him.

"You don’t owe anyone a decision tonight," she added quietly. "And whatever you choose, I’m with you."

She leaned back slightly to look at him.

"And none of this is your fault. Not the past. Not the timing. Not any of it."

Lukas blinked slowly, absorbing that.

"Thank you," he said.

It was simple. Soft. But real.

Joanna didn’t respond, she just raised Lukas’s hands to her face and gave it a kiss as she caressed it gently as they both watched the game.

* * *

The next morning, Joanna stirred first.

Her eyes were still closed when she turned instinctively toward the space beside her, reaching out the way she had fallen asleep — curled into Lukas. Her hand brushed over cool sheets.

Empty.

Her fingers searched once more before her eyes opened slowly. The other side of the bed was untouched, the pillow slightly indented but cold. She blinked at the ceiling, then turned her head toward the clock on the nightstand.

7:30 a.m.

She frowned slightly.

"Lukas?" she called softly.

No response.

She pushed herself up, slipping out of bed and pulling one of his oversized hoodies over her nightgown before stepping into the hallway.

"Lukas?" she tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

The living room was quiet when she entered. Curtains half drawn. The early morning light washing the space in pale gold. No music. No shower running. No footsteps.

But something caught her eye.

On the dining table, breakfast was laid out neatly.

Fresh fruit cut into a bowl. Whole-grain toast arranged on a plate. Scrambled eggs still faintly warm under a cover. A glass of orange juice. A cup of tea already poured.

And beside it, a folded note.

She walked over slowly and picked it up.

You cooked for me yesterday. I didn’t cook this, but it’s my turn to return the favor. Enjoy your breakfast. I’m off to the training facilities for a bit.

Her lips curved upward without her realizing.

"How cute," she thought as she looked at the heart-shaped toast on the plate.

She sat down at the table, unfolding the napkin beside the plate, and shook her head lightly with a smile.

* * *

A few buildings away inside the same Profi Camp complex, the rhythmic thump of a football echoed through the corridor.

Thomas Toppmöller slowed his pace slightly as he and his assistant, Dino Toppmöller— known simply as "Buck" around the staff — walked toward the training pitch.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound carried through the concrete hallway.

Toppmöller glanced at his assistant. "Who’s here?"

Buck shrugged. "It’s Lukas."

Toppmöller stopped briefly. "Lukas?"

"Yes."

He frowned faintly. "Didn’t we give him 2 days?"

Buck nodded. "His agent asked for 2 days. We weren’t even planning him for Sunday. Reception said he came in at 6:30."

Toppmöller’s expression shifted slightly. Not anger. Concern.

They resumed walking until they reached the edge of the pitch.

Lukas hadn’t noticed them.

He stood alone in the open space, the early morning air still cool. No music. No teammates. Just him and a ball.

He juggled it lightly a few times, then flicked it high into the air. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Normally, the routine was automatic. Launch. Adjust. Cushion with the laces. Perfect first touch. Always perfect.

The ball descended.

He mistimed it.

It bounced awkwardly off his foot and dropped to the turf before popping back up.

He caught it on the second attempt.

He exhaled sharply.

He did it again. Lifted it high.

This time, same mistake. The touch slightly off. The ball skidding away before he controlled it on the rebound.

He stared at it for a moment.

Then, without warning, he rifled a left-footed shot into the net. Hard. Driven. The net snapped backward violently on impact.

The sound echoed.

He retrieved another ball and repeated the sequence. Launch. Miss. Recover. Strike.

There was force behind it now. Not training precision. Not rhythm.

Release.

Toppmöller stood with his arms crossed, watching quietly.

Lukas juggled once more. Flicked it up. This time, instead of attempting to cushion it at all, he volleyed it straight out of the air with his left foot.

The ball tore into the top corner.

He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, breathing heavier than the light session required.

Toppmöller exchanged a look with Buck.

Worried.

And they kept watching.

Even though that morning he had woken up quietly, cut fruit carefully, arranged toast neatly on a plate and written that small note for Joanna with genuine thought, the weight from Manchester had not left him.

It had simply followed him.

When he fired another shot into the net and the ball rippled the mesh again, the sound felt hollow. Not satisfying. Not cathartic.

He let the ball roll away this time.

Walking slowly toward the sideline, he grabbed his bottle of water and took a long drink before sitting down on the grass. The early sun was rising higher now, the air warming slightly, but his mind was still stuck in a hotel room in Manchester.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pulled out his phone.

His thumb hovered over Instagram for a second before he opened it.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Then he typed:

Jane Jackson

Profiles appeared.

Too many.

Different faces. Different ages. Different cities.

He scrolled slowly, his heartbeat oddly steady.

Then something caught his eye.

MJ Jackson

No profile picture. Just a grey circle.

The account was following him.

He stopped scrolling.

That had to be her.

He tapped on it.

The profile opened.

No display photo. No obvious personal pictures. Just a few scattered posts — a photo of a laboratory workspace, some glass equipment on a table, a caption about research. Another image of a university hallway. Nothing personal. Nothing that showed her face.

It looked almost... careful.

He lingered there for a few seconds.

His thumb hovered over the "Message" button.

He didn’t press it.

Instead, he backed out of the profile and locked his phone.

The field felt quiet again.

But the internet wasn’t.

Notifications were stacking up relentlessly.

Tags. Mentions. Headlines.

He reopened the app and this time the flood was unavoidable.

Clips of his goals were everywhere.

16-YEAR-OLD DESTROYS MANCHESTER UNITED.

FIRST CAREER HAT-TRICK IN A EUROPA LEAGUE SEMI-FINAL.

OLD TRAFFORD MASTERCLASS.

Threads dissecting his movement. Analysts breaking down his defensive sprint in extra time. Comparisons being thrown around carelessly.

Some were already saying it.

"Once-in-a-generation."

"Generational talent."

Posts comparing him to Lamine Yamal, pointing out that Yamal hadn’t even recorded a senior hat-trick yet, and that Lukas was younger than him.

Commentators debating whether Europe had just witnessed the birth of the next global superstar.

Football pages melting down. Fan accounts reposting the hand-to-the-ear celebration on loop.

The entire football landscape seemed to be vibrating with his name.

And yet he sat there on the edge of the training pitch, staring at nothing in particular.

He wasn’t thinking about hat-tricks.

He wasn’t thinking about generational debates.

He wasn’t thinking about Manchester City or Atlético Madrid.

He wasn’t even thinking about Old Trafford.

He was thinking about a grey Instagram profile with no picture.

And about whether he would ever press "Message."

A/N: Thanks a lot for the dragon Liam. Happy new month to you and everyone.

Love y’all

-Writ