Become A Football Legend-Chapter 270: Quality Time

Lukas locked his phone and set it down beside him on the grass.

He stayed seated like that, elbows on his knees, head lowered, staring at the turf. The world outside was loud. The internet was loud. But here, in this quiet patch of green, everything felt muted. His breathing steadied. His thoughts did not.

A pair of white canvas sneakers stopped a few feet in front of him.

He noticed them first before anything else.

For a second, he didn’t look up.

Then he lifted his head.

Toppmöller stood there, hands in his pockets, watching him carefully.

Lukas forced a small smile and pushed himself up slightly straighter.

"Morning, coach."

Toppmöller studied his face before responding. "Morning."

There was a brief pause.

"Why are you here?" the coach asked calmly. "Didn’t I give you 2 days off?"

Lukas shrugged lightly. "I just... missed the pitch."

Toppmöller raised an eyebrow.

"Missed it?"

"Yeah," Lukas said, glancing at the goal behind him. "Needed to clear my head."

The coach didn’t challenge that immediately. He let the silence stretch a bit before asking, more gently, "Everything alright?"

Lukas nodded, eyes briefly dropping again. "Yeah. Just dealing with some family stuff."

Toppmöller held his gaze for a moment longer than usual. He could see the slight puffiness around the eyes. The forced steadiness. The practiced tone.

He exhaled.

"Go," he said finally.

Lukas blinked. "What?"

"You’re technically on break. The 2 days still stand."

Lukas hesitated. "I can train."

"I know you can," the coach replied. "But you don’t have to."

He gestured toward the empty pitch. "It’s Saturday. We play tomorrow. We can do without you."

He tilted his head slightly. "Go hang out. Go breathe. Go see your girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures. You two seem happy."

Lukas let out a faint, embarrassed half-laugh.

"I’m serious," Toppmöller continued. "We’ll manage."

His eyes drifted toward the goal again.

"And what you were doing out here," he added, "that didn’t look like training."

Lukas didn’t answer.

"It looked like you were taking something out on the ball."

Another quiet beat.

"If something’s weighing on you," Toppmöller said carefully, "you don’t have to carry it alone. We have resources. Talk to someone. The club psychologist is there for a reason."

Lukas shifted his weight slightly.

"I’m okay," he said automatically.

"I didn’t say you weren’t," the coach replied evenly. "But sometimes talking helps."

He paused.

"Finish your recovery session. Then go home."

Lukas nodded slowly.

"Thanks, coach."

He stood fully now, picking up his bottle and his phone.

"I’ll just complete recovery and head out."

Toppmöller watched him walk toward the building, shoulders straight but slightly heavy.

The smile from earlier was gone.

The coach remained standing at the edge of the pitch for a few seconds longer, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

He could tell.

The kid wasn’t fine.

And that worried him more than any missed first touch ever could.

Then he turned and walked back toward the main building, leaving the pitch quiet once again.

* * *

By the time Lukas got back to his apartment, it was a little past noon.

The morning had passed more easily than he expected.

He had stayed around the facility after Toppmöller told him to go home. He joined the team in the recovery room, stretching, light cycling, ice baths. Physically, he didn’t need it. He had already done a full recovery session inside the LTC earlier that morning, and his body was completely fine. No soreness. No tightness.

Mentally, though, he had stayed.

Larsson had barely left his side.

At first, Lukas didn’t think much of it. But as the morning went on, it became obvious. The jokes were more frequent. The teasing more deliberate. The random shoulder nudges. At one point, Larsson had dramatically announced to the physio that Lukas was refusing to smile and required "emergency tickle protocol."

Lukas had rolled his eyes.

But he had laughed.

And for a few hours, the heaviness had loosened.

He had no confirmation, but it felt like Toppmöller had said something to Larsson. A subtle instruction. Keep him busy. Keep him talking.

If that was the case, it had worked.

By the time he left the facility, he wasn’t floating, but he wasn’t drowning either.

When he reached his apartment and keyed in the PIN, the soft click of the lock echoed inside.

From the couch, Joanna turned at the sound.

The moment she saw him step inside, she got up immediately and walked over.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, wrapping her arms around him.

"Better," he said honestly. "Day was... okay."

They stayed like that for a second before she pulled back and looked at him carefully.

He glanced down at her outfit.

She wasn’t dressed casually.

She wore a fitted cream blouse tucked into high-waisted light blue trousers that fell elegantly to her ankles. A thin gold necklace rested against her collarbone. Her hair was styled loosely, not overdone but intentional. Minimal makeup, just enough to highlight her features.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"You going back to Darmstadt?"

She scoffed. "No."

"Then why are you dressed like that?"

She grinned. "Because you’re coming with me."

"Where?"

"Out."

He blinked. "Out where?"

"To lunch."

"We can have lunch here."

"No," she said firmly. "We are going on a proper date."

He raised an eyebrow. "We went to dinner yesterday."

"That doesn’t count," she replied instantly. "That was emotional-support-dinner. I mean a real date. Just us. No drama. No Manchester. No Instagram."

He looked at her for a second longer before sighing.

"Okay."

She clapped once lightly. "Good."

He went to change.

For a Saturday afternoon in Frankfurt, he chose something simple but sharp. A fitted black t-shirt under a lightweight charcoal overshirt, sleeves slightly rolled. Slim tailored beige trousers. Clean white sneakers. A silver watch on his wrist. Effortless, but polished.

When he stepped back into the living room, Joanna looked him up and down.

"Wow."

"What?"

"You clean up nicely."

He smirked. "I always look like this."

"Delusion," she replied, grabbing her bag.

They drove into the city and pulled up in front of Restaurant Lafleur, one of Frankfurt’s most high-end spots near the Palmengarten.

Lukas hesitated.

"You booked this?"

She smiled innocently. "Maybe."

Inside, the restaurant was elegant but understated. Warm lighting. Crisp white tablecloths. Quiet conversation hum in the background.

They were recognized almost immediately.

A couple at a nearby table whispered. A waiter’s eyes widened slightly before he maintained professionalism.

Within minutes, a young staff member politely approached.

"Excuse me... would it be possible to take a quick photo?"

Lukas smiled and nodded.

He had gotten used to it.

Photos. Handshakes. Congratulations.

"Hat-trick at Old Trafford, incredible," someone said as they passed.

Joanna stood beside him through it all, comfortable now that their relationship was public. No hiding. No pretending.

She looked stunning, and people noticed.

When they finally sat down properly, she leaned forward and said quietly, "You’re famous-famous now."

He groaned. "Don’t."

"I’m serious. I heard someone compare you to Lamine Yamal in the bathroom."

He choked slightly on his water. "In the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"Please don’t repeat things you hear in bathrooms."

She laughed.

The food arrived — delicate courses, plated like artwork. They ate slowly, talked about random things. Teammates. Childhood stories. A disastrous science experiment she once did that nearly set off a school alarm. The time he missed an open goal when he was 12 and blamed the grass.

They laughed.

And slowly, the tightness in his chest loosened.