Become A Football Legend-Chapter 276: For Now

Sunday night settled quietly over the Jackson house in Manchester.

The dinner dishes had already been cleared away, the faint smell of roasted vegetables and tea still lingering in the air. The house was calm now. Upstairs, Lexi had retreated to her room not long after dinner, music faintly humming through the floorboards above.

In the dining room downstairs, only two people remained.

Jane sat at the table with a blanket loosely draped over her shoulders. The fever that had kept her in bed for days had begun to fade, though the exhaustion still showed in the way she moved slowly and occasionally pressed her fingers to her temples. She looked better than she had earlier in the week, but she was still pale.

Across from her sat Roger.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Jane traced the rim of her mug with one finger before finally breaking the silence.

"You’re being quiet."

Roger leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling slowly.

"I went to see them," he said.

Jane’s hand stopped moving.

Her eyes lifted immediately.

"You what?"

Roger nodded once.

"I went to the hotel."

Jane straightened a little in her chair, tension creeping into her shoulders.

"You met them?"

"Yes."

She swallowed.

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

Jane didn’t speak for a moment. The weight of the answer settled between them.

Roger continued gently.

"I know why you were sick," he said. "You tried to see them and it didn’t go well."

Jane looked down again, saying nothing.

"So I thought..." Roger paused, choosing his words carefully. "I thought maybe if I spoke to them first, it might help."

Her voice came out quietly.

"What did you say?"

"I told them the truth," Roger replied.

Jane looked up again.

"What truth?"

Roger rubbed his hands together slowly.

"I told them about the baby," he said.

Jane’s breath caught.

"And Lexi."

The room went silent again.

Jane stared at him, trying to read his expression.

"What did he say?" she asked.

Roger shook his head slowly.

"He didn’t want to talk."

Jane’s shoulders sank slightly.

"He asked me to leave."

She looked down again, blinking slowly.

Roger leaned forward slightly.

"I don’t blame him," he added quickly. "Jane... it’s a lot. That’s a lot of information for a 15-year-old kid to hear all at once."

Jane didn’t respond.

She just sat there, hands clasped together in front of her.

The silence stretched between them again.

Then Roger’s phone chimed softly on the table.

He glanced down at the screen.

A message.

From Javi.

Roger frowned slightly and picked it up, reading it quickly.

Jane noticed the change in his expression.

"What is it?"

Roger didn’t answer immediately.

He read the message again.

Then slowly, a small smile appeared on his face.

Jane’s heart began beating faster.

"Roger?"

He looked up at her.

"They’ve agreed."

Jane blinked.

"What?"

"They’ll meet you."

For a moment she simply stared at him, unsure she had heard correctly.

Roger turned the phone toward her slightly.

"Javier says they’ll set it up during the off-season," he explained. "After the Nations League."

Jane’s eyes filled with sudden emotion.

"He said Lukas wants to talk," Roger added. "When the time gets closer, they’ll discuss the details."

Jane covered her mouth with her hand.

For several seconds she couldn’t speak.

Roger typed quickly on his phone.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.

"Thanking him."

He sent the message to Javier and set the phone down again.

Across the table, Jane’s eyes glistened.

For the first time in days, something inside her chest loosened.

It wasn’t resolution.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was a chance.

And for now, that was enough.

* * *

The morning sun sat low over the Eintracht Frankfurt ProfiCamp, casting long golden lines across the training pitches. The air still carried the cool freshness of early morning, the kind that made the grass glisten slightly as players walked across it.

Lukas pushed open the door of the dressing room and stepped inside.

The moment he did, the noise stopped.

Then someone shouted.

"Look who finally decided to come back!"

Laughter rippled through the room.

Knauff leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "The superstar returns."

"Europa League hat-trick merchant," another voice added.

Lukas rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face.

"Relax," he said, tossing his bag down near his locker. "You guys managed to score without me apparently."

A few whistles came from across the room.

"Barely," Ekitike said, pointing a finger at him. "We drew 2–2 because someone abandoned us."

"Yeah," Knauff added. "You disappear for one game and suddenly everyone thinks they’re the main character."

Lukas laughed as he began pulling on his training boots.

The familiar noise of the locker room filled the space again—music playing quietly from someone’s speaker, boots hitting the floor, teammates talking over each other. It felt normal. Comfortable.

And for the first time in days, Lukas felt it too.

He walked across the room greeting teammates one by one—quick handshakes, shoulder bumps, brief hugs.

"How was Manchester?" someone asked.

"Cold," Lukas replied.

"You scored three goals."

"Still cold."

More laughter.

Across the room, Dino Toppmöller stood near the entrance talking quietly with one of the assistants. He watched the interactions without interrupting.

He had spent the last few days thinking about the boy.

About the quiet training session earlier in the week. The frustration. The forced smile.

When Lukas had shown up early that morning after Manchester, Toppmöller had sensed something sitting heavy on his mind.

Now he simply observed.

Lukas didn’t look tense.

He looked like himself again.

Still, the coach said nothing.

"Alright," one of the assistants called out. "Pitch in two minutes!"

The players began filing out toward the training field.

Outside, the sunlight had grown brighter. The pitch looked perfect—freshly cut grass, cones already laid out, mannequins positioned along one half of the field.

The players jogged out together.

Lukas stretched lightly as they formed small groups for warm-ups.

Passing drills began first—simple one-touch combinations to loosen the legs. The ball moved quickly between boots, the rhythm building gradually as players settled into the session.

Toppmöller stood near the sideline, arms folded.

At first he watched everything.

Lukas started quietly enough. Nothing spectacular. A few short passes, a couple of quick turns, a casual jog between drills.

But then the tempo increased.

The group shifted into tighter rondos, the circle shrinking, the ball moving faster.

Lukas stepped into the middle.

One touch.

Intercept.

The ball snapped off his foot and found a teammate immediately.

Another interception. Another clean pass.

The players laughed as someone lost possession.

"Too slow!" Lukas shouted.

The rhythm grew sharper.

Next came positional drills—attacking combinations around the edge of the box.

A midfielder slipped a pass toward Lukas near the top of the area.

He received it with the outside of his foot in one motion, letting the ball roll across his body before flicking it into space. A defender stepped forward.

Lukas shifted left.

Then right.

Then a quick acceleration that left the defender half a step behind.

Shot.

The ball rifled into the top corner of the net.

The goalkeeper just turned his head.

Several teammates clapped.

"Okay," someone said. "He’s back."

Toppmöller didn’t react outwardly.

But he had noticed.

He kept watching.

The drills continued.

Small-sided games now.

High tempo.

Short spaces.

Lukas moved through the chaos with that same instinctive rhythm the coach had come to recognize—quick touches, constant scanning, small bursts of speed that created space where none seemed to exist.

At one point he received the ball near midfield with two players pressing.

One quick spin.

A shoulder drop.

Then a perfectly weighted through pass that split the defensive line and sent Knauff sprinting toward goal.

"Where did you even see that?" Knauff shouted as he jogged back.

Lukas shrugged.

"Eyes."

More laughter.

The session intensified again.

Finishing drills.

Crosses flying into the box.

Lukas timed his runs perfectly, slipping between defenders, volleying one attempt just over the bar before burying the next two cleanly past the keeper.

Nothing forced.

Everything fluid.

Toppmöller shifted his weight slightly as he watched.

The worry that had lingered quietly in the back of his mind since Manchester began fading little by little.

It wasn’t just the goals.

It was the way Lukas moved.

The way he demanded the ball again and again.

The way his body language carried that same confident looseness.

At one point Lukas miscontrolled a pass near the sideline.

A week ago he might have kicked the turf in frustration.

Today he simply laughed, chased the ball down, and flicked it back into play with the outside of his boot.

Another drill ended.

Players gathered briefly near midfield, catching their breath.

Lukas stood with the ball at his feet, tapping it lightly from side to side while listening to the next instructions.

The sun had climbed higher now, warming the pitch.

Toppmöller watched him for another moment.

Then slowly, almost unconsciously, the tension in his shoulders eased.

Whatever had been weighing on the boy earlier in the week was still there somewhere—he knew that much.

But Lukas had done what great players often managed to do.

He had put it aside.

At least for now.

And as the next drill began and the ball found its way to Lukas again—his first touch gliding smoothly across the grass before another sharp pass opened the field—

Toppmöller allowed himself a small nod.

The boy was ready to finish the season.