Become A Football Legend-Chapter 280: D - 4

Lukas stared at the screen for a moment.

The meaning sank in slowly.

Version 4.0.

Stat cap increased to 90.

That was a massive upgrade.

He leaned back slightly.

Then a slow smile spread across his face.

[* I thought you might like that one. *]

TT sounded pleased.

Lukas chuckled quietly.

"Yeah," he said.

His eyes returned to the mission panel.

"Yeah... I definitely like that one."

And for the first time that morning, the thought of Bilbao made him smile wider.

* * *

Saturday morning arrived quietly over the Eintracht Frankfurt Profi Camp, the air still carrying that cool softness that lingered in late spring mornings across Hessen. The sun had only begun to climb above the buildings, painting the training complex in pale gold light.

Lukas stepped out of the apartment building where the first-team players lived, his training bag slung casually over one shoulder. He had already been awake for hours. His personal routine inside the LTC had been completed long before most of the squad had even left their beds, and his body now felt loose, fully recovered, almost unusually light.

As he walked along the paved path toward the recovery facilities, he immediately noticed something different.

Cameras.

Not one or two.

Everywhere.

Two camera operators were already standing near the pathway that led from the residential building, their lenses trained toward the players’ entrance as if they had been waiting there for some time. Another member of the club’s media team stood beside them holding a microphone while someone else adjusted lighting equipment.

The moment Lukas stepped into view, one of the cameras shifted toward him.

He slowed slightly, then smiled.

"Morning," he said, raising a hand and giving a small wave toward the lens.

One of the media staff walked backward slightly as they filmed him approaching.

"Final preparations?" the cameraman asked with a grin.

Lukas glanced at the equipment around them and laughed lightly.

"Yeah?" he replied. "Looks like it."

The crew member nodded.

"We’re following everyone this week. Behind-the-scenes stuff for the final."

Lukas shook his head, amused.

"Ah... so it’s going to be a long day."

The comment made the small crew chuckle as they continued filming while he walked past them toward the building.

Just before he reached the entrance, another figure approached from the opposite side of the path.

Larsson.

The defender was carrying his own training bag, looking slightly less awake than Lukas.

"Morning," Larsson muttered.

"Morning," Lukas replied.

Larsson glanced back over his shoulder toward the camera crew trailing several meters behind them.

"What’s with the film festival?"

Lukas smirked.

"Final week documentary or something. They’re following everyone."

Larsson groaned.

"Great."

They reached the entrance together, pushing through the glass doors into the recovery facility.

Inside, the situation wasn’t much different.

Normally the club media department would be active during training weeks—taking photos, gathering short clips, interviews, social media content. But today it felt like the number of cameras had multiplied tenfold. A small crew stood near the gym area already filming players who had arrived earlier.

Larsson leaned slightly toward Lukas.

"Feels like we’re in a zoo."

Lukas shrugged.

"Smile and wave."

They moved toward the stretching area where several teammates were already beginning their recovery routines. Mats were spread across the floor, and players sat in small groups loosening muscles that had endured ninety minutes of football just the night before.

Lukas dropped his bag beside an empty mat and began stretching his legs slowly, extending his hamstrings carefully before leaning forward.

Across from him, Knauff was lying on his back while one of the fitness coaches helped push his leg upward.

"Five goals and now we stretch," Knauff muttered.

"That’s football," someone replied.

After about fifteen minutes of mobility work, the group gradually shifted toward the stationary bikes.

Lukas climbed onto one of them and began pedaling slowly.

To his right, Knauff settled onto the bike beside him.

The winger glanced sideways after a few moments.

"You know something?" he said.

"What?"

Knauff shook his head slightly.

"It always surprises me how you never look tired."

Lukas kept pedaling.

"What do you mean?"

Knauff gestured vaguely toward him.

"We play ninety minutes. We run all over the pitch. Next day everyone is half-dead."

He paused.

"And you look like you slept twelve hours and ate a power plant."

Lukas laughed.

"Bro."

He glanced sideways.

"Aren’t you like... twenty-two?"

Knauff rolled his eyes.

"Twenty-three."

Lukas nodded slowly.

"Oh."

Then he pointed across the bikes toward Larsson, who was pedaling a few meters away.

"Hugo made the exact same joke before."

Larsson immediately looked over.

"I heard that."

Knauff laughed.

"See? Even he admits it."

Larsson shook his head.

"Give him five years."

The three of them chuckled as the bikes continued spinning slowly.

For Lukas, the routine felt almost redundant.

Everything they were doing now—stretching, light cycling, recovery mobility—he had already completed earlier inside the LTC. His muscles felt fresh, his breathing steady, his body perfectly balanced.

But the team routine mattered.

The optics mattered.

So he pedaled along with the rest of the squad.

After about thirty minutes, the fitness coach clapped his hands.

"Alright, finish up."

The players gradually stepped off the bikes.

A few grabbed towels. Others stretched again briefly.

Then the door opened.

Toppmöller walked in.

"Alright, boys," the coach said. "Meeting room."

The players grabbed water bottles and followed him down the hallway toward the analysis room.

Inside, rows of chairs faced a large screen mounted at the front. The players settled into their seats as the lights dimmed slightly.

The coach stood beside the screen as the first clip appeared.

Tottenham.

The white shirts moved across the screen in a series of rapid attacking sequences.

"For the next two hours," Toppmöller began, "this is your world."

Another clip played.

Spurs building from the back.

Their defensive line pushed extremely high up the pitch.

"This," the coach said, pointing toward the screen, "is Ange Postecoglou’s philosophy."

The next clip froze.

The defensive line stood almost at the halfway line.

"High line."

The screen shifted again.

Quick vertical passing.

Aggressive attacking movement.

"Relentless attacking football."

He looked around the room.

"Even when results go badly."

The players watched quietly.

"Even when they concede."

More clips played.

The coach highlighted the dangers.

"Pedro Porro."

The screen zoomed in on the full-back driving forward down the flank.

"Constant threat from wide areas."

Another clip appeared.

Brennan Johnson sprinting behind a defensive line.

"And players like Brennan Johnson," Toppmöller continued, "who will punish you the moment you give him space."

The screen switched again.

"Son."

A clip showed the veteran attacker drifting inside before unleashing a shot.

"Even if some players are in the twilight of their careers," the coach said calmly, "they remain dangerous."

The room stayed quiet.

More clips followed.

Patterns of movement.

Transitions.

Spaces behind the defensive line.

Ways to exploit them.

Lukas sat in the middle row, elbows resting lightly on his knees.

He watched the screen.

But inside his mind, something felt familiar.

Because he had already seen most of this.

Inside the LTC, he had spent hours in the media room studying Tottenham’s patterns, analyzing their movements, replaying their matches repeatedly until their tactical structure had become almost predictable.

High line.

Aggressive press.

Vulnerable space behind the defense.

He nodded slowly as the coach explained another clip.

He already knew.

But hearing it again with the team still mattered.

Because in Bilbao, it wouldn’t just be him solving the puzzle.

It would be all of them together.