Become A Football Legend-Chapter 283: MD-1

Later that afternoon the squad boarded the bus again for a short acclimatization session.

UEFA had arranged for Eintracht Frankfurt to use the training facilities of SD Leioa, a small club just outside Bilbao whose stadium sat tucked between green hills.

The session itself was light.

Mostly stretching.

Short passing drills.

Some jogging.

Nothing intense.

Just enough to shake the travel stiffness out of their legs.

The coastal air was fresh and cool, carrying the faint smell of grass and sea.

Standing on the sideline watching his players move the ball around, Dino Toppmöller folded his arms and studied them carefully.

He had been worried.

But seeing them here—focused, laughing, relaxed—his concern slowly eased.

At one point Lukas received a pass, flicked it over Larson’s foot with a smooth touch, and chipped it casually toward the mini goal.

Larson threw his arms up.

"Oh come on!"

A few teammates laughed.

Toppmöller shook his head quietly.

"Good."

"Very good."

* * *

By the time the team bus returned to the Gran Hotel Domine that evening, the city outside had grown even louder.

Bars were full.

English accents mixed with German ones in the streets.

Scarves hung from balconies.

Television crews were already broadcasting from the riverfront. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

Bilbao had become the center of European football.

Inside the hotel, however, the Frankfurt squad moved quietly toward dinner.

Three days remained.

Three days until San Mamés.

Three days until the biggest night of their season.

And somewhere among the laughter, the nerves, and the anticipation, the reality had finally settled into everyone’s mind.

This wasn’t just another trip.

They had come here to win a trophy.

* * *

Monday in Bilbao had been calm, controlled, and almost methodical.

After the short acclimatization session at the small stadium outside the city the previous afternoon, the squad had returned to the Gran Hotel Domine just as the evening lights began reflecting off the waters of the Nervión River. The first real tactical meetings of the week had taken place that night.

In one of the hotel’s reserved conference halls, the players sat through nearly two hours of analysis led by Dino Toppmöller and his staff. Clips of Tottenham matches filled the large screen at the front of the room—build-up patterns, defensive transitions, the aggressive high line that Ange Postecoglou insisted on playing even when the situation didn’t seem to favor it. The coaching staff paused the footage repeatedly, drawing lines on the digital board, explaining spaces that could be exploited and warning about the dangers Tottenham’s attacking players could create if given time.

The mood among the players was serious but not tense. They listened, asked questions, occasionally exchanged short comments between themselves as they watched the footage. Kevin Trapp spoke a few times, calmly pointing out details from his perspective as a goalkeeper, reminding the defenders how Spurs liked to attack the back post.

Lukas sat quietly in the middle row for most of the session, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied the screen. Much of what was being shown he had already examined privately inside the LTC, but hearing the plan presented to the whole squad gave the strategy a different weight. It made everything feel collective—something they were all about to carry together.

By the time the meeting ended and the team moved toward dinner, the atmosphere had loosened again. Players joked with each other in the hallway, some discussing the clips, others deliberately changing the subject to keep the mood light. Outside the hotel windows, Bilbao had already begun to swell with visiting supporters. German chants drifted faintly through the night air, mixing with English accents echoing down the streets. The city was beginning to feel like the stage for something much larger than an ordinary football match.

* * *

Tuesday morning arrived quietly. But the day would prove to be anything but quiet.

The sun rose over Bilbao with a pale golden light that filtered through the tall windows of the Gran Hotel Domine, casting long reflections across the polished floors of the team’s private dining area. Lukas woke early, long before his alarm was scheduled to ring. It had become routine for him during big matches; his body simply refused to sleep late when something important was approaching. For a moment he remained lying in bed, staring at the ceiling while the faint hum of the city outside slowly grew louder. Somewhere in the distance, a tram rattled along its tracks, and voices echoed faintly from the street below.

He sat up and stretched his shoulders slowly, rolling his neck before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His body felt good—loose, rested, ready. After a quick shower he dressed in the team’s training gear and headed downstairs where breakfast had already been prepared for the squad. Several teammates were already seated around the long tables. Larsson was pouring himself coffee while Knauff leaned back in his chair scrolling through his phone. The conversation was casual, nothing too serious, the kind of light chatter players often used to disguise the nervous energy that quietly filled the room.

After breakfast the team gathered once more in the hotel meeting room for another tactical briefing. Toppmöller stood at the front beside the digital board, reviewing details from the previous day’s analysis and refining a few specific instructions for the final. It wasn’t the last meeting they would have before the match, but it was the final opportunity to calmly revisit the tactical plan before the media circus of the day began.

The players listened carefully as he spoke about spacing, transitions, and how to exploit the moments when Tottenham pushed their defensive line too high. Occasionally he paused to ask questions, making sure everyone understood their roles. The session ended with a few final reminders and a quiet nod from the coach.

"Alright," Toppmöller said finally. "Bus leaves in twenty minutes."

* * *

The journey to San Mamés Stadium took only fifteen minutes, but it felt longer.

As the team bus turned onto the streets surrounding the stadium, the scale of the occasion became unmistakable. Fans had already gathered hours before the scheduled media events. German flags waved beside English ones, and television crews lined the sidewalks broadcasting live coverage from temporary platforms set up outside the stadium gates. Police officers stood along the barricades guiding crowds while chants rose and fell like waves across the plaza.

Inside the bus the players looked out the windows in silence. The massive red-and-white exterior of San Mamés appeared ahead of them like a glowing shell of steel and glass. Even empty, the stadium seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

When the bus doors opened, flashes from cameras burst instantly. The players stepped down one by one and walked through the tunnel entrance into the stadium interior, escorted by UEFA officials.

* * *

Inside the media auditorium, rows of journalists filled the seats facing the stage where two chairs and microphones waited. Cameras from dozens of networks were already positioned along the back wall. When Dino Toppmöller and Kevin Trapp walked in together, the room quieted immediately.

The questions began quickly.

Reporters asked about Tottenham’s attacking style, about the tactical battle expected in midfield, about the pressure of playing a European final. Toppmöller answered calmly, measured in every word, refusing to reveal anything specific about his lineup or approach.

"We respect Tottenham," he said at one point, his voice steady through the microphone. "But we also believe strongly in our own squad. The players have shown throughout this competition that they can rise to the occasion."