CHAPTER 148: FITNESS

"He’s 16? That’s crazy," someone whispered from the back, breaking the silence as the rest of the players started applauding.

"Where were you playing when you were 16?"

"I was playing for the under-16s."

A few players chuckled at the whispers as Lukas sat down quietly.

"Don’t mind them. They always like to tease new call-ups. They did it to me too. Once we’re on the training ground, everyone is friendly," Musiala said as Lukas sat down.

"Nah, it’s okay. I know how it is," Lukas responded. He was completely unbothered as it wasn’t really a big deal.

"Good," Nagelsmann said, nodding approvingly. "Glad to have both of you with us. Welcome to the family."

He tapped the projector remote, bringing up the schedule slide.

"Alright. Fitness check in forty-five minutes. Then training. Light recovery session for those who played yesterday, technical work for the rest. Lunch at one, video session at three, and we finish the day with a closed scrimmage at five. Clear?"

A collective "Yes, coach," came from the room.

"Perfect," Nagelsmann said, clapping his hands once. "Let’s get to work."

As everyone began to rise, Lukas felt Musiala nudge him slightly.

"Welcome to the big stage," he said with a grin.

Lukas just smiled back. "Feels good to be here."

* * *

The corridor outside the medical wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and new equipment. A few players were lounging on the benches, chatting idly while waiting for their turns. Angelo Stiller had just come out, towel draped around his neck and water bottle in hand, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Your turn, Brandt," he said with a grin as he passed Lukas. "They’re waiting for you in there."

Lukas stood up from the bench beside Musiala and Adeyemi, adjusting his training top.

"Don’t stress it," Adeyemi said, half-smirking. "It’s a walk in the park. Just don’t faint when they pull out all those wires."

"Yeah, man," Musiala added. "They just test your endurance, reflexes, stuff like that. You’ll be fine."

"Easy for you to say," Lukas muttered, though he was smiling.

He took a breath and pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was lined with machines — treadmills, stationary bikes, resistance bands, a small table covered in sensors and laptops. Niklas Dietrich, the athletic coach, stood near the treadmill with a clipboard, while Dr. Jochen Hahne, the national team doctor, was beside him, reviewing readings from the previous session. Julian Nagelsmann leaned casually against a counter, watching.

"Lukas Brandt," Dietrich said, turning toward him with a friendly nod. "Sixteen, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let’s see what you’ve got. We’ll start simple — heart rate and VO₂."

Lukas removed his hoodie and stood still as Dr. Hahne attached small sensors across his chest and arms. The ECG monitor beeped softly as his stats appeared on the screen.

"Resting heart rate: thirty-eight," Hahne noted with a slight raise of his brow. "Impressive."

"Kid’s calm," Nagelsmann said from the back of the room. "That’s a good sign."

"Alright, let’s warm him up," Dietrich said.

Lukas stepped onto the treadmill, starting at a slow jog. Within minutes, the incline increased and the pace picked up. His breathing stayed even, his stride smooth. The doctor and trainer exchanged glances as the numbers on the monitor kept climbing — in a good way.

"Heart rate response is excellent," Hahne murmured. "Barely rising even at this pace."

"Let’s push him," Dietrich said, pressing a button to crank up the incline again.

The treadmill whirred louder. Lukas adjusted instantly, leaning slightly forward, his rhythm unfaltering. Sweat formed across his forehead, but his expression stayed calm, focused.

After nearly fifteen minutes, Dietrich finally tapped the controls to slow it down. Lukas stepped off, breathing hard but composed.

"Good," the coach said, visibly impressed. "That’s endurance."

Next came the reaction test: lights flashing across a board, requiring Lukas to tap each one as fast as it appeared. His hands moved like reflexes, barely missing a single light.

"Reaction time: 0.19 seconds average," Hahne said, glancing at the display. "That’s on par with our senior forwards."

"Seriously?" Nagelsmann asked, stepping closer. "That’s elite."

Lukas gave a modest shrug, trying not to grin.

Then came the vertical jump test. He stood beneath the measurement device, knees slightly bent, and leaped. The bar clicked upward.

"Sixty-one centimeters," Dietrich read out loud. "He’s got springs."

The final portion was the anaerobic sprint test on a stationary bike — short, brutal bursts of pedaling at maximum intensity. Lukas gritted his teeth and pushed through each interval, the veins in his arms standing out as the wheels whirred furiously.

When it ended, he leaned forward, catching his breath. Dietrich watched the screen, then looked at Hahne.

"These numbers..." the doctor said quietly. "VO₂ max, heart recovery rate, lactate threshold, all extremely high. At 16?"

Nagelsmann folded his arms, smiling slightly. "He really is special."

Lukas looked up, chest still heaving slightly. "So... how’d I do?"

Dietrich laughed. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been training for a triathlon. You passed every threshold with flying colors."

"Really?"

"Really," Hahne said, removing the sensors. "Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. You’re in exceptional condition — even for this level."

As Lukas put his hoodie back on, Nagelsmann clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Good work, Brandt. You’re making a strong first impression."

"Thank you, coach."

He walked out of the room to find Musiala and Adeyemi waiting.

"So?" Adeyemi asked immediately. "How was it?"

Lukas grinned, still catching his breath. "You guys lied. That was not easy."

"Yeah, but you smashed it, didn’t you?" Musiala said with a knowing look.

"Maybe," Lukas replied, trying to sound modest. "They looked kinda shocked."

"Welcome to the club," Adeyemi said, patting him on the back. "Guess the hype’s real.

"I can’t exactly let them know it was a breeze, though, can I? That would seem too suspicious," Lukas thought as the three players walked out of the corridor.

The tests had been nothing difficult as he was able to push himself way harder than the tests ever could because of his training in the LTC. Something he never missed a day of.

At no point during the testing was he ever out of breath, but he figured it would be raise eyebrows if he had breezed through the tests at his age. So he did enough to show excellence but not raise suspicion.

"Stefan. You’re next," Lukas said as he walked past Ortega.

"Thanks," the goalkeeper responded and headed to the training room.

"So where to now? The pitch?" Adeyemi asked.

"Nah, recovery. I played yesterday," Lukas responded.

* * *

The sun had begun to climb higher above the DFB Campus, spreading a soft golden hue across the pristine training pitches. Most of the squad were already deep into their technical drills — rondos, one-touch passing patterns, and shooting circuits — the familiar thuds of the ball echoing in rhythm.

Lukas and Koch had just finished their recovery session indoors, having played over seventy minutes the previous day for Frankfurt. The ice bath and stretching routine had left Lukas feeling refreshed, though still a little heavy in the legs. As they stepped out toward the pitch, both dressed in light training gear, the crisp morning air hit their faces.

"Feeling good?" Koch asked as they walked side by side.

"Yeah," Lukas said, rolling his shoulders. "Could use a ball though."

As they approached the training area, a few players noticed them — Kimmich, standing on the far side near the halfway line, caught sight of Lukas. A playful smirk crept across his face.

Without saying a word, Kimmich gestured toward him, then took two small steps back and struck the ball — a perfectly driven long pass that sliced through the air and began to dip just before reaching Lukas.

Lukas’s eyes lifted. He didn’t move an inch from where he stood; he just waited, calm and composed. As the ball dropped, he stretched his right leg slightly to the side and angled his foot outward. The contact was perfect.

THUD

The ball softened against his boot and dropped gently in front of him, rolling no more than a few centimeters.

A murmur of surprise rippled across the field. A few heads turned; even the assistant coaches exchanged glances.

"Ohhh, okay then!" Sané shouted, grinning wide. "One more time!"

He jogged a few paces back, motioned to Lukas with his hand, and then launched another long ball — this one higher, faster, and spinning wickedly.

Lukas shifted slightly, chest open, eyes tracking the ball all the way down. He didn’t break focus, timed it perfectly, and leaned back just enough — the ball landed against his chest with a dull smack, and he cushioned it down so softly it almost looked rehearsed.

The ball dropped dead at his feet.

The pitch erupted with laughter and cheers.

"Brooo! What was that?!" Sané shouted, jogging toward him with an incredulous smile.

"Just luck," Lukas said with a small shrug, though there was a hint of pride in his grin.

"Luck, he says," Kimmich muttered, shaking his head as he approached. "Nah, that was pure touch."

Musiala jogged past, laughing. "You’re not supposed to show off on your first day, man."