CHAPTER 151: LEVELS

The hotel room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft tapping of rain against the window. Milan’s skyline shimmered in the distance, the San Siro barely visible through the mist. In the center of the room, a coffee table was cluttered with notebooks, empty mugs, and a tactical board scattered with magnets in red and white.

Julian Nagelsmann sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, studying the board with the same focus he would give a live match. Across from him, Benjamin Glück and Sandro Wagner were locked in a debate that had been going for the better part of twenty minutes.

"Alright, so we’re agreed on the back line," Wagner said, rubbing his forehead. "Baumann in goal, Kimmich on the right, Raum on the left, Tah and Rüdiger in the middle. Goretzka and Groß sitting behind Bukardt up top. The question is still the three behind him."

"Musiala, Sané, Adeyemi," he continued before leaning back in his chair. "They’ve played together before, they know what to expect in a game like this. It’s Italy, it’s the San Siro. You want players who’ve been here, who’ve heard that noise before."

Glück shook his head slowly. "And yet you’re leaving out the kid who’s been in form for months. Lukas is sharp, confident, and fearless. He’s shown he can play anywhere across the front three. If anything, this kind of match is what will build him. You don’t thicken steel without fire."

Wagner sighed. "He’s 16, Ben. Sixteen. You don’t throw him into the deep end against Italy away. It’s not just another game, it’s a battlefield. We can’t risk burning him out before he even starts."

"And what," Glück replied, crossing his arms, "do you think Sané’s going to give us that Lukas won’t? Jamal’s already linking better with Lukas than with anyone else in training. They move the same way, think the same way. It’s instinctive. You saw it yesterday — when they play together, everything flows."

"Flow?" Wagner scoffed lightly. "It’s training, not a match at the San Siro with fifty thousand screaming Italians. Experience counts. You can’t replicate that."

The argument fell into silence for a moment. The rain outside grew heavier, the faint rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance. Nagelsmann hadn’t spoken yet. He was still staring at the tactical board, his thumb pressed against his chin.

Both assistants turned toward him.

"Well, Julian?" Hübner asked. "What do you think?"

The head coach didn’t answer immediately. His eyes moved slowly across the magnets — red for Italy, white for Germany. His gaze stopped at one small white marker labeled L. Brandt sitting just beside Musiala.

He leaned back, exhaled softly, and looked up at his assistants.

The room fell quiet again.

"Have you already forgotten what we saw in training today?" Nagelsmann asked his assistants who nodded their head calmly as they recalled what had happened towards the end of their training session a few hours ago.

* * *

The training session at the San Siro was beginning to wind down. The sun had long dipped beneath the stands, leaving the floodlights to wash the pitch in their blinding white glow. Players sat scattered across the grass, catching their breath after the last small-sided game. Some lay on their backs, others stretched, while the coaches spoke quietly near the halfway line.

Lukas was standing a few yards away, juggling a ball lazily — tap after tap, alternating feet, then his knees, then his head — each touch precise, fluid, unhurried. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

"Bro, how are you not tired?" Leweling asked, sitting cross-legged beside him, still gasping for air. "You’ve been running nonstop for ninety minutes."

Lukas shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "I don’t know. Maybe I just like running."

Before Leweling could respond, Sané walked over, spinning a ball in his hand. "You like running? Let’s see if you like scoring." He nodded toward the far end of the pitch, where a set of free-kick mannequins had been set up earlier. "Come on. Let’s take a few."

Lukas dropped the ball and smiled. "You’re on."

"Ortega!" Sané called out to the goalkeeper, who was chatting with one of the coaches. "Come on, man, we need a keeper!"

Ortega groaned but jogged over, stretching his gloves. "If any of you break my fingers, you’re paying for my surgery."

The others nearby — Andrich, Goretzka, Kimmich — turned to watch. Even Nagelsmann, standing with Glück and Wagner, paused their quiet discussion and looked on.

"Allow me to join, too," Musiala said as he walked over to the group gathered near the spot Sané had selected.

Sané went first. His first strike curled beautifully into the top right corner, Ortega rooted to the spot. The second was saved, Ortega diving low to his left, fingertips brushing the ball away. The third bent just wide of the far post.

Musiala stepped up next. His first hit the wall dead center, earning a laugh from Sané. "Rusty, huh?" Musiala grinned back, then sent the next one perfectly over the mannequins and into the top corner. His third clipped the post and went out.

Then it was Lukas’s turn.

He placed the ball carefully, adjusted it with the inside of his boot, and stepped back. For a moment, the stadium was quiet. He took a slow breath, eyes fixed on the corner of the net.

The first strike — with his left foot — arced high over the wall and dipped viciously, landing in the top corner. Ortega got nowhere near it. The thunk of the net drew a small ripple of applause from the players.

"Okay... okay!" Sané shouted, nodding approvingly. "Let’s see that again."

Lukas switched feet, taking the second with his right. This time, the ball stayed low, curving around the wall and skimming just above the turf before tucking neatly inside the bottom corner. Ortega barely moved.

Even Rudiger let out a low whistle. "That’s cold."

It reminded him of Bernado Silva’s goal against Real Madrid when they met the previous season.

Kimmich crossed his arms and smirked. "Kid’s showing off now."

The third was the toughest. Lukas stepped up again, a touch further out. He struck through it cleanly, and the ball rocketed toward the top corner. Ortega, ready this time, sprang at full stretch. His glove met it — just enough to tip it upward — and the ball smacked the crossbar with a thunderous clang before bouncing away.

Ortega stayed on his knees, shaking his hand, laughing. "You’re gonna get me injured before Italy even does! That’s if I even get the chance to."

Nagelsmann turned to Glück and Wagner, speaking quietly. "You see that? He hit all three corners."

Glück nodded. "Left, right, high. Both feet. He’s unreal."

Wagner just folded his arms. "He’s special. No doubt about that. But we’ll see if he can do it tomorrow with sixty thousand screaming against him."

Nagelsmann’s eyes lingered on Lukas for a few seconds longer, watching him jog back, smiling faintly as Sané slapped his back.

It was a small moment, a friendly challenge at the end of training, but it told him everything he needed to know.

* * *

While the coaches were arguing whether Lukas was ready to be thrown into the starting lineup in the first team in enemy territory, he was in his room upstairs, fighting a more severe battle of his own.

"C’mon love, you know I can’t answer that honestly. I can tell you what you wanna hear, but you are not really gonna buy it cause I’m doing the direct opposite of what I’d be saying right now," Lukas said into his phone as he stood up and started pacing around in the room.

"I asked a simple question," Joanna’s voice came through the phone. "Would you rather you were not called up to the national team so you could home and take care of me now that I’m having cramps or leave me to suffer along if it means you would play for the national team," she asked, trying desperately to suppress her laughter from spilling over.

"I could have done both, though. If not for your school I would’ve brought you with me so you wouldn’t have been alone and I’d also be with the team. A win-win, right?"

"Right, but that’s not the reality, I have to go to school. And that’s not even my question. My question was stay with me when I’m not feeling well or go represent the national team."

"Ahem..." Lukas cleared his throat. "Of course I’d choose to stay with you. Every day of the week."

"Even if it’s the Euros?"

"Even the World Cup! Even if there was a match against Aliens and I was called up to represent Earth. I’d decline it if I knew you were on your period."

"Hahaha... Ahem... That’s what I like to hear. I’ll believe you for now," Joannasaid finally letting the laugh out.

"Jo! I see you’re having fun pulling my legs, huh?" Lukas asked as he sat down on his bed.

"Of course I was joking, boo, I’d never make you pick between me and your career, ever."