CHAPTER 168: 18 (BY MIDNIGHT87)

Marco straightened slightly, alert.

"We’re prepared," Schneider continued, "to offer a package that reflects both his talent and potential. A salary that starts at a base comparable to our top young internationals."

Weiss picked up from there, his voice lowering as if to emphasize every syllable. "With bonuses and performance clauses, he could make 8 million euros per year—" He paused, then looked directly at Lukas.

"Net."

* * *

They stood, exchanged polite goodbyes, and bowed slightly as the sliding door opened. The two Bayern representatives lingered with business smiles, promising to stay in touch. The night air outside the restaurant was crisp, the kind that carried the faint scent of rain and sakura leaves.

Inside the car, the silence was thick at first — the kind that followed important conversations. The driver started the engine, and the city lights rolled past the windows in soft streaks.

Marco finally spoke, his tone casual but probing.

"So," he said, glancing at Lukas in the rear-view mirror, "what do you think? It’s good money, Lukas. And from what I can tell, they’re ready to pull out all the stops for you."

And it sure was a lot of money. 8 million euros net with a 50% effective tax and surcharge rate would be about 16 million euros gross. That’s over 300k a week, 16 times what he was currently on at Frankfurt.

That amount would place him among one of the highest paid players in the league and the highest paid teenager in football history at least until Yamal signs his new deal with Barcelona.

Lukas didn’t respond immediately. He was staring out the window, his reflection faintly visible against the glowing streets of Munich. His mind was still back in that room — the deliberate words, the practiced smiles, the way the men leaned forward when they mentioned numbers.

He couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but something about it all had felt off. Like a salesman dangling a glittering key in front of him — polished, enticing, but slightly insincere. The atmosphere hadn’t been hostile; it had simply felt... transactional.

Javi sat quietly beside him, sensing his son’s unease.

Although Lukas didn’t hold the same animosity toward Bayern that most fans of non-Bayern Bundesliga clubs did, he also didn’t feel anything for them. Growing up, he’d been a Darmstadt boy — blue and white through and through. The underdog club, always punching above their weight, had taught him to love football for the fight, not the glamour. Bayern had always seemed too perfect, too mechanical.

Javi broke the silence this time. "The pressure will be immense if you go there," he said quietly. "If they buy you for that kind of money, the media won’t leave you alone. Every touch, every miss, every goal — it’ll all be magnified. They’ll lift you up fast, but they’ll tear you down faster if you stumble."

Marco nodded slightly. "He’s right. It’s a double-edged sword. Bayern can make careers... or swallow them."

The hum of the car filled the pause that followed. Lukas stayed quiet, still watching the lights blur past, lost in thought.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he spoke — not loud, but firm enough to cut through the air.

"I don’t want to leave Frankfurt now," he said slowly. "And when I leave Frankfurt... I’ll be leaving Germany too."

Neither Javi nor Marco said a word after that. The car continued through the Bavarian night, the city fading behind them — and somewhere between Munich’s skyline and the dark horizon, Lukas Brandt’s next Chapter quietly began to take shape.

* * *

Tuesday night, March 25th, 2025.

The Gimenez apartment in Darmstadt was alive with noise and colour that night. Balloons clung to the ceiling, strings of gold and silver lights shimmered on the walls, and the faint rhythm of a pop playlist pulsed through the air. Laughter and chatter filled every corner — classmates crowded the kitchen, the balcony, even the staircase. It was a full house.

João and Joanna’s 18th birthday had brought together two generations of their schoolmates — seniors who came for Joanna, and younger ones who came for João. A few teachers had even dropped by earlier before the party turned purely teenage.

In the living room, a cluster of girls huddled together around the snack table. Leonie, Hannah, and Mara — all from Joanna’s class — were mid-conversation, glasses of soda in hand.

"So, Joanna," Leonie began, voice playful but loaded with curiosity, "you think Lukas will actually come tonight?"

Joanna smiled politely, feigning nonchalance. "He might. He’s close with João, so if he’s free, maybe."

The girls exchanged quick glances, their excitement palpable.

"Please, if he does," Mara said, practically bouncing, "you have to introduce us. He’s... well, he’s Lukas Brandt!"

Joanna chuckled, though she didn’t answer.

"Imagine if he actually walks through that door right now," Hannah added dreamily. "I’d die. Literally die."

Leonie leaned in, her tone shifting to gossip. "Did you guys see the clip after the Italy match? He was blowing kisses at someone in the crowd! Everyone online was trying to figure out who it was. But the girl covered herself just in time. Wait, now that I think of it, she looks just like you, Jo."

"Really?" Redhead Mara, asked. "You’re not secretly dating Lukas Brandt, Jo, are you?"

The others gasped and laughed in unison. Joanna’s smile froze for a split second, but she quickly composed herself. "Me? Come on. What are you talking about? Why would Lukas be blowing me kisses? And how would I be dating Brandt? I’ve known him since he was like 7," she protested, pretending to sound amused.

Before anyone could respond, João appeared behind them, holding a slice of cake and grinning. "You can all relax," he said, interrupting their chatter. "He’s not coming."

The collective groan was almost comedic.

"What? Why?" Hannah asked.

"He just texted me," João said, tapping his phone. "He landed in Frankfurt late from Bavaria and had to report to the club tonight. Said he’s exhausted."

The girls sighed, disappointed, and dispersed to refill their cups or rejoin the dancing crowd. Joanna stayed behind, her expression unreadable.

Inside, though, she was quietly deflated. She hadn’t told anyone, but she had been looking forward to seeing him all week — especially after the match in Dortmund.

She retreated to the kitchen, trying to keep her composure as she helped a friend pour drinks. The laughter around her felt distant, muffled.

Then her phone buzzed.

It was Lukas.

"Go open the door for the delivery guy bringing your birthday gifts."

Her heart lifted instantly. She typed a quick reply, "Okay, give me a sec," and hurried toward the entrance.

A few curious friends, Leonie and Mara among them, followed close behind, whispering eagerly.

Joanna opened the door.

And froze.

Standing there wasn’t a delivery guy. It was Lukas himself — wearing a black jacket over a white turtleneck, jeans, and a grin that said he’d planned this all along. In his hands, he held a bouquet of sunflowers and white roses — her favourites.

"Happy birthday, mi amor," he said softly, holding out the bouquet.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Joanna laughed in disbelief and threw her arms around him as the hall erupted behind her — the gasps, the whispers, the squeals of recognition spreading through the apartment like wildfire.