CHAPTER 170: STORM BREWING

"No way—"

"WHO IS THAT—?"

"Oh my god—"

Knauff physically fell off the bench laughing.

Larsson pointed at Lukas like he had just discovered the final clue in a crime drama. "So that’s where Germany’s Golden Boy was last night."

Lukas merely exhaled.

"Yes," he said simply. "I’m dating her."

Silence.

Then:

Chaos.

"WHAT’S HER NAME??" "HOW LONG??" "IS SHE FROM DARMSTADT??" "DOES SHE LIKE FOOTBALL??" "WHAT DOES SHE THINK OF ME—"

"Nope," Lukas said immediately, holding up a hand like a traffic officer. "No extra details."

"Awww come on," Bahoya groaned. "At least show us her Instagram."

"I’m good," Lukas replied, unfazed.

Koch chuckled quietly beside him — proud that Lukas handled attention the same way he handled defenders: calmly, without losing balance.

Trapp smiled too — captain’s approval, subtle and grounded.

"Alright, enough teasing," he said, voice warm but firm. "If he says she’s his, she’s his. Let him have his peace."

The teasing simmered down to grins and nudges.

But there was a new atmosphere now.

Not just among the squad — but around Lukas himself.

He wasn’t just the kid who was good.

He was the kid who knew who he was.

Grounded.

Focused.

Loved.

And everyone there could feel it.

Ebimbe stretched his legs out and said what everyone else was thinking:

"Man... life is really moving fast for you, huh?"

Lukas smiled — small, quiet, real.

"Yeah," he said softly. "But I’m keeping up."

The squad went silent for a moment — a rare warm silence.

Then Knauff ruined it:

"Still want her Instagram though."

"NO."

Laughter exploded again, echoing across the pitch — just as the coaches called them back inside.

And training continued.

* * *

Evening — ProfiCamp, Frankfurt

The sky had shifted to that soft, late-evening blue — the kind that made the floodlights hum against it. Training was long over. The pitch had emptied, the locker room had thinned. Lukas, hair still damp from the shower, stepped out into the cool air, gym bag slung over his shoulder as he began the short walk toward his apartment building on the academy side of the complex.

"Lukas," a voice called, steady and unmistakable.

He turned.

Toppmöller stood behind him — hands in his coat pockets, expression calm, unreadable as always. Not stern, not smiling — just present.

"Walk with me?" the coach asked.

"Of course," Lukas replied, adjusting his bag and falling into step beside him.

They walked slowly along the pavement that curved around the training fields. The evening was quiet — no cameras, no teammates, only the sound of boots against gravel and the faint buzz of stadium lights powering down.

"I’ve watched both matches," Toppmöller began. His tone was steady, but warm. "Italy away... that’s not a stage where many 16-year-olds look like they belong. But you didn’t just belong — you led. It was impressive. I’m proud of you. We all are."

Lukas looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Really. I don’t think I’d have been able to perform like that without what I learned here first."

"That’s good to hear," Toppmöller replied, and it sounded like he truly meant it.

They walked for a little while in silence — long enough that Lukas began to wonder if the conversation was over.

But then:

"Tell me something honestly," the coach said. "Are you considering leaving in the summer?"

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t accusing. Just... direct.

Lukas didn’t hesitate.

"No," he said. "I’m not."

He eased out a breath.

"If I ever do want to leave, you’ll be the first to know. I promise you that."

Toppmöller nodded once — slow, thoughtful.

"Good."

They continued walking, the apartment building now in view.

"There’s a lot of noise right now," Toppmöller said. "News. Rumors. People outside this club trying to shape your path for you. That happens to players like you. Especially young ones. Everyone thinks they know what’s best."

Lukas listened.

"But you don’t need to worry about that," the coach continued. "Not right now. Keep your head in your football. Keep working the way you’ve been working. I’ll handle everything else with the club — contracts, expectations, pressure. That’s my job. Not yours."

The relief that washed through Lukas was quiet but unmistakable.

"Thank you, coach."

Toppmöller finally smiled — small, but genuine.

"You earned the right to just play. Let us build around you. Let us protect you."

They reached the steps to Lukas’s apartment door.

The coach stopped.

"And Lukas?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever happens one year from now, two years from now, five — don’t lose this." He tapped his chest lightly. "The calm. The joy. The way you play football for the love of it. That’s your advantage. Don’t let the world take it from you."

Lukas nodded slowly. "I won’t."

Toppmöller stepped back, hands deeper into his pockets.

"Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow we start preparing for Stuttgart."

"Goodnight, coach."

"Goodnight, Lukas."

The coach walked off toward the training building, and Lukas headed inside, the quiet echo of the evening settling behind him.

As Lukas walked into his apartment, Toppmöller stopped and turned to look at where his wonderkid had just entered, then shook his head as he recalled the events of his meeting with Krösche and Hardung during the international break when the news of Lukas’s release clause was first broken by Sky Germany.

* * *

About four days ago. Krösche’s office.

The door had barely swung shut before Toppmöller and Timmo Hardung were already halfway across the room, urgency sharp in their movements. Markus Krösche sat behind his desk — glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the Sky Germany report open on the tablet before him.

He didn’t look up immediately.

"Sit," Krösche said calmly — too calmly. "We need to talk."

They sat.

Hardung was the first to speak. "The report is accurate... but not entirely. It’s the good-faith negotiation clause, not a standard release clause. And it only applies to clubs outside Germany."

Krösche nodded. "Doesn’t matter. The world will treat it like a normal clause. Seventy-five million euros for a sixteen-year-old who looks like that?" He tapped the tablet. "They’ll line up."

Toppmöller leaned forward, jaw tight. "We need to figure out where the leak came from. This was confidential."

"You think Marco leaked it?" Krösche asked.

Hardung shook his head immediately. "No. He’s too calculated, too protective. If anything, he’s furious right now. I think the leak came from within the club — it seems someone from the club has been talking to the media. And it’s not a particularly difficult detail to find out for clubs who are really curious, though. The media definitely timed the release to make the most noise."

"And they succeeded," Krösche murmured.

Silence settled — thick, heavy.

Then Krösche looked up, eyes sharp.

"We will receive offers. Big ones. Very soon. And if they match that number, we cannot refuse without justification. The board won’t allow that unless we can point to something. We are not Bayern. We are not Real Madrid. We are Eintracht Frankfurt. We sell to grow. That’s the model. You both know this."

Hardung glanced toward Toppmöller, who stayed silent.

"And," Krösche continued, "if we hold him past the summer and he drops off even slightly, the value collapses. We’ll look incompetent. Reckless."

Now Toppmöller spoke.

"I understand all of that. But listen to me, Lukas isn’t some hot form-window kid who will disappear next season. He’s generational. You’ve seen it. I’ve seen it. The numbers... the influence... the tempo control... this is a level that doesn’t vanish. He’s not even at the start yet."

Krösche tapped a pen against his desk, once, twice, thinking.

"You remember what I previously told you," Toppmöller reminded him quietly, "allow me a season in the Champions League with him. If you allow me that, I promise you he will give this club something unforgettable. You promised me one season. That’s all I need, one full season with him."

Krösche shut his eyes briefly — because he had said that.

"I know I promised, Dino, but I couldn’t predict this," Krösche replied, tapping the tablet again. Headlines. Transfer graphics. Rumor lists. Valuation charts. Sponsor commentary. International hype. "This rise is... unprecedented."

Hardung leaned forward now. "Then our only play is to push through the new contract fast. More salary, higher clause — something around 140 to 160 million. Double the protection. We need his agreement before the season ends."

"And we need him to want to stay," Krösche added. "If the first big Champions League club calls, or Bayern push hard, our leverage evaporates. So the first question we must answer is—"

"What he wants," Toppmöller finished.

Krösche nodded. "Exactly."

Hardung checked his notes. "And since we cannot legally refuse bids that meet the clause from foreign clubs, the only protection we have is Lukas’s intention. If he says he wants to leave, we’re forced to negotiate. If he says he wants to stay, we can delay, stall, restructure, renegotiate — we have time."

"So we wait for him to return," Krösche said. "And you ask him."

Toppmöller’s answer had been simple.

"I will."