CHAPTER 205: I’M READY

The sun over Frankfurt felt almost unreal after the previous twenty-four hours. It was bright, warm, and sharp, the kind of sunlight that made the freshly-cut grass at the ProfiCamp shimmer with an almost artificial vibrance. The players trotted out in small groups, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, some already laughing at jokes, but all of them casting occasional, subtle glances at Lukas.

Not the kind of looks he used to get — awe, admiration, banter.

These were curious looks.

Soft ones.

The "Is he okay?" kind.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. But he kept his head down, clipped his shin pads into place, tied his boots, and stepped onto the pitch for the internal training match Toppmöller had scheduled.

"Alright, boys! Bibs on, two touch maximum, keep the tempo sharp," Zembrod shouted as he dropped the mesh bibs in a pile.

Lukas bent, picked a navy bib, and was about to pull it on when Larsson came over, bumped him lightly with his elbow, and gave him a grin.

"Survived the apocalypse?" he asked.

Lukas huffed out a small laugh. "Barely," he said.

But even in jokes, his voice carried the faint residue of exhaustion.

Uzun jogged up and flicked the back of Lukas’s neck. "Bro, you’re trending in three countries," he said. "Don’t worry, though, I told my girlfriend to keep her distance from you. You’re too hot to be around."

Knauff joined in. "Yeah man, one leaked photo and Germany collectively lost its mind. Wild."

They were teasing him but gently, almost protectively. Like brothers trying to bring him back to normalcy.

Before Lukas could reply, Toppmöller’s whistle blew sharp.

"Circle in!"

The players formed a wide semicircle around him, their shadows stretching long behind them in the mid-morning sun. Toppmöller rested his hands on his hips, letting his gaze sweep over the squad before landing — unmistakably — on Lukas.

"Crazy day yesterday," he began. "Crazy week, actually. And look, the storm hasn’t passed yet. There’ll be headlines. Reporters. Opinions. Noise." He gestured vaguely toward the city, as if the noise were a physical thing hovering over Frankfurt. "But this..." he thumped his boot lightly on the grass, "...this is where you shut all of that out. This is your reality. Not the clickbait."

His tone sharpened but stayed warm.

"And I want to say it clearly, so there is no misunderstanding. We protect our own. The club is behind Lukas. The staff is behind Lukas. The players are behind Lukas. No one faces this alone."

A murmur of agreement passed through the squad. Someone — probably Larsson — clapped loudly, and a few others joined in.

Lukas didn’t lift his eyes, but a warmth crept into his chest anyway.

Toppmöller blew the whistle again. "Right. Let’s play."

The teams split automatically, years of instinct guiding them. Navy bibs vs yellow bibs. Lukas found himself lined up with Larsson, Knauff, Uzun, and Kristensen. Across from them stood Theate, Brown, Götze, Ekitike, and Bahoya.

It wasn’t even a competitive fixture.

But something in the air said everyone wanted to win.

The whistle sounded.

Almost instantly, Ekitike pressed high, forcing Kristensen back toward his own box. The Dane used his body well, shielded, and poked the ball to Larsson. The Swede took one touch, looked up, and shaped his body toward Lukas without hesitation — they always seemed to find each other as if guided by a cord.

The pass zipped across the grass.

Joachim Pfister, the club psychologist who often watched sessions quietly from the sidelines, folded his arms as he observed the moment.

Would Lukas shrink?

Would he hesitate?

Would the noise of the world finally seep into his game?

The answer came immediately.

Lukas’s first touch, velvet.

His second, a feint.

And his third — a burst of acceleration that made even Götze swear under his breath.

Knauff let out a loud laugh as he sprinted down the right to support. "YES, LUKE! That’s my guy!"

The play continued, fluid and bright. At one point, Theate attempted to body Lukas off the ball, but Lukas held strong, turned him, and threaded a pass between Theate’s legs that left both teams gasping and shouting.

Uzun wagged his finger at him, grinning. "You’re not normal, man."

Even Toppmöller cracked a smile, arms crossed, watching with that focused approval only a coach could have.

And when Lukas scored — a tight angle finish after spinning away from Bahoya — the entire training ground erupted in applause. Even players on the opposite team clapped.

It wasn’t the goal.

It was the relief.

A confirmation that he’s still him. The storm didn’t take that away.

As the match wound down and players moved to stretch, Toppmöller walked over to Lukas with a slow, deliberate stride.

"Good session," he said.

Lukas nodded politely. "Thanks, Coach."

Toppmöller lowered his voice. "Listen... I know you’ll hear a lot of things in the next few days. It happens when you’re at this level. Even I’ve had reporters camp outside my house." He rolled his eyes.

Lukas gave a tiny smile.

"But I want you to remember something." The coach placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your game speaks louder than any headline. Every time you step on the pitch, you take back control of the narrative."

He squeezed lightly.

"And you’ve got a big one in two days. Athletic Club will be coming to kill the tie. They won’t gift you anything. So I need you sharp. But more than that, I need you calm. Trust yourself. Trust your work. You can visit Dr. Pfister, the club psychologist, if you ever feel like talking to anyone about the situation. You can even come to me if you want to."

Lukas inhaled, nodded again. "Thanks, Coach, I will."

"Good." Toppmöller patted his arm. "Now go stretch before Zembrod yells at you."

Lukas jogged off, and Toppmöller watched him go — not with worry, but with certainty.

Because storms pass.

And some players don’t just survive storms.

They’re built in them.

* * *

That evening, the sun had long dipped behind the Frankfurt skyline when Lukas finally lay back on his bed, phone resting on his chest as he waited for Joanna to pick up. His room was dim except for the warm bedside lamp, and the muffled city sounds seeped through the closed windows. When she finally answered, her bright voice instantly softened the tension coiled inside him.

"Hi, baby," she said. "How was today? Did everything calm down a bit?"

Lukas exhaled, his shoulders dropping. "Yeah... somewhat. But enough about me—what happened at your school? With the news and everything?"

Joanna let out a small laugh, the sound airy and tired. "Oh, that. Honestly? My classmates were curious, of course, but not surprised. I mean... Lukas, come on. It was basically an open secret after my birthday. You didn’t exactly hide that you were obsessed with me."

Lukas chuckled. "I wasn’t obsessed... okay, maybe a little."

She hummed teasingly. "A little, he says."

"Look who’s talking, you were the one who basically hugged me tight at the door. Now trying to rewrite history?"

"*AHEM* Alright fine, we were both obsessed with each other," she responded

Lukas sighed contentedly. "So they didn’t bother you too much?"

"No. A few questions, a few jokes, some girls acting like shocked detectives putting clues together. But I’m fine. Really."

There was a small pause before she added, gently, "What about him? The blackmailer. What did he look like? What did the police say?"

Lukas adjusted his pillow and explained everything calmly. "He’s young. Maybe mid-twenties. Stupid, honestly. The police think he panicked and rushed everything, which made catching him easier. They said he’s going to be charged with extortion and attempted coercion. The lawyers are following up."

"And you?" she asked. "How are you feeling?"

Lukas took a moment, staring at the ceiling. "Better. I mean... it sucked. It really did. But the club has been so supportive. Marco, the lawyers, even Toppi pulled me aside today to check in. And now that he’s caught, I’m putting it behind me. My focus is Thursday."

"I’m looking forward to Thursday too," she said warmly. "I’ll be there."

Lukas hesitated. "You know you’ll be recognized now, right? The photo... it’s everywhere. Even though he was caught, he already sent it to a small outlet before that. Now you’re recognizable."

"I know." Her voice didn’t waver. "And I’m not fazed. There’s nothing negative anyone can say about me. Let them recognize me."

Lukas smiled softly. "There really isn’t. You’re... you’re amazing, Jo. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re classy, you’re—"

"Easy, tiger..." she said between a giggle. "If you keep talking like that, I might start believing I’m out of your league."

"Now, now, let’s not get carried away, okay?" he replied immediately, and she let out a gentle groan.

"You’re so silly," she replied and Lukas could almost hear her roll her eyes.

"I can’t help it when I’m with you. I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered back. "And Thursday? I’ll be cheering loud enough for you to hear me on the pitch."

"I’ll look for you," he said. "I always do."

They lingered a few more seconds in comfortable silence before hanging up. When the screen finally went dark, Lukas lay there with a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. The weight on his chest that had been there for days dissolved completely.

For the first time since the blackmail incident began, he felt clean. Light. Ready.

Thursday was coming. And so was Bilbao.