Javi smiled faintly at his son's words but said nothing.

Marco sighed, closing the folder. "Well," he said, leaning forward, "that might actually work in your favor. Because Hardung called me yesterday. They want to renegotiate your contract — probably to make sure no one else tries to lure you away."

"When?" Javi asked.

"First meeting's in two days," Marco replied. "I'm going to drive a hard bargain. You've earned it, Lukas. They need to know they can't just keep paying you youth wages while the whole world's talking about you. Also, you'll most likely be a full German international during the coming international break, that should raise your salary a lot more too."

Lukas smiled lightly, shaking his head. "Do your best, Marco. Just… don't take it too far, yeah? I want to stay here. For now, at least."

Marco chuckled, nodding as he gathered his things. "For now," he repeated with a grin. "That's how every fairytale starts."

Outside, the winter sun had just begun to rise fully over Frankfurt, painting the morning sky in pale gold. Inside the apartment, Lukas stood by the window for a moment, watching it quietly — the city still half-asleep, the world already waiting.

* * *

Same day, lunch period at the Carl-von-Weinberg-Schule.

The cafeteria was loud with chatter, clinking trays, and the usual midweek chaos — until, suddenly, it wasn't.

"Wait— no way!" someone shouted from a nearby table, phone in hand. Heads turned. A few seconds later, the silence broke into a storm of excitement.

Breaking: Eintracht Frankfurt's Lukas Brandt becomes the youngest player ever called up to the German national team.

Everywhere he looked, screens flashed his name. Some classmates pointed, others stared at him in disbelief. Then came the wave — cheers, laughter, applause. A couple of students jumped up and rushed toward his table.

"Lukas! Bro, you're trending everywhere!" one said, shoving his phone toward him.

Eba Bekir appeared next, grinning so wide it looked painful. "Man, I told you this day was coming! You've been insane in training lately — now the whole country knows." He threw an arm around Lukas's shoulder.

Lukas could only laugh, still half in shock. "It's… crazy. I didn't even know it would be announced today."

"Doesn't matter," Eba said, shaking his head. "You're in, man. The national team."

Nearby, a few students started chanting his name — half-joking, half in awe. Even some staff members stopped to congratulate him as they passed by.

Lukas's phone buzzed nonstop — notifications, calls, messages. Family and friends, even those who already knew about it beforehand, congratulating him once more as the announcement was made public.

The first team group chat was practically blowing up with congratulations. The squad was shocked to see Lukas was called up to the first team. It had been a sore topic as they all tried to avoid bringing up the matter after it was disclosed that he had been snubbed for the first team and only called in for the U21s, so now the congratulations was rolling in without stopping.

He sat there smiling, humbled, as Eba nudged him again. "Guess you're paying for lunch, Herr Nationalspieler."

Lukas chuckled and rolled his eyes, but deep down, he felt something shift — a quiet realization that everything was about to get much, much bigger.

* * *

Thursday morning, 13th March, 2025.

The mood inside the Adidas headquarters in Herzogenaurach was far from the usual sleek calm. The morning light filtered through the frosted glass panels of the executive conference room, but it did little to ease the tension simmering in the air. On the far wall, a large display screen showed an open browser tab — "Puma secures multi-year deal with teenage sensation Lukas Brandt."

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the projector and the faint buzz of a muted phone on the table. Ingrid sat stiffly, her hands clasped before her, as the senior marketing executive, Klaus Ritter, fixed her with an icy stare.

"So," he began, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "you passed on him."

Ingrid inhaled slowly, choosing her words carefully. "At the time, it was a sound decision. He had just broken into the first team. We didn't want to rush—"

Klaus slammed a palm onto the table, startling everyone in the room. "You didn't want to gamble," he snapped. "But apparently, Puma did. And now every news outlet from Frankfurt to Madrid is calling him the future face of German football. A sixteen-year-old who's playing like a veteran. And guess whose logo he'll be wearing when he makes his debut for the national team next week?"

No one answered.

Lukas had been confirmed for the German squad just that morning, and that itself was causing quite a ruckus online as he was the youngest player in history to ever be called up to the national team.

Martin, sitting two seats down from Ingrid, kept his eyes on the table. He had warned her. He remembered every word from that meeting two weeks ago — her certainty, her calm refusal.

Klaus continued, pacing slowly. "We're not talking about a youth prospect anymore. Bayern are circling, for God's sake. And Puma just bought themselves global relevance for the next decade." He stopped and faced Ingrid directly. "Do you have any idea how this looks? We let a German-born prodigy — the story every brand dreams of — slip away to our biggest rival because we were afraid of a little risk."

Ingrid didn't flinch, but her composure had cracks now. "I understand the optics," she said quietly, "but it was never about fear. It was about timing."

"Timing?" Klaus repeated, a cold smile forming. "You had the right player. You just didn't have the courage."

The room fell silent again. Outside the glass walls, the Adidas campus gleamed under the late-morning sun — polished, pristine, and suddenly old-fashioned.

Martin exhaled slowly, eyes distant."He's probably in training right now," he thought, picturing Lukas somewhere in Frankfurt, laughing with his teammates before the Europa League match. And as Klaus turned off the projector, the screen went black — but the image of Lukas, wearing Puma boots and smiling in national colors, lingered in everyone's mind like a ghost of what could have been.

* * *

The floodlights shimmered against a thin veil of rain, silver streaks cascading over the Waldstadion like falling threads of glass. The stands were alive despite the drizzle — scarves waving, flags flapping wetly, voices echoing in anticipation.

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to a rainy Deutsche Bank Park here in Frankfurt," the commentator for the maych began, his voice steady against the crowd's roar. "It's the second leg of the Europa League Round of 16 as Eintracht Frankfurt take on Fenerbahçe. Frankfurt come into this game with a 3–1 lead from Istanbul, and tonight, they'll look to finish the job in front of their home supporters. I am Matthias Lehmann, and I am joined today by Tobias Graf."

His co-commentator, Tobias Graf, chimed in with a grin, "Thank you Matt, excited for the night, and I'm sure the fans are excited too because look who's warming up again — Lukas Brandt. Only 16, already lighting up Europe, and just this week, officially called up to the senior German national team. The youngest ever. What a rise it's been for this boy."

Down on the slick pitch, Lukas stood near midfield, droplets running down the sleeves of his long-sleeve training top. The ball came to him from Bahoya — a lofted, spinning pass that hung in the damp air. Lukas met it with a velvet touch, cushioning it perfectly as it dropped from the rain.

He smiled faintly, glancing around the soaked field. "This might be the wettest match I've ever played in since joining the first team," he thought, feeling the cold cling to his skin.

In the LTC, he had trained under every kind of storm: fierce wind, blinding rain, even simulated hail. He had programmed each scenario himself, pushing his body to adapt, to control, to flow through the chaos. But this was real; not code, not projection.

And that difference? He could feel it in his chest.

He drew in a deep breath of the damp air, rain dripping from his hair as he rolled the ball under his foot. A real storm… a real game.

And with that thought, Lukas turned and struck the ball forward — a pass to Larsson — smiling as the droplets scattered off his boot. Whatever tonight brought, be it the mud, the fight, or the pressure, he was ready to face it all.

About an hour later, the players were stepping out the tunnel the second time, this time, for kick-off.

The weather had not gotten any better from the time they came out for warm-ups. If anything, it had gotten a bit worse. Lukas dawned a long sleeve shirt under his jersey as he cracked his neck muscles while the serene Europa League anthem echoed throughout the stadium.

The rain did not deter the fans, whose cheers were topped up a notch as the anthem ended and the players got in position ready for kick-off.

FWEEE!

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