The alarm clock buzzed at 6:30 AM, the same as it always did. But for Mateo Alvarez, the routine that followed was anything but normal. Instead of lacing up his boots and heading to the training ground, he reached for the crutches propped against his bedside table, their cold metal a stark reminder of his new reality.

Across the small dorm room, Lukas stirred in his bed, his blond hair a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The German teenager had been Mateo's roommate since the beginning of the season, and in that time, they had become more than just roommates. They were brothers, confidantes, partners in the strange, surreal journey of being teenage footballers living away from home.

"Morning, superstar," Lukas mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Ready for another thrilling day of hobbling around campus?"

Mateo rolled his eyes and signed back with one hand while balancing on his crutches. "You're hilarious. Truly."

Lukas grinned, swinging his legs out of bed. "Someone has to keep your ego in check. Can't have you thinking you're too important just because you scored two goals against Real Madrid."

The joke was delivered with affection, and Mateo appreciated it. Lukas had been his rock during these difficult days, refusing to let him wallow in self-pity, pushing him to maintain some semblance of normalcy even when everything felt anything but normal.

The morning routine was slow and frustrating. Simple tasks that Mateo had never thought twice about getting dressed, brushing his teeth, making his way to the bathroom now required careful planning and effort.

The crutches were awkward, the swollen ankle throbbed with every movement, and the constant reminder of his limitations was a source of endless frustration.

But Lukas was there every step of the way, not coddling him, but supporting him. He held doors open, carried Mateo's backpack, made sure the path was clear of obstacles. And when Mateo's frustration threatened to boil over, Lukas was there with a joke, a smile, a reminder that this was temporary.

"Come on," Lukas said, slinging both their backpacks over his shoulder. "We've got that physics test today. And you know Herr Schmidt doesn't accept 'I'm injured' as an excuse for not knowing the laws of thermodynamics."

School. The one constant in Mateo's life that remained unchanged by injury, by fame, by the rollercoaster of professional football.

He was still a sixteen-year-old student, still required to attend classes, still expected to complete his assignments and pass his exams. And in a strange way, he was grateful for it. School was a reminder that he was more than just a footballer, that his identity was not solely defined by what he could do on a pitch.

The walk to the school building, which was located on the Borussia Dortmund training complex, was an ordeal.

The crutches dug into his armpits, his good leg ached from compensating for the injured one, and the early morning chill made his ankle throb even more. But Lukas walked beside him, matching his slow pace, chattering about nothing and everything, providing a welcome distraction from the discomfort.

As they made their way across the campus, they encountered other students, staff members, and even a few first-team players arriving for training. The reactions were universal: sympathy, concern, and a deep respect for what Mateo had accomplished despite his young age.

"Mateo! How's the ankle?" called out Sebastian Kehl, the veteran midfielder, as he walked past.

Mateo gave him a thumbs up and a small smile. Kehl nodded approvingly. "Good. Take your time. We need you at one hundred percent, not seventy-five."

In the classroom, his teachers were understanding but firm. They knew he was a professional footballer, knew the pressures he was under, but they also knew that education was important. Herr Schmidt, the physics teacher, a stern man with a dry sense of humor, barely acknowledged Mateo's crutches as he entered the room.

"Ah, Herr Alvarez," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I trust your injury has not affected your ability to calculate kinetic energy?"

Mateo shook his head, taking his seat carefully. The other students, a mix of academy players and regular students, greeted him with quiet nods and sympathetic smiles.

They had watched the Real Madrid match, had seen his heroic performance, had felt the collective heartbreak of the elimination. And now, seeing him struggle with crutches, they understood the price he had paid.

The physics test was brutal. Mateo's mind, usually sharp and focused, was foggy from the painkillers and the lack of proper sleep. He struggled through the problems, his hand cramping as he wrote, his concentration wavering. But he pushed through, refusing to give up, refusing to use his injury as an excuse.

After class, Lukas found him in the hallway, leaning against the wall, exhausted. "How'd it go?"

Mateo signed wearily. "Terrible. I think I failed."

"Join the club," Lukas said cheerfully. "I'm pretty sure I calculated the velocity of a falling object as negative infinity. Which, I'm fairly certain, violates several laws of physics."

Despite his exhaustion, Mateo smiled. Lukas had a gift for making even the worst situations bearable.

The afternoon was dedicated to rehabilitation. Dr. Müller, the club's head physiotherapist, was waiting for him at the medical center, his expression a mixture of professional concern and fatherly warmth. The doctor had been working with Mateo since the injury, carefully monitoring his progress, pushing him when necessary, holding him back when he tried to do too much.

"How's the pain today?" Dr. Müller asked, examining the ankle with practiced hands.

Mateo signed that it was manageable, though the truth was that it was a constant, nagging presence.

"Good. Today, we're going to start weight-bearing exercises. Nothing too strenuous, but we need to start building strength back into that ankle. It's going to hurt, but it's necessary."

The session was excruciating. Every exercise, every stretch, every movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his ankle. But Mateo gritted his teeth and pushed through, his determination unwavering. He had a goal: to be fit for the final matches of the season. And he would do whatever it took to achieve it.

Lukas, who had accompanied him to the session, watched from the sidelines, his expression a mixture of admiration and concern. When the session was over and Mateo was drenched in sweat, his face pale from the effort, Lukas was there with a towel and a bottle of water.

"You're insane, you know that?" Lukas said, shaking his head. "Most people would be milking this injury for all it's worth. But you? You're torturing yourself."

Mateo signed back, his hands moving with a fierce determination. "I need to be ready. The team needs me."

"The team needs you healthy," Lukas countered. "Not broken. Don't push yourself so hard that you make it worse."

But Mateo couldn't help it. The thought of sitting on the sidelines while his teammates fought for the title was unbearable. He needed to be out there, needed to contribute, needed to be part of the fight.

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