Anne’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Her eyes stayed on the road, but Lukas could see the brief flicker of hesitation in her jaw.
"Sorry," she said softly, "could you repeat that? I didn’t quite hear you."
Lukas nodded, though sothing in her tone already told him she had heard him perfectly the first ti.
"I asked... what exactly has my dad told you about my birth mother?"
This ti, Anne didn’t respond imdiately.
The road humd beneath them, the sky grey and calm, but inside the car the silence grew sharper, almost brittle. Lukas shifted in his seat, wondering if he had asked sothing he shouldn’t have.
Maybe this was a sensitive topic.
Maybe it had caused argunts between her and his father.
Maybe he had just poked at sothing painful without realizing.
He cleared his throat.
"You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to," he said gently. "I didn’t an to make things awkward."
Anne inhaled slowly, still keeping her eyes on the highway.
"It’s okay," she said quietly. "I just... want to understand what your father has told you first. So I don’t accidentally say sothing you weren’t ant to hear from ."
Lukas’s brows lowered slightly. He looked down at his hands.
"Honestly?" he began. "He hasn’t said... much. Anything, really."
Anne glanced at him briefly before returning her gaze to the road.
"I used to think my mother was dead," Lukas continued. "But... he never actually said those words. He never confird anything. And if she was dead, he wouldn’t hide that from . I’m old enough to understand what death is."
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
"In fact... I don’t think he’s ever said anything concrete about her—not in this life and... well, never mind."
Anne didn’t press the strange phrasing. She could sense the weight beneath it, a weight too heavy for a car ride.
Silence settled again, but this ti it wasn’t avoidance.
It was struggle.
Internal debate.
Anne’s thoughts ran fast—wondering what Javi had told her, what he hadn’t, what she was allowed to say, what would help or hurt.
Lukas waited. Patient. But hoping.
After a long mont, Anne exhaled.
"Lukas..." she began gently, "your mother is alive."
The words hit him like cold water.
Even though he’d suspected it—believed it deep down—it still landed in his chest with a heavy, sinking thud.
He stared ahead, his heartbeat sounding strangely loud in his ears.
"But," Anne continued, "it really isn’t my place to tell you anything else. That’s sothing you need to hear from your father. And I think... it’s ti he told you."
Lukas’s throat tightened.
He nodded slowly, but a heaviness had gathered in his chest.
Of course she was alive. He had always suspected.
But hearing it—so simply, so plainly—still hurt.
In his previous life, he had searched.
Desperately. Quietly.
After Javi died, after he was left alone, he tried everything—genealogy tests, distant family maps, online forums. The test results had given him clues:
70% Central European.
29% Northwestern European.
1% Southeast Asian.
Hints of people who shared his blood — but he never reached out. He never knew where to start. And he never left Darmstadt except to go support the national team.
And now? He had just gotten confirmation that she wasn’t dead, she just wasn’t there.
His chest ached quietly.
Anne noticed the shift in his breathing, the way his eyes dropped to his lap. Without taking her hands off the wheel, she softened her tone.
"Hey," she said gently, "I’m sorry if that hurt you. Really."
Lukas shook his head, swallowing.
"It’s... fine. I just..." he exhaled. "I always wondered. But hearing it out loud..."
"I know," Anne murmured. "And I promise—I’ll talk to your dad. I’ll make sure he tells you everything. You deserve to know. And I think... he wants to tell you. He’s just scared."
Lukas lifted his eyes.
"Scared?"
"Not of you," Anne said quickly. "Never of you."
He waited.
"He’s scared you’ll resent him," she explained softly. "For keeping things from you. For making decisions he believed were right at the ti. He loves you more than anything, Lukas. Everything he did, he did because he thought it was what would protect you."
Lukas looked out the window again, watching the blur of fields and distant buildings.
His voice was quieter this ti.
"Thank you," he said. "For telling . And for... caring."
Anne smiled—small but warm, the kind soone gives when they feel protective.
"I’m happy you and Javi ca into my life," she said. "Both of you."
Lukas turned to her fully, sincerity written plainly across his face.
"And I’m happy you ca into ours."
* * *
The sun had dipped low over the Frankfurt skyline, painting the edges of the ProfiCamp in warm orange strokes that bled into evening blue. Training had just wrapped up—sharp passing drills, finishing sequences, and a long tactical walkthrough ahead of the weekend’s trip to Bren. Players were catching their breath, stretching, or chatting in loose circles as Toppmöller stood at the front of the group with his hands behind his back.
"Alright, good session today," he began, scanning the players. "We leave tomorrow at noon. Be here early, make sure everything is packed and ready. Bren away won’t be easy, but—"
He stopped mid-sentence when his assistant coach, Zembrod, hurried across the field and leaned in to whisper sothing into his ear.
Whatever it was, it made Toppmöller’s eyebrows jump before he imdiately composed himself—too quickly, almost unnaturally. His eyes flickered in Lukas’s direction for a split-second, so fast most wouldn’t have noticed... but Lukas did.
Still, the coach slid right back into his speech like nothing happened.
"—but if we stay focused like today, we’ll be ready. Recovery tonight, film review in the morning, then we travel. Good work, everyone."
He clapped once.
"Okay, off you go."
And then, without another word, he turned and walked very briskly toward the administrative building — briskly enough that it wasn’t exactly running, but it was definitely not a normal walk.
The players lingered a little longer than usual after the coach disappeared. A few heads turned toward the admin building, the unspoken question hanging thick in the air. Training ground gossip traveled fast, and even faster when it involved the coaching staff acting strangely. Ekitike nudged Bahoya with a smirk, whispering sothing that had the Frenchn stifling a laugh. Koch stretched his quads near the touchline but kept glancing at the hallway Toppmöller had vanished into, eyebrows knitted with curiosity.
Even Trapp looked mildly thrown off, and the captain was usually the last person to react to anything outside the ordinary.
Larsson, standing next to Lukas, tracked the coach’s path with squinted eyes.
"Uhhhh..." he murmured. "Is it just or did the boss look like he just found out the building was on fire?"
Lukas picked up a ball and tossed it lightly from hand to hand.
"What makes you think I’d know anything about that?"
Larsson turned to him, eyes narrowed dramatically.
"Because," he said gravely, "every ti sothing dramatic happens in this club, it sohow ends up involving you. Either you scored a banger, broke another record, or soone’s trying to buy you. So, statistically speaking — yes, I think you probably know."
Lukas burst into laughter.
"Man, get out of here with that."
"I’m just saying!" Larsson held up both hands defensively. "If aliens land in the parking lot tomorrow, I’m checking first whether they ca for you."
"Uh-huh," Lukas deadpanned. "Very scientific. Professor Larsson."
"Yes," Larsson replied proudly. "Doctor of Bullshittery. PhD."
They both cracked up as they headed toward the equipnt bucket, balls scattered all over the grass. Instead of simply collecting them, Larsson suddenly planted his feet at the three-point line—well, the imaginary one—and launched a football like a basketball shot.
The ball sailed through the air...
...and clunked directly off the rim of the bucket.
"Mannn," Larsson groaned, clutching his face. "That was in! That was definitely in!"
"Yeah, yeah, of course it was," Lukas teased as he picked up another ball. "Wind interference, gravity issue, moon cycle — whatever makes you sleep at night."
"Ohhh okay, Brandt," Larsson said, stepping aside and pointing dramatically at the bucket. "Let’s see your accuracy then, Mister 16-Year-Old Golden Boy."
Lukas lined up, spun the ball once in his hands — and flicked it in a smooth arc.
It dropped straight into the bucket with a satisfying thump.
Larsson froze.
"No. Nope. I refuse. I refuse to accept this reality."
"Reality accepts you," Lukas said, bowing sarcastically. "Embrace it."
They went back and forth for another minute—Larsson missing two more tis and blaming imaginary gusts of wind while Lukas hit another clean one—until most of the balls were finally packed away.
As they headed toward the exit, Larsson slung an arm around Lukas’s shoulder.
"Still think you don’t know why the coach sprinted away like that?"
"I really don’t," Lukas said honestly.
Larsson humd in exaggerated suspicion.
"Hmmmmmmmm..."
Lukas shoved him lightly.
"Oh shut up."
And the two walked off the pitch laughing, unaware that whatever news had reached Toppmöller... it was going to change everything in the next few days.
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