He reached for his phone on the desk.
The screen lit up instantly, revealing the wallpaper he’d set hours ago:
A crystal-clear freeze-fra of Lukas and Joanna, wrapped in each other near the entrance of the ProfiCamp, sharing an unreserved, full kiss goodbye — her hands on his cheeks, his arms circling her waist, the kind of kiss that left absolutely no room for interpretation.
He zood in on it, admiring how perfectly tid the shot was. Joanna’s eyes were half-closed, Lukas’s smile lingering against her lips — young love captured with almost cinematic intimacy.
His grin widened.
The image reflected in his pupils like a secret weapon waiting to be unleashed.
He locked the phone, placed it face-up on the table, and whispered to no one:
"This is gonna be big."
* * *
The afternoon sun hung warm over central Madrid, its light pouring through the tall glass façade of the Hotel Villa Magna, one of the capital’s most discreet yet luxurious eting spots. Inside its marble-lined lobby, businesspeople drifted between soft leather chairs, the distant hum of conversation blending with the muted clatter of cutlery from the restaurant.
Upstairs, on the seventh floor, behind the closed door of a quiet executive suite, Atletico Madrid’s sporting representatives were preparing for an important discussion — one they hoped would shape the club’s future for years to co.
Marco had barely settled into his seat when the waiter placed a basket of warm bread between them. Carlos Bucero — suited in an elegant navy jacket, hair slicked back with that effortless Spanish charm — leaned forward with a polite smile that didn’t quite hide his ambition.
"Marco, I’m glad you could make it," he said, clasping his hands. "I only wish Lukas could join us. It would’ve been an honour to et him face to face."
Marco gave a small laugh, relaxing just enough to keep things cordial. "If he ca to all the etings clubs invite to, he’d never make it to training. His schedule is insane right now."
"We understand," Bucero replied. "He’s sixteen, but playing like he’s twenty-six. He has to rest. Though..." he paused, eyes twinkling, "...I will make it a personal mission to fly to Germany and et him and his father. We do not want a proxy relationship with soone like him. We want a real one."
That got Marco’s attention.
The second Atlético representative — a broad-shouldered man with stern features — slid an iPad across the table. Marco raised a brow and took it.
It was a headline from MARCA, plastered with a picture of Lukas dribbling three Athletic defenders:
"Athleti scouts accelerating talks for teenage sensation Lukas Brandt."
Bilbao dominated Frankfurt, but Brandt kept dragging his team back from the dead.
Manchester City already submitted an 85M€ package — Atlético must act fast.
Marco exhaled slowly, reading every line, feeling the pull of the Spanish dia machine working its charm.
"Quite a performance last night," Bucero said, pouring himself a glass of sparkling water. "Two free kicks... in San Mamés... at sixteen. Our CEO nearly choked on his tapas after that second goal."
Marco couldn’t help a smirk. "He does that sotis."
They ordered their dishes — lubina for Marco, solomillo for Bucero — and once the waiter walked away, the Atlético executive leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"I won’t waste ti. Atlético Madrid want Lukas Brandt. Badly."
Marco nodded once, encouraging him to continue.
"We see him," Bucero said, tapping the table lightly for emphasis. "Not as a talent. Not as a prospect. As a pillar. A player to build around for the next decade. A permanent replacent for Griezmann — the trono, the drop-in creator, the chaos-bringer between the lines. Sione has already prepared systems for him."
"Already?" Marco asked, genuinely surprised.
"Of course." Bucero smiled. "Cholo doesn’t sleep when he wants a player. We can arrange a eting. Even a conference call. He will explain everything."
Marco leaned back, thoughtful.
Then ca the docunt.
A clean folio, crisp, weighty. Bucero placed it in front of him like an offering.
"This," Bucero said slowly, "is our financial proposal."
Marco opened it — and imdiately felt his eyebrows rise.
Sure, the base salary wasn’t Bayern-level or City-level. In fact, on paper, it was... modest. Maybe seven tis what Lukas was earning in Frankfurt — still massive, but not astronomical.
But the bonuses...
Insane didn’t begin to cover it.
The salary incrents were tied directly — brutally, ambitiously — to trophies and Lukas’s output.
Copa del Rey win 10 G/A: 30% base salary next season.
La Liga title 20 G/A: 60% next season.
Champions League win 15 G/A: 100% next season.
"And these stack?" Marco asked, voice flat but eyes glowing.
"Sí," Bucero said, hands spread. "All cumulative. If he wins the treble as a protagonist... the boy doubles his salary. Before bonuses."
Marco closed the folder.
He tapped it once with his finger.
"This is... interesting."
"We know we can’t fight Bayern or City with pure money," Bucero said with no sha. "But we can offer sothing else. A place where he starts imdiately. A place where he becos the star. Where the club is built around him — not where he competes with seven established superstars for every touch."
The other Atlético representative leaned forward. "Let us make this simple, Marco: If Lukas chooses to leave Frankfurt, Atlético Madrid must be the destination. We are the perfect middle-step. Big enough to win trophies. Calm enough for him to grow."
Marco inhaled, thinking. For the first ti since the contract saga began, this felt different. Unique. Tempting.
He slid the docunt back into its envelope.
"I’ll go through everything with Lukas in detail," Marco said. "Right now... he’s not considering leaving this sumr."
Bucero smiled warmly. "We respect that. Just tell him the door is open. And if he chooses it... leave convincing Frankfurt to us."
They clinked their glasses — a silent agreent that the real battle had just begun — and continued their dinner.
They were still eating when Marco’s phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up beside his plate.
Carla.
He flipped it face down without a second thought and left it there, forcing a polite smile as Bucero finished explaining one of the bonus structures.
It vibrated again.
Marco’s jaw tightened. He excused himself with an apologetic look.
"Perdóna, it’s my assistant. She knows I’m in a eting, so if she’s calling twice, it might be important."
Both Atlético officials nodded understandingly.
"Please, go ahead," Bucero said. "We’ll wait."
Marco stood up, buttoned his jacket almost on instinct, and stepped out into the corridor. Only then did he swipe to answer.
"Carla, I’m in the middle of—"
"I know, I know, I’m sorry," she rushed out. "But this couldn’t wait. We just got an email. Anonymous sender. It’s about Lukas."
Marco’s stomach dipped. "What about him?"
"There’s a picture attached," she said. "From outside the ProfiCamp, looks like. He’s kissing Joanna. Proper kiss. And the sender is demanding a hundred thousand euros... or they’ll send the picture to the press."
For a mont, Marco said nothing. The noise of the hotel murmured around him: clinking cutlery, muted conversation, a distant espresso machine. His world narrowed to the phone pressed against his ear.
"You’re sure it’s real?" he asked finally, voice low.
"Yes. I zood in. It’s definitely him. Definitely her. And the email sounds serious, Marco. This isn’t so kid trolling."
Marco closed his eyes briefly, massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Alright. Don’t reply. Don’t engage. Forward everything to my secure inbox and our legal guy. I’ll deal with it in Frankfurt."
"You’re leaving now?" Carla asked.
"Yeah. Book the earliest flight back from Madrid to Frankfurt today. I don’t care which airline. Just get on it."
"Got it. I’ll text you the details."
He ended the call, drew in a slow breath, rolled his shoulders once, then went back into the private dining room.
Both n looked up as he entered. The easy rhythm from before was gone; Marco could feel the urgency sitting on his face, no matter how he tried to smooth it.
"I’m really sorry," he said, already reaching for his coat. "Sothing urgent has co up in Germany regarding my client. I have to fly back imdiately."
Bucero frowned, but it was more concern than annoyance. "Is everything alright?"
"It will be," Marco lied smoothly. "I’ll talk this through with Lukas and his father in detail. You have my word I’ll give your proposal the attention it deserves, and I’ll be in touch very soon."
He picked up the envelope with the contract frawork, slipped it into his leather folder, and offered each man a quick, firm handshake.
"Thank you for your ti," he added. "And for the clarity of your project. We’ll speak soon."
They exchanged polite goodbyes, and Marco stepped out into the corridor again, already lifting his phone back to his ear.
"Carla," he said as soon as she picked up, "send the email, the picture, and the flight details. I’m heading to the airport now."
He walked down the hallway with quick, clipped strides, the Madrid sun bright through the windows, the Atlético offer under his arm, and a very different kind of crisis waiting for him in Frankfurt.
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