Afternoon the next day, 12th April.
Rain drifted sideways across the ProfiCamp training ground, a thin mist that clung to hair, jackets, and the bright red bibs scattered around the pitch. It wasn’t heavy enough to force a cancellation, but it was annoying — that persistent kind of drizzle that made the grass slick and the ball skip faster than expected.
In the centre circle, a lively rondo was underway. Koch and Kristensen occupied the middle, both crouched low, arms out, trying to anticipate the next pass. Larsson received the ball from Collins, took a touch, and imdiately shifted it to his left where Lukas was already adjusting his body shape.
Koch darted forward to press him.
He shouldn’t have bothered.
Lukas angled his hips as if to play a simple pass outward. Koch bit instantly, stretching his leg wide to intercept. But at the last millisecond, Lukas let the ball roll just enough and flicked it with the outside of his foot — a smooth, disrespectful nudge straight through Koch’s legs. The ball spun neatly into Knauff’s stride on the opposite side.
Knauff dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach in laughter.
Larsson toppled backwards dramatically as if he’d been shot.
Even Kristensen threw his hands behind his head, mouthing a shocked "No way..."
It was the third nutg Lukas had inflicted on Koch in the last ten minutes.
"Brandt, you little—!" Koch yelled, half-laughing, half-defeated, as he chased him in circles.
Under the shelter by the sideline, Toppmöller stood with his hands tucked inside his jacket pockets, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he watched the playful chaos unfold. He shook his head, amused, but when the drizzle suddenly thickened into a real shower, he tapped Zembrod on the arm.
"Tell them to bring it in," Toppmöller said. "No need to push our luck today."
Zembrod blew his whistle from the edge of the pitch. "Alright! Inside! Let’s go before sobody gets sick!"
The players groaned but obeyed. Larsson slung an arm casually around Lukas’s neck and shook him with exaggerated affection.
"Three nutgs? THREE? How do you look Koch in the eyes after that?" he teased.
"Easy," Lukas said, side-eying Koch. "I just look down."
The entire squad burst into fresh laughter as they jogged toward the tunnel.
Inside the warm facility, they dropped onto benches, peeling off damp jackets and kicking off mud-stained boots. Steam rose faintly from their clothes. Soone opened a window, imdiately regretted it, and slamd it shut again.
Toppmöller entered, clapping once to get attention.
"Alright, listen up. We’ve had two brutal matches in the space of four days — Bilbao away was intense, and we still have Heidenheim tomorrow, then Bilbao again three days after that." His eyes scanned the room, sharp and direct. "The next week will define our season."
He paused noticeably when his gaze drifted across to Lukas.
"So yes, there will be rotation tomorrow," he continued. "So of you will not be starting. Don’t take it personally. I need you fresh for Thursday. That match is the priority."
Everyone understood exactly who he was talking about.
And Lukas understood it too.
He nodded silently.
The eting ended soon after, and the players dispersed to the showers, joking, yawning, and complaining about the weather. Lukas grabbed his bag and made his way ho, the drizzle now reduced to a mist again, dampening his hoodie but not enough for him to care.
He had only stepped through his apartnt door when he imdiately reached for his phone.
He needed to talk to Marco.
He dialed.
Marco picked up almost instantly. "Any news?" Lukas asked, skipping the pleasantries.
"Yes," Marco said. "We’ve updated the police. They’re fully involved now."
"What did they find?"
"The sender tried to mask their location. But the cyber team thinks they’ll identify him before the end of the week." Marco’s voice was steady, controlled, like he was reading off a briefing. "If he releases the photo publicly, it’s a separate matter. But the extortion, they’ll nail him on that."
Lukas sighed, running a hand over his face as he dropped onto his couch. "I just don’t want this blowing up right now."
"I know," Marco replied. "But listen, even if the picture gets out, we’ll handle it. The lawyers will handle it. You focus on your ga."
"That’s the thing," Lukas said quietly. "If I play badly tomorrow, or even next week... and the picture drops... they’ll say I’ve been distracted. That I’m losing focus because of a girlfriend." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And they’ll go after Joanna. Hard."
Marco paused, then softened his tone. "You’re right. But the best thing you can do is play well, ignore the noise, and trust the police. We’re doing everything we can. And Lukas, Joanna is tougher than she looks."
Lukas smiled faintly. "Yeah. I know."
"Good," Marco replied. "Now go rest. Big ga tomorrow."
"Thanks, Marco."
They hung up.
Lukas stayed there for a mont, staring blankly at the dark television screen. Rain tapped gently on the balcony glass. He leaned back, trying to clear his head, trying to push everything — the blackmail, the photo, Bilbao, the pressure — aside.
But the only thing he managed to think of was Joanna.
And how he just hoped none of this would touch her.
* * *
The broadcast opened with the sweeping drone-shot of Deutsche Bank Park, the soft drizzle painting a sheen over the pitch, the stadium lights already reflecting off the damp grass. The place was almost full despite the rain — Frankfurt fans had co expecting a routine win to steady nerves after the Bilbao heartbreak.
"Good afternoon everyone, welco to Deutsche Bank Park," ca the smooth voice of Derek Rae, partnered by Lothar Matthäus on co-comms.
"Eintracht Frankfurt versus Heidenheim on this rainy Saturday... and Lothar, the big headline — Lukas Brandt starts on the bench today."
"Ja, Derek," Matthäus replied, "Toppmöller is rotating. The schedule is crazy: Bilbao away on Thursday, Heidenheim today, Bilbao again on Tuesday. And Frankfurt... they need Lukas fresh for that second leg."
The director cut to the bench imdiately, and the roar around the stadium swelled.
There he was: Lukas, wrapped in a thick black Frankfurt jacket, hood up, joggers tucked into thick socks. He looked warm, relaxed, tapping his foot lightly as he watched the warmups finish.
A little smile tugged his lips when he saw the stadium reacting to his face appearing on the Jumbotron.
On the lower stands, Joanna and João sat side by side, both under ponchos but still cheerful. Joanna wore her white No. 49 BRANDT jersey, cinched at the waist by her rain jacket, proudly visible. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and excitent.
João nudged her with that evil big-brother grin.
"You better hold him tight," he teased over the stadium noise. "These German girls will steal him from you if you blink."
Joanna rolled her eyes and shoved him back, laughing.
"Let them try," she said, adjusting her jersey like a badge of honour. "My man isn’t going anywhere."
She looked toward the bench, smiling wide when the cara zood on Lukas again. She waved, even though she knew he couldn’t see her, and the crowd erupted as the match official brought the ball to the center circle.
Then the lineups appeared on the screen.
Eintracht Frankfurt (4-2-3-1):
GK: 40 Kaua
DEF: 13 Kristensen, 35 Tuta, 4 Koch (C), 3 Theate
MID: 15 Skhiri, 6
AM: 8 Chaibi, 20 Uzun, 19 Bahoya
ST: 11 Ekitike
Heidenheim (3-1-4-2):
GK: 1 Müller
DEF: 4 Siersleben, 6 Mainka, 2 Busch
MID: 5 Gimber, 39 Dorsch, 3 Schöppner, 23 Traoré 13 Krätzig
ST: 18 Pieringer 21 Beck
Rae wrapped up the run-through:
"Heidenheim will defend deep, they know Frankfurt can rotate and still have quality: Ekitike, Chaibi, Skhiri... and of course, the teenager everyone’s talking about, Brandt, waiting on the bench."
The match settled quickly into its expected pattern: Frankfurt on the front foot, Heidenheim pinned deep and struggling to breathe. From the first whistle, Bahoya, Chaibi, and Uzun rotated sharply across the attacking line while Ekitike prowled between the centre-backs, constantly offering himself.
In the 10th minute, the breakthrough finally ca.
Kristensen stepped up aggressively to intercept a loose Heidenheim pass and imdiately punched the ball into midfield for Højlund. One touch forward, then a slip pass wide into the right half-space where Chaibi had peeled off his marker.
Chaibi didn’t hesitate. He shaped as if to cut inside on his left, dragging Siersleben with him, before suddenly chopping the ball back onto his right and accelerating toward the corner of the box. The shift created just a pocket of daylight — enough.
He lifted his head and saw Bahoya surging into the gap between Mainka and Busch.
A crisp, skidding reverse ball split both defenders.
Bahoya t it in stride, opened up his body, and side-footed a clean finish low into the far corner past Müller. A simple, clinical strike.
1–0 Frankfurt.
The stadium erupted as the players sward Bahoya near the corner flag. The cara briefly found Lukas on the bench, smiling and applauding under his thick jacket as the roar washed over the Waldstadion.
Frankfurt had the start they wanted.
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