Txiki inclined his head slightly.
"But," Javi continued, "at this mont, we do not believe the Premier League is the right next step for Lukas."
There was no aggression in his voice. No defensiveness. Just certainty.
"Pep Guardiola is an exceptional coach," Javi went on. "One of the best the ga has ever seen. But he is on a short contract, and football changes quickly. Lukas needs continuity right now. Stability. He has found that in Frankfurt."
Txiki listened without interrupting, hands folded, expression neutral.
"My son has been very clear," Javi said. "He does not want to leave this sumr. And I support that. Unless sothing truly extraordinary changes, we will not be pursuing a transfer."
He paused, then added, softer but no less firm:
"I’m sorry, Mr. Begiristain. But this is not the right ti."
For a mont, the room was quiet again—cutlery resting, glasses untouched.
Then Txiki nodded.
"I respect that," he said simply. "And I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Brandt."
Lena glanced between them, sensing the finality in Javi’s tone, but also the professionalism that had kept the conversation civil, even cordial.
The dinner continued after that — lighter topics, safer ground — but the ssage had already been delivered, clear and unmistakable.
For now, Lukas Brandt was staying where he was.
Deep down, however, Txiki had no plans of giving up just yet.
* * *
Saturday morning arrived quietly at the ProfiCamp, the adrenaline of Thursday night finally giving way to routine. The complex was calm in a way it rarely was during the season’s decisive stretch, with players scattered between recovery stations rather than gathered in one place. So lay face-down on massage tables with their eyes closed, others worked through mobility drills in silence, and a few simply sat on benches scrolling through their phones, letting their bodies catch up after the emotional and physical toll of the week.
Lukas had just stepped out of the sauna, steam still clinging to his skin as he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed toward the ice bath. The contrast hit imdiately — the sharp bite of cold waiting for him — but before he could fully subrge, Larsson’s voice cut through the room.
"Careful," Larsson said, grinning down at his phone. "If you stay in there too long, people will say you’re trying to preserve the legs for your next halfway-line goal."
Lukas shook his head with a laugh as he lowered himself into the ice, hissing quietly at the temperature. "You people are never letting that go, are you?"
Knauff, stretching nearby, looked over and smirked. "Why would we? That’s the second ti this season you’ve done that. Bayern away, now Bilbao. At this point, keepers should just panic anyti you cross the halfway line."
Larsson scrolled a little more and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, this one’s good. Soone just posted your Europa League stats. You’ve scored or assisted in every single ga you’ve played in the competition so far."
Lukas glanced over, half-curious, half-embarrassed. "What is it now?"
"Seven goals," Larsson said, tapping the screen for emphasis. "Eight assists. Six gas. You’re joint-top assister with Cherki — except he’s played double the matches."
Uzun let out a low whistle from across the room. "That’s ridiculous," he said honestly. Then, after a brief pause, his expression shifted. "But... it’s kind of scary too. First leg against United without you? That’s not exactly ideal."
Before Lukas could respond, a hand landed lightly, but deliberately, on the back of Uzun’s head.
"Are you saying you can’t beat Manchester United at ho?" Toppmöller asked, eyebrow raised, voice dry but amused.
The room burst into laughter as Uzun imdiately protested, rubbing the back of his head. "That’s not what I ant, coach!"
Toppmöller shook his head, smiling now. "Good. Because if this team can’t handle one ga without Lukas, then we’ve got bigger problems than suspensions."
Lukas leaned back against the edge of the ice bath, water up to his waist, a small but confident smile on his face. "I believe in them," he said simply. "With the fans behind us, they’ll get sothing."
Toppmöller nodded once, satisfied, before clapping his hands to refocus the group. "Enjoy the recovery, boys. Because we’re not living in Thursday anymore."
He glanced around the room, letting the words settle.
"The bus to Augsburg leaves in three hours."
* * *
The lights of the WWK Arena cut cleanly through the late-evening sky as the broadcast faded in, the cara sweeping across the stands where red and green scarves were already in motion. The noise wasn’t hostile, but it was purposeful — Augsburg knew exactly what this night represented for them.
Andres Cordero’s voice settled in first.
"Good evening from Bavaria, and welco to Augsburg. Matchday thirty, and while this may not decide the title, it could very well decide the shape of the run-in for everyone involved."
Chris Wittyngham picked it up smoothly.
"Augsburg need just one point from their remaining five matches to mathematically secure survival. Frankfurt, on the other hand, are staring at sothing much bigger — three points from their next five guarantees Champions League football next season. But here’s the twist: anything other than a Frankfurt win tonight, and Bayern Munich are crowned champions without kicking a ball."
The cara cut briefly to a pocket of Frankfurt fans high in the away end, flags waving defiantly.
"The league title itself," Cordero continued, "was never really Frankfurt’s pursuit. That slipped away earlier in the season. But what has been remarkable is their form since January. Spectacular, really."
Wittyngham didn’t hesitate.
"And the January story has a face. Lukas Brandt. Since his debut in the first team, Frankfurt have looked like a different side — more daring, more vertical, more decisive in the final third."
The cara found Lukas during warm-ups, tugging at his sleeves, calm and focused despite the murmurs swirling around him.
"Of course," Wittyngham added, "that transformation hasn’t gone unnoticed. Spain. England. Eyes everywhere. Keeping Lukas this sumr will not be easy. But if Frankfurt manage it, and add quality around him, next season could be anything."
A beat.
"But first things first. Frankfurt don’t want to hand Bayern the title tonight. If Bayern are going to win it, they’ll have to earn it themselves."
The graphic slid onto the screen as the comntators ran through the Frankfurt lineup, adjusted up top: Trapp in goal; Kristensen, Koch, Tuta, Theate across the back; Brown, Skhiri, Larsson, Chaïbi in midfield; and this ti, Ekitike partnered by Lukas Brandt in a front two.
The players took their positions. Final checks. A glance between captains.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
A sharp blast cut through the air.
Augsburg kicked off to a swell of ho support, and the night, heavy with consequence, was underway.
From the opening whistle, the pattern was clear. Augsburg dropped deep, almost imdiately retreating into two compact lines just outside their own box. There was no pretense of pressing high or trading possession. Their intention was survival, pure and simple. Every Frankfurt touch in the middle third was t with patience rather than aggression, every forward run tracked, every passing lane narrowed.
Eintracht, by contrast, settled into a steady rhythm. Koch and Tuta circulated the ball calmly, Skhiri and Larsson probing for angles, Lukas drifting laterally across the front line, trying to pull markers out of position. The dominance was territorial rather than explosive. Frankfurt had the ball, Augsburg had the space behind it locked down.
Whenever Augsburg did win possession, it was released early and direct. Long balls into channels, quick sprints from wide areas, then an imdiate retreat once the counter fizzled out. It was not pretty, but it was disciplined, and it frustrated the away team.
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