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[18/12/2020 | Leverkusen Performance Centre | 09:25]
The December morning was crisp and cold as Rakim pulled into the training ground’s parking lot. His breath ford small clouds in the air as he stepped out of the BMW, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’d barely slept, from the congratulatory ssages that hadn’t stopped until 3 AM.
The automatic doors slid open, and he was imdiately t with an eruption of noise. "PUSKÁS WINNER!" Diaby’s voice rang out from sowhere in the corridor, followed by the entire squad appearing from the locker room, staff included. From the looks of it, they’d been waiting for his arrival.
Wirtz led the charge, phone out, recording everything. "Ladies and gentlen, the man, the legend himself! FIFA’s finest goal scorer!"
The team surrounded him imdiately—hands clapping his shoulders, arms pulling him into embraces, voices overlapping in German, French, and broken English. Bailey jumped on his back. Each teammate gave him their own brand of congratulations, sharing in the mont.
"Alright, alright," Rakim said, trying to push through toward the locker room. "It’s just an award; we have bigger fish to fry this year."
"Take a mont to enjoy the award?" Baumgartlinger repeated, incredulous. "You beat Son Heung-min and Luis Suárez! Do you understand what that ans?"
"It ans I had a good goal."
"Sure did," Lars Bender said, shaking his head with amusent. "We’re proud of you, Rex. Seriously."
The group eventually dispersed, allowing him to breathe, but the energy remained electric. As Rakim made his way down the corridor toward the changing rooms, Bosz appeared from his office, Simon Rolfes beside him. The managing director’s expression was professional but warm.
"Rakim," Rolfes said, extending his hand. "Congratulations. Truly exceptional achievent."
"Thank you, sir."
"We have sothing special arranged." Rolfes gestured down the hallway. "If you’ll follow us?"
~~~
[09:40 | Conference Room]
The conference room had been transford. A small backdrop displaying FIFA and Bayer Leverkusen logos stood against one wall, professional lighting rigs positioned around it. A table in the centre held the physical Puskás Award trophy—gold and gleaming under the lights, more impressive in person than on screen.
Standing beside it was a woman in her forties, wearing FIFA’s official attire and holding a tablet. She smiled as they entered. "Mr Rex, I’m Claudia Müller from FIFA. Pleasure to et you."
"Likewise."
"We flew in yesterday to present the award officially," she explained. "Usually, we’d do this at the ceremony itself, but given the circumstances..." She gestured at the virtual setup they’d all been forced to adopt. "We wanted to make sure you received it properly."
Rolfes stepped forward, lifting the trophy from the table with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, the base solid and substantial. "Rakim, on behalf of Bayer 04 Leverkusen and FIFA, it is my honour to present you with the 2020 FIFA Puskás Award."
He handed it over carefully. Rakim took it, the weight settling in his palms. Up close, he could see the intricate details—the silver base and the see-through glass with the crystal ball on one end. There was writing etched in the glass, and Rex etched into the silver base.
For a mont, he just held it, processing as suddenly the award felt real, actually, a tangible achievent. "How does it feel?" Claudia asked, her tablet now recording.
"Surreal now that it is in my hand," Rakim admitted. "I’ve watched players I admire win this. Never thought I’d be holding one at seventeen."
"Your goal was exceptional. The voting wasn’t even close—you won by a significant margin."
That surprised him. "Really?"
"94 million views. 5.1 million likes. The engagent numbers were unprecedented for a Bundesliga goal." She smiled. "You’ve captured sothing special, Rakim. People respond to that."
~~~
[10:00 | Indoor Training Hall]
The photo shoot was quick but thorough. Rakim stood against the backdrop, holding the trophy in various poses as the photographer clicked away. Formal ones first—trophy at chest height, slight smile, eyes on cara. Then, more relaxed shots—the trophy set on a small podium in front of him.
"Can we get so with the team?" Rakim asked after getting tired of all the shots the man asked for.
Within minutes, the entire squad had crowded into the hall, still in training gear, everyone wanting to be part of the mont. They arranged themselves in rows—taller players at the back, shorter ones kneeling in front. Rakim stood centre, trophy held at his chest with a wide grin.
"On three," the photographer called. "One, two—"
"PUSKÁS!" the entire team shouted in unison, erupting into laughter imdiately after.
They took ten more shots—so serious, most ridiculous—Wirtz and Diaby flanking Rakim, making exaggerated proud-parent faces. The one he liked most was the one of them seemingly in discussion, with no one paying attention. "Alright, that’s enough," Bosz finally said, though he was smiling. "We have training in twenty minutes. Let’s not forget we play Bayern tomorrow."
The room sobered slightly at that reminder. Bayern Munich is now sitting four points behind Leverkusen in second place. So a win here for the German trophy collectors could put them back into contention.
They’d be coming to the BayArena hungry, and they would have to defend their lead and hopefully extend it. Rakim quickly put the trophy in his locker as he got changed into his training kit, ready to focus on football again.
~~~
[10:35 | Training Pitch]
The mood shifted the mont they stepped onto the grass. Awards and celebrations were secondary now. Tomorrow was Bayern—the biggest test of their season so far.
Bosz gathered them in a circle, clipboard in hand. "Good morning. Yesterday was great, but it’s over. Today is about collective preparation. Bayern are the best team in Germany, possibly Europe, according to last season’s standings. They will test everything we’ve built this season."
He let that sink in before continuing. "Lewandowski has 18 goals in 12 matches. Müller has 10 assists. Their pressing system is relentless. If we’re not sharp, they will punish us."
The warm-up began—dynamic stretches, light jogging, activation drills. Rakim felt the familiar rhythm settle over him, the physical movent clearing his mind of everything except the task ahead. They moved into possession drills next, Rondos in groups of seven, two defenders in the middle trying to win the ball. The intensity was high, players snapping passes quickly, barely allowing the defenders ti to react.
"Faster!" Bosz shouted. "Bayern won’t give you three seconds on the ball!"
Tactical work followed. The coaching staff had set up mannequins representing Bayern’s expected 4-2-3-1 formation. Bosz walked them through attacking patterns—how to exploit the space between Bayern’s fullbacks and centre-backs, when to press Kimmich in midfield, and where Lewandowski would likely position himself.
"Rex, Diaby—you two will be crucial," Bosz said, positioning them on either wing. "Davies and Pavard push high. When we win the ball, you imdiately attack that space. No hesitation."
They ran the drill repeatedly. Baumgartlinger winning the ball in midfield, imdiately playing it wide to Rakim, who sprinted into the channel. Cross to Schick. Goal. Reset. Again.
"Good. But faster in transitions."
They practised defensive shape next—how to stay compact when Bayern dominated possession, which triggers to press on, and when to drop into a low block. It was ticulous, exhausting work, but necessary.
"Lewandowski will drop deep to link play," Sorg explained, demonstrating with a mannequin. "Tapsoba, Sven—don’t follow him blindly. Hold your line. Let the midfielders deal with him there."
By noon, they were running situational practice matches—first team against reserves, simulating Bayern’s style. High press, quick transitions, relentless movent. The reserves, trying to impress, played with extra intensity.
Rakim found himself isolated one-on-one against Dragović on the wing. The veteran defender was physical, not giving an inch. Rakim tried to cut inside—Dragović blocked. Tried to go outside—blocked again.
Next ti, Rakim feinted inside, sold it completely, then exploded outside. The separation was minimal, but enough. His cross found Wirtz at the edge of the box, who finished first-ti. "Better! Let’s go again, Mr Puskás." The session ended at 13:00 with cool-down stretches and light jogging. Players entering the recovery wing to be treated or enter ice buckets.
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To Be Continued...
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