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Lukas kept scrolling, thumb moving almost automatically, the noise of it all rising off the screen in a way that felt louder than the room around him.

More edits.

Clips from the final.

That free kick.

The third goal.

Angles from every direction.

Captions calling him everything from "the future" to "the next big thing" to things even he didn’t fully process.

He stopped scrolling.

The phone stayed in his hand, but his gaze drifted slightly away from it.

Around him, the mood had shifted.

Not dramatically.

But noticeably.

Wirtz had seen enough of the screen to understand what was going on.

"€85 million..." he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Adeyemi let out a low whistle. "That’s... mad."

Woltemade shook his head slightly. "Five months," he said. "That’s insane."

Musiala didn’t say anything.

He just watched Lukas for a second.

Lukas finally locked his phone.

Slipped it back into his pocket.

Exhaled once.

Not overwhelmed.

Not panicked.

Just... aware.

Of how fast everything had moved.

Of how real it had suddenly become.

He looked up.

And for the first time since they had walked into the gym, there was a slight pause in him—just a fraction longer than before.

Then he shook his head lightly.

Lukas slipped his phone back into his pocket, the noise from it still echoing in his head even after the screen went dark.

"Guess it’s out now," he said.

There was a brief pause around him, the kind that comes when everyone is processing the same thing but no one quite knows what to say next.

From a few steps away, Robin Koch turned his head.

He had clearly caught enough of it.

"What?" he said, walking over, his brows slightly furrowed. "You’re leaving?"

Lukas looked at him and shook his head lightly. "I didn’t plan to," he said. "The club told me yesterday. They’ve decided to accept the offers."

Koch stopped in front of him, absorbing that. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

"Wow..." he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

Then he looked back at Lukas. "So... have you decided? Where you’re going?"

Lukas shook his head again. "Not yet," he said. "And honestly... that’s not what I’m thinking about right now."

Koch studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. There wasn’t much else to say. The situation spoke for itself.

"Yeah," he said. "Fair."

The group drifted apart again, players moving back into their routines, conversations splitting off into smaller pockets. But the energy had shifted, even if no one made a big deal out of it.

Because now everyone knew.

* * *

The next morning felt heavier.

Not physically.

Mentally.

The squad gathered early for their usual pre-breakfast session—light drills, mobility work, activation routines. Nothing intense, just enough to get the body moving before the day properly began.

But something was off.

Lukas moved through the motions.

Stretch.

Rotate.

Short jog.

Balance work.

From a distance, it all looked normal. He wasn’t missing steps, wasn’t slowing down the group, wasn’t making mistakes.

But up close—

he wasn’t there.

Normally, there was a sharpness to him, even in something as simple as a warm-up. Focus in his eyes, quick reactions, a kind of quiet energy that carried through everything he did.

This time, that edge wasn’t there.

His gaze drifted.

His timing was just a fraction slower.

His body was present, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Adeyemi noticed it first.

He slowed slightly as they moved into a set of lateral movements, glancing sideways before leaning toward Woltemade.

"Is he like this during club training?" he asked quietly.

Koch followed his gaze, watching Lukas for a second before shaking his head. "No," he said. "He’s usually locked in. Like... fully locked in."

Adeyemi frowned slightly. "Yeah," he said. "This isn’t that."

On the sideline, Nagelsmann noticed too.

He stood with his arms folded, observing the group, his eyes moving from one player to the next before settling on Lukas. He watched him through a full sequence, noting the small details — the delayed reactions, the lack of intensity, the way his attention seemed to drift between movements.

He turned slightly toward his assistant.

"Is everything okay with him?" Nagelsmann asked quietly. "He looks... off."

The assistant coach exhaled lightly. "There’s been some news," he said. "About his future. Uncertainty. It’s probably affecting him."

Nagelsmann’s expression tightened slightly.

He didn’t respond immediately, just looked back at Lukas for another moment.

One of his most in-form players.

And now—

this.

He didn’t need that before a semi-final.

But he also didn’t interrupt.

Not yet.

He simply watched.

The feeling carried into breakfast.

The dining area was more relaxed, players seated in small groups, eating, talking, preparing for the day ahead. But Lukas remained quieter than usual, focused on his food, responding when spoken to but not initiating much.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

And it didn’t need to be addressed out loud.

Not yet.

A little later, the squad moved toward the analysis room.

The walk there was short, but the conversations along the way filled the space. Adeyemi and Wirtz fell in beside Lukas, the three of them moving at the same pace.

Wirtz glanced at him briefly.

"You good?" he asked. "You look like your head’s somewhere else."

Lukas looked at him, almost surprised by the question.

"Really?" he said.

Wirtz gave a small nod. "Yeah."

Lukas shook his head lightly. "Nah," he said. "I’m good. Just... something I’m dealing with."

Adeyemi looked at him. "Is it about your future?"

Lukas exhaled softly. "It’s not that," he said. "Not really. It’s just... something personal. I’ll sort it out."

There was a brief pause.

Wirtz nodded. "Alright."

Adeyemi didn’t push either. "Yeah," he said. "Handle it."

They didn’t press further.

They didn’t need to.

The analysis room was already dim when they entered.

Players took their seats, the low hum of conversation fading as the last few settled in. The projector screen at the front flickered to life, casting a soft glow across the room.

A few seconds later, Nagelsmann walked in.

No wasted movement.

No small talk.

He picked up the remote, glanced briefly at the room to make sure everyone was settled, then clicked.

The screen changed.

Portugal.

Clips began to play—build-up sequences, transitions, attacking patterns.

Nagelsmann stepped slightly to the side of the screen.

"Watch this," he said, pointing as the footage rolled. "Nuno Mendes—here. Look at the timing of his runs. He doesn’t wait. The moment the ball turns, he’s already going."

The clip looped again.

"And if we don’t track that early, he’s in behind before we even react."

Click.

Next clip.

"Bruno," Nagelsmann said. "Everything goes through him in these moments. If he has space here"—he pointed again—"he will find the pass. Every time."

The players watched.

Focused.

Taking it in.

"Compactness," Nagelsmann continued. "That’s the key. We don’t give him this space."

Another click.

"Ronaldo," he said simply.

The room didn’t need more explanation, but he gave it anyway.

"Still dangerous. Still decisive. You lose him for one second, he finishes."

The clips continued.

Patterns.

Movements.

Weak points.

Strengths.

Everything broken down.

Then—

the screen changed.

The footage faded out, replaced by a graphic.

Portugal’s predicted lineup.

Names appeared across the pitch diagram.

Vitinha.

Bruno Fernandes.

Nuno Mendes.

Familiar.

Expected.

Then below, a smaller list—bench options.

Substitutes.

Players who could come on.

Lukas stared at the screen.

At first, it was just part of the overall picture.

Then—

his eyes locked onto one name.

Everything else faded slightly.

The voices.

The explanations.

The room.

He wasn’t really hearing Nagelsmann anymore.

His focus narrowed.

That name.

He read it once.

Then again.

"Diogo Jota."

And for a moment—

that was all he saw.

A/N: New announcement out on the YouTube community. Please check it out. Also voting ends soon so make sure you go vote. Thank you for your continued support.

Love, Writ.