The name stayed there.

Fixed.

Unmoving.

Diogo Jota.

Nagelsmann’s voice continued in the background, steady, instructive, pointing out movements and patterns on the screen, but for Lukas, it all blurred into something distant, something muffled, like it was happening behind a wall he couldn’t quite see through.

Because his mind had already gone somewhere else.

"What do I do?"

The question came quietly at first.

Then again.

"What do I do?"

It was something that had completely slipped his mind until that morning.

The fifth day of the LTC training.

He had been in the theater room, watching matches like he always did—studying, analyzing, breaking down movements. Portugal had come up in his rotation, just another team to study, another set of patterns to learn.

Then—

a substitution.

A familiar face coming on.

Jota.

And just like that—

everything had come rushing back.

Not from this life.

From before.

The memory wasn’t clear in detail, not every second, not every exact moment—but the outcome, the event itself, it had been there.

A road.

Spain.

An accident.

A tragedy.

It had been something that shook people.

Something that lingered.

And now—

that name was right there in front of him again.

Present.

Real.

"What do I do?"

His fingers tightened slightly against his thigh, though his expression didn’t change.

Inside, the thoughts kept moving.

"Do I even do anything?"

Another voice cut in.

TT.

[*Don’t be so torn up about it.*]

Lukas didn’t respond immediately.

His eyes were still on the screen, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore.

[*Just do what you can.*]

Lukas’ jaw tightened slightly.

"What can I even do?"

There was a brief pause.

"From what I remember..." he continued, "it was a road accident. In Spain. While driving."

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

"It’s not like I know him. It’s not like I’m close to him. I’ve never even spoken to him."

The thought lingered.

"So what—what am I supposed to do? Walk up to him and tell him not to go to Spain? Not to drive?"

There was a faint, almost bitter edge to it now.

"I’ll sound insane."

TT didn’t respond immediately.

Then—

[*How are you even sure it will still happen?*]

That made Lukas pause.

Really pause.

Because that—

that was the question.

"I don’t know," he admitted.

And that was the truth.

Everything had already changed.

The matches.

The results.

The players.

Him.

His existence alone had shifted things.

The butterfly effect was already in motion.

[*So how do you know that event even still exists in this timeline?*]TT pressed.

Lukas swallowed slightly.

"I don’t."

Another pause.

Then—

"But I also don’t know that it doesn’t."

Silence.

The weight of that sat heavier than anything else.

[*So what’s your plan*] TT asked. [*Go find him? Warn him? Tell him not to drive?*]

Lukas’ gaze flickered slightly.

"I don’t know."

And that was the frustrating part.

"I don’t know what the right move is."

His fingers loosened slightly.

Then tightened again.

"But I can’t just ignore it. I can’t know something like that... and do nothing."

Another pause.

Then quieter—

"Even if I’m not sure it’ll happen."

The room came back slowly.

The screen.

The voices.

Nagelsmann.

The players around him.

But the thought stayed.

Unresolved.

Nagelsmann finished speaking a few moments later, handing things over to one of his assistants, who stepped forward and began going through more specific defensive triggers and positional responsibilities.

Lukas didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

From the front of the room, Nagelsmann stepped aside slightly, his attention no longer on the screen but on the players.

And more specifically—

on Lukas.

He had seen it earlier on the pitch.

He was seeing it again now.

The lack of presence.

The distance.

He didn’t interrupt the session.

He let it run.

But he watched.

Carefully.

About thirty minutes later, the session wrapped up.

The lights came up slightly, the screen faded, and the players began to shift in their seats, some stretching, others already standing as the low murmur of conversation returned.

Chairs scraped lightly against the floor as they made their way toward the exit.

Lukas stood up with the rest, his movements automatic, his mind still elsewhere as he stepped into the aisle.

Adeyemi was just ahead of him.

Lukas reached out slightly, catching his attention with a look.

A silent question.

Adeyemi shrugged lightly.

No idea.

Lukas exhaled once.

Then—

"Lukas."

Nagelsmann’s voice.

Clear.

Direct.

"Come with me."

The movement around them slowed slightly, just for a second.

Lukas turned.

Looked at him.

Then back at Adeyemi again, who just raised his brows slightly in a good luck kind of way.

Lukas nodded faintly.

Then turned fully.

And walked toward Nagelsmann.

They left the analysis room without another word.

The corridor outside was quieter now, most of the players already dispersing toward their rooms or recovery areas. Lukas followed a few steps behind Nagelsmann, not asking anything, not trying to guess where they were going. He just walked.

Through the hallway.

Down a short set of stairs.

Out through the side door.

The air outside felt different—cooler, calmer, untouched by the noise that had filled the training pitch earlier. The field itself was empty now, the grass stretched wide under the daylight, perfectly cut, undisturbed.

Nagelsmann kept walking until he reached the edge of the pitch.

Then he stopped.

Lukas slowed behind him, coming to a halt a few steps back.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Nagelsmann stood with his hands resting loosely at his sides, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance across the empty field.

Then he spoke.

"It must have been a hectic year for you," he said.

His voice wasn’t loud.

Didn’t need to be.

Lukas shifted slightly. "Yeah," he said. "It has been... hectic."

A small pause.

"But it’s been fun too."

Nagelsmann gave a faint nod, still looking out across the pitch.

"I heard that this time last year," he continued, "you were still in the academy at Darmstadt."

Lukas let out a small breath through his nose. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

Another pause settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Nagelsmann turned slightly now, just enough to glance at Lukas.

"I know it probably feels like things are moving very fast," he said. "And they are. There’s no point pretending otherwise."

Lukas didn’t interrupt.

Nagelsmann continued, his tone steady.

"But things usually settle," he said. "They find their place. The important part is that when they do... you’ve already decided where you want to stand."

Lukas’ gaze dropped briefly to the ground.

Nagelsmann shifted his weight slightly, his hands now resting behind his back.

"If there’s something you want to do," he said, "then decide. Don’t let it become something that gets decided for you."

He paused, letting that sit.

"Because once it’s your decision," he added, "you can live with it. No matter how it turns out."

Lukas stayed quiet.

Listening.

Nagelsmann looked out across the pitch again, a faint smile forming, more to himself than anything.

"When I started coaching," he said, "it felt the same. Everything moving too fast. New level, new expectations, new pressure... and you’re still trying to catch up to it all."

He let out a small breath.

"There were moments where I felt like I was just being carried along by it. Like I wasn’t the one in control."

He glanced back at Lukas.

"So I made sure of one thing," he said. "I stayed grounded. Family, people I trust. And every decision I made—I made sure it was for the right reasons."

Lukas looked up slightly.

Nagelsmann held his gaze for a second.

"If something bothered me," he continued, "I didn’t ignore it. I dealt with it. Took the steps to change it."

A/N: Up to 5 extra Chapters available every week (bringing the weekly total from 7 to 12)

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Love, Writ.