Javi shook his head immediately. "No. No, I wasn’t."

From the side, Anne—standing just behind—gave the tiniest shake of her head, subtle enough that Javi wouldn’t notice.

Lukas caught it.

And he chuckled.

"Yeah... okay."

Javi huffed lightly, wiping his face quickly like it proved his point. "I said I wasn’t."

"Of course," Lukas nodded, still smiling.

Then Joanna was there.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Lukas leaned into it for a moment, closing his eyes briefly as he held her back. No cameras here. No crowd. Just them.

"I missed you," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "I missed you too," as he gave her a light peck on the cheek.

João stepped in next, arms already open. "You’re unbelievable, you know that?"

They hugged, quick but solid.

"You didn’t even wait for me to get my revenge," João added as he pulled back. "You knocked my country out and then did that today?"

Lukas laughed. "You speak better German than Portuguese anyway. At this point you might as well switch."

João scoffed immediately. "No chance. I’m playing for Portugal."

"Then hurry up," Lukas shot back, grinning. "I’m waiting to beat you properly next time."

Ruben laughed behind them. "Yayyy! Lukas and João in the pitch, it’s gonna be cinema."

The tension broke into laughter.

Easy.

Familiar.

Javi stepped back in, placing both hands on Lukas’ shoulders this time, looking at him properly.

"I’m proud of you," he said. " I really am."

He said it calmly, but it landed heavier than anything else that night.

Lukas didn’t respond immediately.

He just nodded.

And for a second, the noise of the stadium, the trophy, the chaos — everything faded behind that one moment.

Around them, people started to notice.

It always happened.

First one fan.

Then another.

Phones out.

Whispers.

"Lukas... Lukas..."

A small group formed near the barrier, some calling his name, others just waiting, hoping.

He looked at his family.

They already knew.

Joanna nudged him slightly. "Go."

Lukas stepped over, smiling now as he leaned in for photos, signing whatever was handed to him—shirts, flags, even a program someone had folded carefully. The fans were buzzing, still riding the high of the win, still replaying the goal in their heads as they tried to talk to him all at once.

"You saved us!"

"That free kick—how did you even—"

"Can I get one more picture?"

He handled it easily.

Naturally.

But every now and then, he glanced back.

At them.

Still there.

Still watching.

Still proud.

And when he finally stepped back, returning to them again, the noise of the stadium swelling above them once more, Lukas let out a quiet breath.

Not exhaustion.

Not relief.

Something else.

This wasn’t just another win... It was theirs.

* * *

A few days after the Nations League Final.

Morning felt like it was scared to start.

Not because the sun was late — it was already pushing through the curtains in soft, warm lines — but because Lukas wasn’t ready to leave the night behind. His body was still heavy from everything: the match, the celebrations, the travel back, the constant stream of noise that hadn’t really stopped since the final whistle three days ago.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

"Day 3 of no LTC training," he thought as he turned around on his bed. "I really shouldn’t make this a habit."

He had given himself a week off of training after winning the Nations League. A week to not have to deal with whatever treacherous regimen TT had waiting for him.

He hadn’t missed a single day whenever TT was available, and after all that had happened that season, he was due some time away.

[*I will be waiting for you whenever you decide to come back.*] TT’s voice echoed inside his head.

"I’m already not looking forward to next week," he thought as he turned around once more in bed.

Then his phone buzzed.

He reached for it without thinking.

Unlocked it.

And instantly—

the world rushed back in.

Clips.

Edits.

Headlines.

Debates.

The first video that autoplayed was his goal again. The free kick. Different angle this time—behind the wall. He watched himself strike it, watched the ball bend, watched the net ripple, and even now, it didn’t fully feel real.

He scrolled.

Another clip.

This one slower, cinematic, zoomed in on his face before the run-up.

Caption: "Cold. Ice cold."

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

Then came the debates.

"Ballon d’Or shouts already?"

"Relax, it’s one tournament."

"Are we serious? He’s 16."

"He changed two knockout games almost single-handedly."

He kept scrolling.

Comparisons started showing up.

Split screens.

Him.

And Lamine Yamal.

"Who had the better season?"

"Yamal has Champions League performances."

"Lukas hasn’t even played UCL yet."

"Yamal won La Liga."

"Lukas didn’t win the Bundesliga."

"Yamal lost the Nations League final."

"Lukas decided it."

Back and forth.

Endless.

Some took it further.

"Top 10 Ballon d’Or already?"

"No chance."

"Too early."

"He’s in the conversation."

But most of the serious takes circled back to the same names.

Raphinha.

Ousmane Dembélé.

"They’ve done it all season."

"They’ve been consistent."

"They’ve got the numbers."

Lukas stopped scrolling for a second.

Sat there.

Thinking.

Then he locked the phone.

"Too much noise," he muttered under his breath.

He pushed himself up, ran a hand through his hair, and headed to the bathroom. The cold water helped. Cleared his head just enough. He brushed his teeth, stared at himself in the mirror for a second — really looked this time.

The face staring back at him hadn’t changed in any obvious way, but there was something sharper about it now. His features had always been defined — clean lines, a naturally structured face that didn’t need effort to look composed. His eyebrows sat slightly angled, sharp and pointed, giving him that constant look of quiet focus, even when he wasn’t trying.

His hair fell just enough to frame his face—black, soft, not long, but not cropped either. It settled naturally, slightly messy from sleep, strands resting just above his eyes without fully covering them. It wasn’t styled, but it didn’t need to be. It fit him.

But it was his eyes that held him there.

Deep.

Emerald.

Not just green — but layered, darker toward the center, lighter at the edges, catching the morning light in a way that made them almost glow. They had always been noticeable. People had told him that before.

Now, though—

They looked different.

Not in color.

In depth.

There was something behind them now. Something steadier. Something that hadn’t been there a year ago. Not just confidence, not just awareness... something heavier. Experience, maybe. Or the weight of everything that had happened.

He leaned in slightly, studying them.

Then leaned back.

Same face.

Same features.

But not the same person.

He exhaled quietly, grabbed his towel, and turned away from the mirror.

Same face.

Same person.

But everything around it had changed.

A few minutes later, he stepped out into the hallway, still in a loose t-shirt and shorts, towel draped around his neck.

It was quiet.

Normal.

Almost.

He walked into the living room—

"...Marco?"

And stopped.