Matchday Dawn

Julian arrived at the HSV Campus by 08:30, travel bag slung over his shoulder, the crisp navy of his HSV jacket catching the morning light. The air carried that matchday hum—half tension, half promise.

He'd already texted Crest and David; both had left early, driving ahead to Emden. They wouldn't miss his first step onto a professional pitch.

"Julian!"

Mageed's voice broke through the buzz. He jogged over, hair still damp from a quick shower, grinning like it was a field trip.

"Ready for the travel?"

Julian smirked. "Of course. Long ride?"

"Hmm… about four hours." Mageed adjusted his own duffel, then leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting Julian in on a secret. "We'll stop halfway for food. Coach Soner always does."

Julian nodded. "You've been there before?"

"Yeah. Once." Mageed's tone shifted, a little more serious now. "Ostfriesland-Stadion. Old-school ground—tight stands, loud fans. Holds about twelve thousand. Not a fortress, but when they get going? Feels like one."

Julian took that in, eyes narrowing slightly. Twelve thousand. Twelve thousand eyes.

He'd played before crowds before—school tournaments, friendlies—but this was different. Real league. Real stakes.

One chance to turn whispers into belief.

"Sounds perfect," he murmured.

Mageed grinned. "You're weird, man. Everyone gets nervous before away days. You look like you're about to duel somebody."

Julian's lips curved. "Maybe I am."

One by one, the HSV II squad gathered at the plaza.

Anssi arrived next—calm, steady, captain's aura wrapped around him like armor.

Then came Hannes Hermann, towering at 191 centimeters, the kind of frame that turned goalposts into a cage.

The group swelled—voices low, laughter thin, energy coiled.

This wasn't schoolboy football anymore. Every name here had weight, every glance a question: Are you strong enough to stand beside us?

Then the sound came—brakes sighing, doors hissing open.

A sleek blue bus rolled to a stop, the HSV crest glinting against its polished side.

Coach Soner stood by the entrance, clipboard in hand, nodding each player through.

"Let's move. Four hours ahead—settle in, hydrate, focus."

Julian stepped forward, bag slung over his shoulder.

As he climbed the stairs, he felt it—eyes on his back.

Cold. Steady. Measuring.

He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Omar Sillah.

The current number nine.

The man whose spot Julian had just taken.

They hadn't spoken once since training began.

Not a word, not even a nod. Just that silence—sharp, frigid, heavy with unspoken challenge.

Julian smirked faintly, sliding into his seat by the window. You can stare all you want. The pitch will talk soon enough.

The doors hissed shut. The engine rumbled alive.

Hamburg began to drift past the glass, city fading into road, road fading into horizon.

A new battlefield awaited.

…

The team bus rumbled out of Hamburg, its deep diesel growl echoing through the narrow streets near the training ground. The city was still half-asleep — a blur of gray roofs, steaming coffee kiosks, and morning mist clinging to the Elbe.

Inside, the players settled into their seats, some with headphones on, some staring blankly out the window as the skyline shrank behind them.

The road north-west stretched long and quiet. Once they cleared the city's edges, the world opened up — rolling green fields, wind turbines turning lazily, and distant farmhouses framed by thin lines of trees.

Now and then, they'd pass through a sleepy village: red brick houses, old churches, and the faint smell of wood smoke curling into the air.

Julian watched the clouds shift like slow waves. The autobahn hummed beneath them, a steady rhythm of tires on asphalt.

Every hour or so, the driver would pull into a rest stop — a brief pause for stretching, a cup of strong coffee, maybe a joke from Mageed that got half a laugh. Then the bus would slide back onto the road, the scenery growing flatter, wilder.

As they entered East Frisia, the sky seemed to widen endlessly — gray-blue horizons melting into flat pastureland dotted with sheep and drainage canals.

The windmills grew taller here, and the sea air began to seep through the ventilation, carrying that faint tang of salt and distance.

By the time the first signs for Emden appeared, the mood inside the bus had changed. Conversations quieted. Phones were tucked away.

The easy calm of travel gave way to the sharper pulse of anticipation. The coach stood up briefly, giving last words about focus, positioning, and discipline — his voice calm, but iron underneath.

Then, as they crossed the bridge into town, the Ostfriesland-Stadion came into view — low stands wrapped around a green pitch, banners fluttering in the coastal wind. A modest arena, but proud; the kind of place that smelled of real football — grass, rain, and years of echoes.

The bus slowed, turning past a cluster of supporters waving blue-and-white scarves. A few locals watched from behind a fence, phones raised, faces eager.

Julian pressed his forehead to the glass and exhaled — the long road from Hamburg had ended here, in the salt air and gray light of Emden.

…

Players stirred as the engine cut off. Bags were hoisted, jackets zipped. The door hissed open, spilling them into the brisk North Sea air.

It bit at Julian's cheeks—clean, cold, alive. He rolled his shoulders once, letting the weight of travel slip away.

"Welcome to Emden," Mageed muttered beside him, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Hope you packed your fire."

Julian smirked faintly. "Always."

They followed Coach Soner and the staff toward a small hotel just a few blocks from the stadium. The building was old brick and glass—simple, practical, the kind of place that existed to house focus, not luxury.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. Check-in went quickly. Room keys exchanged, curfews repeated, meal times set.

"Dinner at seven. Lights out by ten," Coach Soner announced. "Tomorrow, we walk into their house. But we don't knock. We enter."

A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the players—low voices, brief nods, that quiet unity of a team on the brink.

Julian followed Mageed up the narrow stairwell to their floor. The corridor was lined with framed photos of coastal landscapes—windmills, seagulls, gray skies. All of it calm. Too calm.

In his room, Julian dropped his bag onto the bed, pulling back the curtain. From the window, he could just make out the stadium lights in the distance—faint halos against the dusk.

He pressed a hand against the glass. Tomorrow.

Another pitch. Another proving ground.

He turned away, pulling out his boots—the dull gray pair resting quietly in his hands. No shine. No name. Not yet.

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Let's earn it."

Outside, the sea wind swept across Emden, rattling the windows like a whisper from the waves—steady, cold, and full of promise.

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