He was still staring at the wall when his phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't the team chat — it was Joanna. Her name flashed across the screen, and despite the long day, Lukas couldn't help but smile faintly as he answered.

"Hey," he said quietly, his voice a little rough.

"Hey," she replied, her tone soft and warm. "I was watching the match."

Lukas exhaled and leaned back against his pillow. "Yeah. Not the ending we wanted."

"I know," she said. "I couldn't make it to the stadium because of that history paper I had to finish. But I streamed it while I was writing. You looked good out there, Lukas. Really good."

He gave a small, tired laugh. "Didn't change much though, did it? Still lost."

"You can't think like that," Joanna said gently. "You came on and changed the tempo completely. Everyone saw it. Even the commentators were talking about how different Frankfurt looked after you came on."

Lukas didn't respond right away. He just listened to her voice — calm, steady, the kind that could quiet his mind even after a game like this.

"I'll be there for the second leg," she continued. "I already checked my schedule. No excuses this time."

He smiled. "You sure you can handle the crowd again? It gets loud when we play in Europe."

"I'll bring earplugs," she joked, making him laugh softly. Then her voice lowered. "Hey, don't let tonight get to you, okay? You did your part. Football's cruel sometimes, but that's what makes the good moments mean something."

Lukas nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah. Thanks, Jo."

"Get some rest," she said. "You've got a big week ahead."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Luke. I love you."

"I love you too, Jo."

The call ended. For a few seconds, the room was silent again, only the distant hum of the city breaking through. Lukas placed his phone face down on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and lay back gradually succumbing to the physical and emotional tiredness of the night.

Although not his first time losing, and definitely not his fault as he only got north of 15 minutes of game time, the loss had affected Lukas even more severely than the one against Bayern Munich or Roma for different reasons.

The match against Bayern was in enemy territory and Eintracht Frankfurt were massive underdogs going into that match and they put up a massive show in the Allianz Arena and only lost the game in the dying minute.

However in this game, they played at home, off the back of a decent run of form, against a team that most people would expect them to beat relatively easily, but they still ended up losing.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew it wouldn't be the last time in his career that his team would lose a game everyone expected them to win. Worse even, the time could come where he would have a bad game, maybe a few of them in a row.

He knew the same way he was being built up by both the media and the fans right now, he could be turn back down by that same group when that time comes.

These were all things he had to fortify his mentality for.

* * *

A couple days ago, March 8th, 2025.

It was one of those gray afternoons in Bremen when the sky hung heavy over the Weser-Stadion, pale light resting on the green like a thin veil. Leverkusen arrived as the machine of the moment, methodical and ruthless, yet Alonso chose restraint. He kept Florian Wirtz on the bench, saving him for the great clash to come against Bayern in Europe.

For forty-five minutes, Leverkusen played well but without their pulse. When the teams returned, Alonso finally gestured to his number ten. Wirtz entered the field, and the rhythm changed instantly. Passes seemed to breathe again. The crowd rose with a murmur that carried both admiration and relief.

Then, ten minutes later, everything stopped.Wirtz broke into a familiar dart, light on his feet, the ball close to his boots. But as he pushed forward, his face twisted in pain. He slowed, pressed a hand to his thigh, and looked toward the bench. The noise in the stadium faded into a dull hum. Alonso stood frozen for a second before signaling the inevitable.

Wirtz limped off with the help of two trainers. The applause was gentle, uncertain, and the gray sky above seemed to mirror the mood of every heart in the ground.

At that moment, no one knew what had begun.No one knew that this small, quiet injury would send ripples far beyond Bremen. That it would open a door hundreds of kilometers away in Frankfurt. That a sixteen-year-old boy named Lukas Brandt would soon walk through it, carrying with him the spark that would reshape not only a team but perhaps the very story of German football itself.

* * *

Monday after the match against Union Berlin.

The DFB Campus in Frankfurt am Main was anything but quiet this time. Outside, the training fields shimmered faintly in the morning sun, while journalists and photographers gathered beyond the fences, sensing there might be news brewing inside.

Upstairs, in the same conference room with glass walls and the familiar spread of scouting sheets and coffee mugs, the national team staff had reconvened — but the tone in the room was far from relaxed. The weekend's matches had left them with more than a few problems to solve.

At the head of the table, Julian Nagelsmann scrolled through his tablet, eyes narrowing slightly as a notification blinked across the screen — "Wirtz out for 3–4 weeks, thigh strain confirmed."

Across from him, Rudi Völler leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "That's it, then," he said with a sigh. "Wirtz is officially ruled out. We need a creative option to replace him."

Benjamin Glück nodded. "We can't go into the Italy game without someone who can play between the lines. Wirtz and Musiala were supposed to carry that weight together."

"Musiala's fit," said Rachel Schar, taking a sip from her coffee. "But he can't do it alone. You know who I'm going to suggest."

Völler let out a dry laugh. "Rachel, I already know. You're going to say Brandt again, aren't you?"

"Yes, and I'll keep saying it until someone listens." She leaned forward, eyes bright with conviction. "I watched that Frankfurt–Union game. The kid came on with fifteen minutes left and nearly turned the match around single-handedly. You can't teach that kind of spark. He's ready."

Nagelsmann didn't reply right away. His thumb hovered above the tablet screen as he replayed clips from that same match — Lukas beating four defenders before winning the penalty, then dropping to the turf after the final whistle. There was something there — not just talent, but temperament.

Glück noticed his hesitation. "You said last time the pressure might be too much," he reminded him carefully. "You still feel that way?"

Nagelsmann exhaled slowly. "I did," he admitted. "But that was before he kept doing it week after week. He's not just surviving the pressure — he's thriving under it. Sixteen or not, he's carrying Frankfurt's attack."

Rudi Völler tapped a pen against the table. "And he's German-born, Frankfurt academy product. The public would love that story — fresh blood, homegrown talent."

Rachel smirked. "You mean they'd love it almost as much as he deserves it."

A small chuckle broke the tension in the room, but Nagelsmann's mind was already made up. He put the tablet down and looked at his staff.

"All right," he said firmly. "Brandt comes in for Wirtz."

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