A quick break down the flank, a cut inside, a finish that left no chance.

"1–0 already?" Adeyemi sat up. "Yeah... okay."

Before France could even settle—

second.

Merino.

A quickfire double.

2–0.

The room reacted immediately.

"No way," someone muttered.

"They’re cooking them," another voice said, half-laughing.

Wirtz shook his head slightly. "This is what I mean."

Lukas leaned back slightly, watching it unfold, eyes narrowing just a bit. Spain weren’t just good—they were overwhelming.

Then came the third.

Yamal.

From the penalty spot.

Cool.

Composed.

3–0.

Adeyemi let out a low whistle. "This kid..."

"He’s ridiculous," Wirtz said, almost in disbelief. "How old is he again?"

"Doesn’t matter," Kimmich replied. "He’s already elite."

The fourth followed not long after.

Pedri.

Clinical.

4–0.

The room had shifted from casual watching to full attention now.

Even the ones who had been joking earlier were quiet.

Because this—

this was a statement.

Mbappé pulled one back.

A penalty.

4–1.

"Okay," Adeyemi leaned forward. "Maybe?"

But then—

Yamal again.

5–1.

The room erupted.

"Yeah, nah," someone said, shaking their head. "Game over."

"That’s crazy," Pavlović added. "Five."

Wirtz leaned back now, arms crossed, processing it. "We’re playing them," he said quietly.

No one argued.

The game should have died there.

But it didn’t.

Cherki.

A volley.

5–2.

Then an own goal.

5–3.

Kolo Muani.

5–4.

The room came alive again.

"WAIT," Adeyemi shouted, sitting up straight. "Nah, nah, nah—this is not over!"

Even Lukas leaned forward slightly now.

Spain suddenly looked shaky.

France pushed.

Pressed.

Drove forward with everything.

"Where was this earlier?" someone shouted at the screen.

But time—

time was against them.

And eventually—

it ran out.

Final whistle.

5–4.

Spain through.

The room exhaled collectively.

"That was insane," Pavlović said.

"No defence," Adeyemi added. "Just vibes."

Wirtz shook his head, a faint smile forming. "We’re going to have to be sharp. One mistake against them and it’s done."

"Especially that guy," Kimmich said, nodding toward the screen where Yamal was being shown again.

"Yeah," Adeyemi agreed. "He’s different."

"Not the only one," someone else added. "They’ve got threats everywhere."

Then—

another voice cut in.

"Still... we’ve got ours."

A few heads turned.

Toward Lukas.

He didn’t react at first.

Then he just gave a small shrug. "It’s one game," he said simply.

But the room didn’t move on immediately.

Because everyone had seen it.

Everyone.

His goal from the day before.

Phones started coming out again.

Clips replayed.

Angles.

Slow motion.

"That run..." Pavlović said, shaking his head. "I still don’t understand how you did that."

"You went through like five guys," Adeyemi added. "Five."

"And chipped the keeper like it was nothing," Wirtz said.

Kimmich just looked at him for a second. "You know that’s everywhere now, right?"

Lukas raised a brow. "Everywhere?"

"Everywhere," Adeyemi repeated, holding up his phone. "Clips, edits, commentary—people are calling it one of the best goals they’ve seen this year."

Lukas exhaled lightly through his nose, shaking his head just a bit. "People get excited."

"They should," Wirtz said.

Then—

a familiar voice from behind.

"Yeah, I saw it too."

Lukas didn’t even turn immediately.

He already knew.

He looked over his shoulder.

There he was.

Jamal Musiala.

In full Bayern training gear.

Again.

Lukas blinked once. "Why are you always here?"

The room laughed.

Musiala spread his hands slightly. "I live here."

"Not in our meetings," Adeyemi shot back.

Musiala grinned. "I just finished physio. Came to see how my boys are doing."

"Your boys?" Wirtz raised a brow.

Musiala pointed at the screen. "You’re about to play Spain. That’s serious."

Then he looked back at Lukas. "And also... I wanted to see the star of the show."

Lukas shook his head slightly, smiling. "Relax."

Musiala stepped closer. "No, seriously. That goal... what was that?"

"Just ran," Lukas replied.

"Yeah?" Musiala laughed. "Just ran through half a team."

The room chuckled again.

Musiala leaned against the back of the chair beside Lukas.

"So," he said casually, "final coming up."

"Yeah."

"You scoring again?"

Lukas glanced at him, a small smirk forming.

"If I do," he said, "I’ll do your celebration."

Musiala blinked.

Then burst out laughing.

"Deal," he said. "I’m holding you to that."

Adeyemi leaned in. "Nah, now you have to score."

Wirtz added, "No pressure."

Kimmich just shook his head, smiling faintly.

The screen continued showing post-match analysis.

Spain celebrating.

France walking off.

The road ahead was clear now.

Germany vs Spain.

Final.

And as the room slowly emptied, players getting up, stretching, heading out—

the mood had shifted again.

Less relaxed.

More focused.

Because now—

they knew exactly what was waiting for them.

And they also knew—

they had someone who could change everything.

Again.

As they walked out, Koch’s phone rang. He saw the called and answered immediately, and his expression as he called Lukas and hurried towards him.

* * *

Earlier that day, before Spain had beated France to confirm their spot in the Nations League Final, something was building around the ProfiCamp.

By midday, they had gathered.

Not thousands.

Not yet.

But enough.

Enough to be heard.

Outside the gates of Eintracht Frankfurt’s training complex, a growing crowd of supporters stood shoulder to shoulder, red, black, and white scarves draped around their necks despite the warmth. Some had come straight from the city, others from further out, word spreading quickly overnight after the reports broke.

Phones in hands.

Banners in the air.

Voices rising.

"Kein Verkauf unseres Juwels!"

(Don’t sell our jewel)

The chant started from somewhere near the front.

Then spread.

"Kein Verkauf unseres Juwels!"

A few flares lit up, red smoke curling into the sky as the rhythm of clapping followed. The energy wasn’t violent—it wasn’t chaotic—but it was angry. Focused. Directed.

A statement.

One banner stretched across the front barrier read:

"5 MONATE. EIN HELD. UND IHR VERKAUFT IHN?"

(5 months. A hero. And you sell him?)

Another:

"EUROPA GEWONNEN – AMBITION VERLOREN."

(Won Europe – Lost ambition.)

A group of older fans stood slightly behind the main line, shaking their heads as they watched.

"85 million..." one muttered. "Of course they take it."

"And then what?" another replied. "We rebuild again? Start over again? Every time?"

"You don’t sell players like that," the first said. "Not after what he just did."

Closer to the front, younger fans were louder.

More emotional.

"This is small club mentality!" someone shouted.

"We finally have something and they sell it!"

"Let him stay one more year at least!"

The chants picked up again.

Now sharper.

Now more pointed.

"Vorstand raus! Vorstand raus!"

(Board out! Board out!)

Inside the facility, the noise carried.

Not fully.

But enough.

Enough to be felt.

Players moving through the corridors slowed slightly, some glancing toward the windows, toward the source of the sound. Staff members spoke in quieter tones than usual. Phones buzzed constantly.

Everyone knew.

Near the entrance gate, a small group of media had already gathered, cameras pointed, microphones out, capturing the scene as it grew. The story was writing itself.

Europa League winners.

Breakout superstar.

€85 million.

And now—

this.

A fan stepped forward, lifting his scarf high as his voice cut through the noise.

"Er ist einer von uns!"

(He is one of us!)

And that one—

That one stuck.

Because it wasn’t about the money.

Not really.

It was about what he represented.