The Bayern campus had a different kind of energy that Sunday.

Not frantic. Not loud.

Focused.

It was late afternoon, just past 4 p.m., and the final tactical session had just wrapped up. The players drifted out in small groups, some stretching idly, others walking with drinks in hand, conversations low and relaxed. The real tension—the kind that sat in your chest—hadn’t arrived yet.

Not until later.

For now, it was calm

Inside the common area, a few screens were already on.

France vs Portugal.

Third-place playoff.

Background noise.

But still football.

Lukas stood in front of one of the televisions, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on the screen as the game played out. Around him, a few teammates lingered, watching without fully committing, conversations overlapping with the commentary.

Then—

it happened.

Olise.

He picked the ball up just outside the box, gliding forward with that smooth, almost lazy elegance. One touch to set it. Another to open his body.

Then the strike.

Left foot.

Clean.

The ball bent just enough, kissing the inside of the post before settling into the corner.

Goal.

"Yeah..." someone muttered behind Lukas. "That’s cold."

Lukas didn’t say anything at first. He just nodded slightly, eyes still on the replay as Olise jogged away, celebration controlled, almost understated.

Then—

"Michael is a top player."

Lukas didn’t even turn.

He already knew.

"Of course you’re here," he said.

Musiala stepped up beside him, hands in his pockets, watching the replay with a small smile. "I told you. I live here."

Lukas let out a quiet breath through his nose.

Musiala tilted his head slightly toward the screen. "Imagine that," he said. "Him on one side... you on the other."

Lukas finally turned to look at him. "We’re not doing this again."

Musiala grinned. "Why not?"

"Because I’m not joining Bayern," Lukas said plainly.

Musiala shrugged. "You don’t know that."

"I do," Lukas replied. "And even if I didn’t... where am I playing?"

Musiala raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You," Lukas said, pointing at him. "You’re not getting benched. So where does that leave me?"

Musiala laughed. "Bro, you think it’s that simple?"

"Yes," Lukas said dryly. "It is."

"It’s not," Musiala shot back. "You can play ten. You can drift left. Olise on the right. Me inside. Two tens if we have to. Kompany will figure it out."

Lukas shook his head slightly. "Yeah... or I sit on the bench for half the season."

"That’s not happening."

"It does happen," Lukas replied. "All the time."

Musiala looked at him for a second, then said, "You’re different."

Lukas gave him a look. "Relax."

"I’m serious," Musiala insisted. "You’re not a normal player."

Lukas smirked faintly. "That’s exactly what everyone says before someone ends up on the bench."

A few nearby players chuckled.

Musiala exhaled, then shook his head. "So what, you’re just ruling it out?"

"For now?" Lukas said. "Yeah."

Musiala narrowed his eyes slightly. "Why?"

"Because if I’m leaving Frankfurt," Lukas said, "I’m not staying in Germany."

That made Musiala pause.

"Not yet," Lukas added. "I want something different first."

Musiala studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

They both turned back to the screen as the match continued.

For a few seconds, neither spoke.

Then, as Lukas started to walk away, Musiala called after him.

"Don’t forget."

Lukas glanced back.

"My celebration," Musiala said with a grin.

Lukas shook his head, smiling. "We’ll see."

* * *

Night came quickly.

And with it—

the weight.

The Allianz Arena was alive long before kickoff.

Floodlights blazing.

Fans already singing.

A sea of color filling every corner of the stadium.

Germany vs Spain.

Final.

On the pitch, the players moved through their warm-ups, the rhythm familiar but the stakes unmistakable. Passes zipped across the grass, boots thudding against the ball, coaches shouting instructions from the sidelines.

Lukas stood near the halfway line, exchanging quick passes with Wirtz. One touch, two touch, move, repeat. His body moved automatically, but his mind—

his mind was sharp.

Focused.

Then—

he felt it.

That feeling.

Like someone watching.

He stopped for a fraction of a second, the ball rolling back toward Wirtz as he turned his head.

And saw him.

Lamine Yamal

Standing on the other side of the pitch.

Looking straight at him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Yamal said something to Pedri, a small smile forming as he turned away, jogging back toward his teammates.

Lukas frowned slightly.

"What was that about?" he muttered.

Wirtz followed his gaze, then smirked. "What?"

"That," Lukas said.

Wirtz shrugged. "Probably nothing."

Another voice cut in from behind.

"Or maybe," Adeyemi said, stepping in, "he just realized he’s about to play against you."

Lukas rolled his eyes. "Relax."

Adeyemi grinned. "Bro, do you know how crazy this is? Two guys—your age, his age—and people are already saying you’re the best in the world."

Lukas shook his head. "Stop."

"I’m serious," Adeyemi said.

"Stop with the flattery," Lukas replied, nudging the ball back toward Wirtz.

Wirtz chuckled. "He’s not wrong though."

Lukas didn’t respond.

He just turned and kept moving.

Warm-ups ended.

The players headed back inside.

Final words.

Final adjustments.

Then—

they walked out again.

The anthem echoed through the stadium, both sets of players lined up, flags waving in the stands as the noise swelled into something almost physical.

The anthems faded.

But the noise didn’t.

It never really did at the Allianz Arena—not on a night like this. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

The camera panned across the packed stands, flags waving, faces painted, tension hanging thick in the Munich air as the two teams took their positions.

Then the broadcast cut to the commentary box.

"Good evening from Munich," said Lothar Matthäus, his voice calm but carrying the weight of the occasion. "We are live at the Allianz Arena for the UEFA Nations League final — Germany against Spain. Two heavyweights of European football. Two teams in outstanding form. The last time these two teams met, was a special ocassion still talked about till this day. Spain nicked that tie in extra time and went on to win the European Championship and Germany will be looking to have their revenge tonight."

Beside him, his co-commentator, Cesc Fàbregas, leaned forward slightly, eyes on the pitch. "Yes what a game we have in store," he added. "Spain have been incredible throughout this tournament, especially in that semi-final. But Germany... Germany have momentum. They have belief. And they have players who can decide a game in seconds."

Matthäus nodded. "Especially one in particular."

Fàbregas smiled faintly. "We’ll get to him."

"Let’s take you through the line-ups, starting with Spain," Matthäus continued.

On the screen, the Spanish formation appeared.

"Spain line up in a 4-3-3," he said. "In goal, Unai Simón."

Fàbregas took over smoothly. "Back four — Marc Cucurella at left-back, Dean Huijsen and Aymeric Laporte’s replacement here, Le Normand, in central defence, and Mingueza on the right."

Matthäus continued, "In midfield, it’s a very technical trio—Zubimendi sitting deepest, with Pedri and Fabián Ruiz just ahead of him."

"And in attack," Fàbregas added, his tone lifting slightly, "the real danger. Nico Williams on the left, Mikel Oyarzabal through the middle, and on the right... Lamine Yamal."