Toppmöller walked briskly through the glass hallway, boots tapping sharply against the tiles. He didn't even bother wiping the sweat from training off his brow — whatever Zembrod had whispered… it had shaken him. The late-evening lights inside the administrative wing were dim, giving the corridor a faint golden hue. His heartbeat increased with every step.
He pushed open the door to Krösche's office without knocking.
Hardung was already standing near the desk, tablet in hand. Krösche sat behind his desk, elbows propped up, fingers knitted together in front of his mouth. He didn't look surprised to see the coach burst in—almost as if he expected it.
"Topp," Krösche said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. "Sit. Hardung, repeat what you just told me."
Hardung cleared his throat, still sounding stunned despite repeating it once already.
"We've just received an offer… official… from Manchester City."
He swallowed.
"77 million euros. Fixed."
