Sunday afternoon, at the MEWA Arena in Mainz.
The Frankfurt players filed back into the dressing room from their warm-up in small clusters, towels over shoulders, boots scraping lightly against the floor. Even with the door shut, the sound bled through. Singing. Whistling. The low, constant hum of a crowd already worked up long before kick-off. Someone laughed and shook his head, another muttered something about the noise, and Lukas could feel it in his chest, that familiar tightening that came when a hostile stadium decided to make itself heard.
Toppmöller stepped in last and let the room settle before he spoke. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"This won't be easy," he said, eyes moving slowly from face to face. "You know what they're fighting for. You know what this place is like when they smell blood."
He paused, letting it hang.
"And I know some of you are thinking about Thursday. I know it. That's human."
He took a step forward.
