Newcastle Park, Preseason Friendly – Newcastle United vs. FC Berlin United88th Minute – Score: 0-0
The low hum of 40,000 restless fans filled the air, a symphony of shifting seats and murmured anticipation. Then the sharp voice of the coach sliced through it.
"Müller! Get ready!"
Lukas Müller's head jerked up from the bench. The words hit like a defibrillator. All the frustration, the waiting, the gnawing self-doubt—it vanished, replaced by a sudden jolt of clarity. This was it. Preseason or not, it was a match. His chance.
He yanked off his training bib, the cool air biting at his sweat-dampened skin. The fourth official raised the board: 9 OFF – 11 ON.A few hopeful claps rippled through the Berlin United away section. Others remained muted—curious, maybe skeptical.
As he jogged toward the pitch, boots tapping on the touchline, the manager met him with a hard look and a clipped command:"Stick to the system, Lukas. Work the channels."
The system. The cold, robotic framework that had left him stranded so many times. But he nodded. No questions.
He hit the turf running.
The ball zipped across the pitch in practiced triangles. Anissa Cate spun away from pressure, ghosting past defenders with the ease of a woman who knew she was the best on the field. Kyle Johnson, ever the precision tool, whipped a pinpoint cross from the right. It whistled across the box—untouched.
Müller made the runs. Checked his shoulders. Kept it simple. But the game was moving too fast. Every pass he played felt half a second late. Every touch, a shade too heavy. Around him, the machine clicked in perfect rhythm. He was the loose cog.
Then—
A turnover. A spark.
Berlin United sprang forward in transition. Anissa burst through the center, slicing open Newcastle's midfield. One defender. Then another. A third lunged—and brought her down.
WHISTLE.Penalty.
The referee pointed to the spot. The crowd roared, a tidal wave of sound. Cameras zoomed in. Lights flared. Replays rolled on the jumbotron. Clear contact. No VAR needed.
Jalen Kent stepped up, already cradling the ball. But then—the coach barked. A single motion. Kent paused.
The captain walked over, his face unreadable. He took the ball from Kent and approached Müller, extending it wordlessly.
Müller stared at the ball. For a second, it didn't feel real.He took it.
He placed the ball. The white disc like a spotlight under the floodlights. The keeper loomed in front of him—bouncing, guessing, daring him.
Müller took a step back. Then another.
He stared down at the ball. It looked so small. Almost harmless.
"Just hit it clean. Pick a corner. Breathe."
But his lungs were tight.
"Don't overthink. Don't let your body betray you. You've done this a thousand times. This one matters, but it's the same damn shot."
Then the voice in his head changed.
"What if you miss again?"
He blinked. Rain. Dortmund. That night.
"You already missed the biggest one. What makes you think you won't choke again?"
He shook his head, but it was still there—the memory like a splinter in his foot. Every breath brought it closer.
He took the first step of his run-up.
"Don't miss."
Another step.
"Don't miss."
He swung his leg.
"Please… don't—"
Contact.
The ball left his foot with all the force of a whispered apology. Soft. Central. Predictable.
The keeper caught it like a warm-up drill. A simple gather. The berlin goalie didn't even have to dive.
Groans.Not from anger, but from something worse—disappointment.
Müller turned, hands on his hips. The weight crashed back in. The captain met his eyes, then looked away.
Seconds later, the final whistle blew.
Newcastle 0 – Berlin United 0.The scoreboard told one story.But Müller knew another had just begun—or maybe ended.