The floodlights buzzed above, casting long silver beams across the training ground as the evening settled in. Rain threatened again, light mist hanging in the air like a held breath.
I sat on the bench near the far touchline, tying and untying my boots like it would somehow untangle the rest of me. Beside me, Geraldo Henrique dos Santos—"Hulk" to the fans, "G" to the squad—grunted as he lowered himself onto the bench with the grace of a fridge being set down.
"Cold tonight, huh?" he said, his Portuguese accent thick but clear.
I nodded. "Bit colder than Dortmund this time of year."
Hulk cracked his knuckles, stretching his broad frame. He was built like a tank, 6'2" of pure muscle, the kind of player you'd expect to bulldoze through opponents. But with me? He was the opposite. Gentle. Calm. Real.
"You played well today," he offered, looking out over the empty field. "The passes are starting to click."
I smirked.
"Starting" being the key word.
"Sterlings still treat me like I'm an extra in their one-act play," I muttered.
Hulk chuckled. "They grew up together. Same pitch, same coach, same thoughts. Give it time, irmão."
He meant it. He always did. But I didn't reply. I just watched the rain pick up, dotting the turf with darker green.
Then came the sound. Low, smooth, expensive. An engine purring into the training lot behind us.
My body went still.
The black car rolled through the gates like it belonged there. Tinted windows, polished curves. It pulled to a quiet stop near the staff entrance.
She stepped out first.
Elise.
Her blonde hair tucked beneath a slate-gray coat, her heels clicking softly on the wet ground. A familiar rhythm.
Then came the driver's side.
Richard Thorne. Newcastle's CEO. The man who shook my hand when I signed the contract. The man she now walks beside like they'd been crafted for each other in some designer lab.
They talked. Smiled. Her hand brushed his arm.
They're not hiding it anymore.
I watched them walk through the side entrance, the door shutting behind them with a quiet finality.
You picked this place for me. And now you've given it to him. [Flashback – Dortmund, Two Years Ago – Lukas's Apartment]
The city buzzed beyond my window—muted gold, rain-slick streets. Inside, it was quiet. Low jazz hummed from a speaker. The scent of burnt sage and cheap red wine lingered.
Elise sat curled at the edge of the couch in one of my hoodies. She'd stopped pretending it was "just borrowed" weeks ago.
We were already dating then. It had started slow—born not out of lust or impulse, but from something quieter. Familiar pain. The season had begun to unravel i tried my best but nothing changed and i started to lose confident, and I needed someone who got it. Or maybe I just needed someone.
Her hair was damp from the shower. Mine a mess—hadn't fixed it since training.
I sat across from her with a notepad in my lap. Half-scribbled thoughts and incomplete lines. I wrote when things got too loud in my head.
She noticed. She always did.
"Writing again?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Just… sorting things out."
She leaned forward, chin on her hand. "I still think you've got a book in you."
I smirked. "Yeah, well… maybe when I'm retired and bitter."
She laughed.
Then I said it.
"I'm leaving Dortmund."
No reaction. No shock. Just Elise—always ten steps ahead of the storm.
"You already left," she said. "You're just waiting for your body to catch up."
I stared at the ceiling. "Bayern's interested. PSG too. And... Newcastle."
Her eyes finally locked onto mine.
"Newcastle?"
I nodded. "They're not building anymore. They've built it. Best squad in Europe. They're not after prospects or projects. They want killers. Finishers. People who've bled in big games and kept walking."
She didn't blink.
"Then why are you hesitating?"
"Because if I go there and fail... there's no excuse. No bad system. No scapegoat. Just me."
She slid beside me, knees tucked under her.
"You won't fail."
I looked at her. "You don't know that."
"I do. I've seen you at your worst, Lukas. And even then... you were better than most at their best."
She brushed her thumb along my knuckles.
"You go to Newcastle," she said, low and certain, "because they don't need someone to grow with the team. They need someone to define it."
And for a second, I believed her.
She didn't just believe in me.
She believed I still mattered in a world that had already started forgetting my name.