The team bus rolled through Ipswich under a sky brushed with fading gold, headlights slicing the evening mist. Just beyond the glass, I caught the flash of cameras.
Press.Of course they were here. First match of the season. Title contenders. Blood in the water.
As we pulled up to the hotel—no, this wasn't just a hotel—this was five-star, chandelier-and-marble kind of money. Newcastle didn't travel light. Gilded glass doors. Doormen in sharp black. The scent of polished wood and expensive cologne hung thick in the air the second we stepped off the coach.
I walked into the lobby like I belonged there. But part of me still didn't believe it.
Reporters leaned over velvet ropes, flashes popping, names being called.
"Lukas Müller! Over here!"
I kept walking. Eyes forward. Game face.
Inside, the lobby was buzzing. Not with noise, but tension. That silent electricity that pulses between professionals the night before battle. My boots echoed across marble tile as I followed the line of players heading to the elevators.
Room keys were handed out quickly. I got 1903—top floor, of course. I moved like a ghost through all of it, nodding to staff, answering no questions.
In the lift, it was just me and Louis Ramos.
The fourth striker.
Now… maybe the second.
He leaned against the mirrored wall, tall and lean, his jaw clenched. Twenty-three, Portuguese, sharp features, hungrier eyes. He hadn't scored much last season, but everyone at the club knew what he was waiting for.
A moment.This moment.
Just like me.
"So," he said, finally breaking the silence as the lift climbed. "Looks like it's just you and me now."
I glanced at him. "You say that like it's a problem."
He smirked, not looking at me. "Not a problem. Just reality. Two strikers. One spotlight."
"Then take your shot," I said flatly. "If you think it's yours."
He tilted his head. "I don't think. I know."
I didn't respond. Just watched the red numbers rise.
The lift dinged. Doors opened.
We stepped into a hallway lined with gold trim and thick carpet that cost more than my first signing bonus.
Before he walked away, Louis turned over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Müller. Hope you're sharper than you were in pre-season."
I stared after him, jaw tight.
Rivals.He knows it.I know it.Now the club will find out who wants it more.
Three hours later
The banquet hall looked like something out of a movie—gold fixtures, cream-white linen, crystal glasses reflecting soft chandelier light. The staff moved like dancers, setting down plates of grilled salmon, buttered vegetables, perfectly stacked bread rolls. No menus. Just class.
We were all seated by position, a long table that stretched through the center of the room. Coaches at one end, players flanking both sides. I sat across from Hulk, next to Melissa Sterling. Louis Ramos sat a few seats down, laughing with two defenders like we hadn't just stared each other down in the lift.
The tension was still there. Quiet. Focused. Hungry.
But the atmosphere… it wasn't heavy. Not yet. There were smiles. A few jokes. Anissa Cate flicked a grape at James Sterling. Even Ruben cracked half a grin when So-min started talking about Korean BBQ joints in London.
But then the room dimmed slightly.
Coach Moretti stood at the head of the table.
A hush fell like a dropped curtain.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"I'm not going to make a long speech tonight," he said, hands folded behind his back. "You all know the stakes. You all know what this club has become."
He paused, letting the silence stretch just enough to catch us all.
"Tomorrow is not just another match. It's the first step in a season where expectations are sky-high. Media wants blood. Fans want results. The board wants trophies."
His eyes swept the room, landing on faces—Melissa, Ruben, Hulk, me.
"But what I want… is simple."
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and sharp.
"I want eleven players who walk onto that pitch like it already belongs to them. Like they own the game before it even starts."
A beat.
"I don't care who starts. I care who finishes. Who bleeds. Who steps up."
Another beat.
"Some of you are here to prove you still belong. Others? That you always did."
I felt that. Deep. Personal.
His gaze lingered on me for half a second.
Then he nodded once. "Sleep well tonight. Because tomorrow… you eat."
Silence. And then a quiet chorus of breath being released.
The speech wasn't dramatic.
It was a fuse.
And tomorrow, something was going to explode.