Become A Football Legend-Chapter 173: Jackson

Chapter 173: Jackson
The questions had gone on for nearly ten minutes: tactics, development, national team momentum, chemistry with Ekitike. Lukas answered each calmly, occasionally smiling, occasionally thoughtful. The moderator stepped forward.
"Last question of the night."
A murmur passed through the room. Everyone knew what that meant:
The future.
A er from BILD rose, microphone already lifted.
"Lukas," he began, "there are s of strong interest from Atlético Madrid, Manchester City, and of course Bayern Munich. The football world wants to know, have you decided anything regarding your future?"
There was a shift in the room. Cameras zoomed closer. The air tightened.
Toppmöller, standing just beside the wall, opened his mouth, ready to step in to shield his young star.
But Lukas spoke first.
Steady. Clear. No hesitation.
"My complete focus is here," he said. "With Eintracht Frankfurt. With this team."
A few heads lifted, but he wasn’t stopping there.
"We’re pushing for the Europa League final. And yes," he continued, voice firm, "I truly believe we’ll be in Bilbao again on the 21st of May."
That sentence hit.
A ripple of reaction travelled through the journalists — pens paused, eyebrows raised, quiet shock mixed with excitement.
Bold. Very bold.
Lukas shrugged lightly, calm as ever.
"I understand the rumours. I understand the interest. However, I think a lot of people are forgetting something — I only made my debut in January. It’s still March. I haven’t even played half a season yet."
He leaned slightly forward, tone softening, but his words carrying weight.
"This club has helped me so much in such a short time. The staff, the players, the fans — they gave me the space to grow. And I believe I can grow even more here. So no, right now I’m not thinking about leaving. This is the best place for my development."
Silence.
Then a wave of shutters and camera flashes exploded — the quote of the night secured.
Toppmöller didn’t need to speak.
He just watched him.
Proud.
The moderator closed the session.
"Thank you, everyone. That concludes the press conference."
Lukas stood, shook hands, nodded politely, and walked out of the room with the calm of someone who knew exactly who he was, and exactly where he wanted to be.
* * *
Lukas’s apartment was still. The lights were low. The city outside had already settled into its late-evening hum.
Lukas lay back on his couch, laptop propped on his chest. Joanna’s face filled the screen — hair tied up, oversized hoodie, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a stack of textbooks behind her. It felt... normal again. Just the two of them.
"How was school today?" Lukas asked, voice soft. His muscles were still heavy from the match, but his expression was lighter now.
"Long," she sighed, leaning back onto her pillow. "We did enzyme kinetics for like two hours straight. I feel like my brain melted and slid out of my ear."
Lukas chuckled. "That’s your favourite subject."
"It was, before today," she said, pointing at him through the camera.
He let the laugh fade. "You’ve been thinking more seriously about where you want to study, right?"
She nodded. "Biochemistry for sure. That hasn’t changed. But... I think I want to study abroad. At least once. Even if not for Bachelor’s, then during my Master’s. I want to know what it feels like to be in a new country completely on my own, you know? To figure my life out somewhere else. Grow a bit."
He thought about that quietly.
"Where are you thinking for Bachelor’s?"
She shrugged, but not casually — more like she was choosing her words carefully.
"I could stay here in Germany. There are good universities. TUM... LMU..." she said, ticking them off lightly with her fingers. "Or... if I manage the scholarships... University of Manchester has a really nice biochem department. And UCM in Madrid has that joint lab program that everyone talks about."
Lukas blinked.
Madrid.Manchester.Munich.
The exact three cities where his name was being shouted around Europe.
His lips curved — slow, warm.
"You want to be where I am."
She didn’t say anything at first. Just held his eyes through the screen.
Then she nodded, very small.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I do."
He exhaled, a quiet breath that somehow carried weeks’ worth of weight.
"I don’t know where I’ll be," he admitted. "I haven’t decided anything yet."
"I know," she said quickly. "I’m not asking you to. I just... want you to know that wherever you go, I’m not scared of following. Even if it’s far. Even if things get loud. I’ll figure it out."
He swallowed.
For the first time all day... he felt tired in a good way — like his mind could finally put itself down.
They sat like that for a moment, just looking at each other.
Then Joanna’s lips twitched.
"By the way," she said, "you broke the internet today."
Lukas groaned. "Not this again."
"You declared a trip to Bilbao before the quarter-final even happened!" she laughed. "Half of Spain is screaming, ’arrogant German boy!’ and the other half is clipping your goal from yesterday on TikTok with anime music behind it."
He dragged a hand down his face. "I was just talking, I didn’t—"
"Oh no, you were talking," she teased. "You basically told Europe: ’save the date.’"
He sighed, but he couldn’t help the smile that pulled anyway.
"Do you... think it was too much?" he asked.
She looked at him like the answer was obvious.
"I think," she said slowly, "that if you said it... You probably meant it."
He looked down, not embarrassed, just thoughtful. "Yeah," he breathed. "I think I did."
She smiled softly, proud. "Then let them talk. And let them come watch."
He nodded.
Silence again, the comfortable kind.
"Hey," Joanna said quietly, chin brushing her pillow, eyelids heavy now. "You played really well today. I’m still proud of you."
Lukas let out a small laugh through his nose.
"Thanks. Really."
"Goodnight, golden boy," she murmured.
"Goodnight," he whispered.
The call ended.
The screen dimmed.
But the smile stayed on his face long after.
* * *
The glass windows of the twelfth-floor apartment looked out over the grey-blue morning skyline of Manchester: wet rooftops, distant tram tracks, and cranes hovering above half-finished office towers. Inside, the kitchen was bright, polished, expensive in a way that didn’t need to show off: muted marble counters, a wide island, copper fixtures, and framed travel photos along the walls.
The Jackson family were finishing breakfast around the island counter.
Roger Jackson — early forties, sharp jaw, dark blue tailored suit and silver tie already knotted — scrolled briefly through financial charts on his tablet as he ate the last of his toast. He worked in corporate finance at Barclays and had a meeting in Canary Wharf later in the afternoon. He always looked like he was already halfway there, even at breakfast.
Across from him sat his daughter, Lexi — seventeen, ponytail, United home shirt with 14 and Rashford on the back, legs folded up on the stool as she scrolled through Instagram. The cereal bowl in front of her was empty, but her eyes hadn’t left her phone in ten minutes.
On the other side of the counter, Jane — her mother, wearing a cream blouse and navy slacks — gathered the last of the plates. She was a lecturer at the University of Manchester, specialising in Microbiology research. Calm, organised, the sort of woman whose presence lowered the volume of a room without her having to say anything.
"Lex," Jane said mildly, "phone down while we eat."
"I am done eating," Lexi said, not looking up. "I’m just waiting for Dad."
Roger didn’t acknowledge this — though from the slight smile tugging at his mouth, he had heard it.
Lexi suddenly straightened and turned her phone toward her father.
"Dad. Look. Remember him?" she asked, tapping on a picture. "You remember him, right? When we went to Frankfurt. The Dortmund match."
Roger leaned in. The image on her screen showed a sixteen-year-old in an Eintracht Frankfurt kit, arms outstretched in front of a roaring stadium — the kind of picture that newspapers liked to splash across half a page.
"Ah." Roger nodded once. "Yes. The wonderkid. What’s his name? Brandt, right?"
"Lukas," Lexi said. "Lukas Brandt. He scored two that day. And assisted. I told you he was insane."
"You also said he was ’the future of football’ in the taxi ride home," Roger replied, dry. "And then you bought his shirt."
"It’s a collector’s item now," she shot back.
Jane set a glass in the sink and glanced over her shoulder, half-listening.
Lexi scrolled. "He just gave an interview last night. He said Frankfurt will be in the Europa League final. Like, he said it with his chest. And to get there, they need to beat United." She looked up. "We’re playing him."
Roger chuckled. "Frankfurt beating Manchester United? No chance."
He wiped his fingers, stood, and collected his suit jacket from the back of the chair.
"Even a bad United," he added, "finishes third in the Bundesliga without thinking. Different level. Pace, power, expectations. German clubs outside Bayern are—"