Become A Football Legend-Chapter 175: Tell Him

Chapter 175: Tell Him
[*Well, the interest from Manchester City is real and public now. It could easily be something related to a contact, scout, intermediary, journalist, agent’s assistant’s dog, whatever. Football transfers get messy.*]
Lukas slowly relaxed back onto the pillow, staring up again.
"...Yeah. That makes sense. I hope that’s what it is, anyway."
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
"Okay. I’ll just... take it easy. I should call Joanna before I sleep," he said as he picked up his phone.
Meanwhile, down the hall—
Anne stood with her ear pressed gently against the bedroom door.
She could only make out fragments — Javi’s voice was low, tense, words swallowed by the wood between them.
Then finally, one clear sentence:
"Don’t call this number again."
The line went dead.
Before she could step away, the door opened. Javi stood there, shoulders taut, eyes distant. For a heartbeat he looked like a ghost of himself.
Anne started to speak — but before she could, he reached out and pulled her into him.
His arms wrapped around her waist, his forehead pressed into the crook of her neck. The breath he let out trembled.
Anne’s shock softened into understanding.
She slid one hand up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
"It’s okay," she whispered. "I’m here. Whenever you’re ready to talk... I’m here."
He lifted his head slightly — enough to meet her eyes. They held there, unspoken years balancing in the space between them.
She raised her hand, thumb brushing his cheek, and kissed him — gently at first. Then again, slower, deeper, a kiss that said:
I know you, I see you, you don’t have to carry everything alone.
He exhaled, closing his eyes, leaning into her, the tension slipping from his shoulders.
Still holding him, she stepped backward into the room, and he followed. The door closed softly behind them.
The light dimmed. Their silhouettes drew together — two lives choosing each other again, through all the shadows and history that lingered behind them.
The night wrapped around them warmly.
* * *
Anne lay on top of him, her cheek resting gently against his bare chest, her arm draped loosely across his stomach. Their legs were tangled beneath the sheets, the slow rhythm of Javi’s breathing lifting her slightly with each inhale. His skin still held the faint warmth of exertion, and she traced small circles along his ribs with her fingertips — not asking, not urging, simply being there.
Javi’s hand moved slowly through her hair, combing through it strand by strand, the movement as careful as if she were something fragile. His touch was unhurried, almost meditative — the kind of touch that comes from a heart still relearning how to be held.
He didn’t speak at first.
And she didn’t ask.
They simply listened to the quiet — the house settling, the distant whisper of late-night traffic, the steady beat of his heart under her ear.
Then, eventually, his voice came — low and steady, as though the words had been waiting years for space to breathe.
"...I was from Bremen, like you know," he began. "Played there too. Werder academy. I wasn’t a star or anything, but I was good. Got as far as the reserves."
Anne listened, eyes closed, letting his heartbeat and his voice merge into one steady pulse.
"That was when I met her," he continued. "She was... an exchange student. Biology. Scottish. Here for two semesters." His tone shifted — not bitter, not longing — just factual, like someone revisiting a room he no longer lived in.
He didn’t explain how they met — just let the memory pass by like a street seen through a car window.
"And then one day, she was gone. No conversation. No warning."
His voice tightened, but only slightly.
"She left a note. Said she was ending her exchange and going back to Scotland. No explanation beyond that."
Anne lifted her head a little, enough to see his expression — not grief, but something quieter. Something old.
"Half a year later," he continued, "my parents found Lukas on their doorstep. Paperwork. A note." He swallowed. "It said not to contact her. That she couldn’t raise a child at that point in her life."
Anne exhaled softly, her hand tracing up to his collarbone now.
"It was just me and Lukas after that. And my parents. I... didn’t know how to feel. I was angry, I was young, and then I was just... a father."
His thumb continued stroking her hair, but his voice grew heavier.
"Five years ago, my mother called. Said she had shown up. Looking for us. Asking for me. Asking for Lukas." His jaw tightened. "I told my mother to send her away. I didn’t... I couldn’t let her walk in like she hadn’t walked out."
Anne didn’t interrupt. She simply held him.
"She didn’t call again until tonight."
A shaky breath.
"Begging me to let her meet him."
Silence settled, warm but weighty.
Anne shifted, resting her chin lightly on his chest so she could look at him. Her voice was soft, steady.
"What do you want to do?"
Javi’s eyes flickered — the only sign of fear he had allowed to surface.
"...I don’t know," he admitted. "I think I should tell him. He’s grown. More than grown. But I’m scared, Anne. I’m scared he’ll think I stole something from him."
Anne shook her head and brought her hand to his cheek, guiding his gaze back to hers.
"Javi, he adores you. He knows who raised him. He knows who held him through everything. And he’s thoughtful — you know that. If you tell him honestly... he will understand."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her words settle.
When he opened them, the heaviness in his expression had softened, replaced by something clearer. Acceptance. Resolve.
"...I’ll tell him. After the next match. We’ll be in Bremen anyway."
Anne nodded, resting her forehead lightly against his.
"It’s time," she whispered. "Not for her. For him."
Javi wrapped his arm around her again — pulling her closer, holding her as if grounding himself in the present.
The lights in the room were dim, the night quiet and still.
They stayed like that — two people with a shared past, a shared future, and something fragile in the space between — resting in the warmth of understanding.
And in another room, unaware of the storm quietly gathering outside his life, Lukas slept.
Dreaming of football, and love, and tomorrow.
* * *
The world around him was white sky and endless grass — that familiar horizon that didn’t quite look like a horizon, but rather like something generated. The training field inside the Legendary Training Center had no sun, but it had light. No wind, but the air felt cool against the skin. Only silence, and the quiet hum of his own breath.
Lukas sat on the ground in his training gear, shirt off, sweat cooling against his skin. His posture wasn’t the usual cross-legged lotus. Instead, the soles of his feet were pressed together, knees pushed all the way out until they rested flat on the grass. The stretch was deep — uncomfortably deep — but his body didn’t tremble anymore.
He had finally done it.
For the first time, the pose held easily.
His back straight. Jaw unclenched. Shoulders relaxed.
[* Well, would you look at that.* ] TT’s voice floated into his mind, half amused, half proud.
[* The human folding chair has achieved full butterfly position. I’ll alert the press.* ]
"Shut up," Lukas murmured, though he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth. "You have no idea how hard this was."
[*No, no, I definitely have an idea. ] TT sniffed dramatically.
[ I was the one who had to listen to you complain for — what was it — two thousand hours? Three thousand?*]
"I wasn’t complaining," Lukas argued.
[*You begged for mercy.* ]
"...Maybe once."
[* Yeah sure.*]
"At most, twice."
Beyond the empty pitch, a figure stood with arms crossed — long hair tied back, chest puffed with an arrogance so casual it was practically genetic.
Zlatan Ibrahimović’s Ego.
The same Zlatan who had spent the past month drilling him in taekwondo, balance control, core stability, and flexibility — with the same seriousness one might use while preparing a gladiator for combat.
Zlatan tilted his head, studying Lukas with the satisfied expression of a sculptor looking at finished marble.
"Finally," Zlatan said, voice deep, accented, and absolutely convinced he was the main character of the universe. "Your hips no longer move like a refrigerator."
Lukas closed his eyes.
He regretted summoning him. Not fully. But emotionally? Spiritually? Yes.
"I’m starting to think I should have summoned Messi instead," Lukas muttered.
Ibrahimovic stepped closer, chin raised proudly. "You wanted balance. Agility. Flexibility. To glide past defenders like they weigh nothing. Messi teaches you how to be Messi. I teach you how to become more."
"His pride really is unmatched,"
Lukas thought as he raised his head to look at Ibrahimovich.
TT snorted.
[* I tried to warn you.*]
"You said nothing."
[ I said ’are you sure you want Zlatan?’ That counts. ]
Lukas exhaled, letting his weight settle downward, stretching just a little more — and for the first time, it didn’t feel like his inner thighs were going to tear.