Become A Football Legend-Chapter 178: Bremen

Chapter 178: Bremen
Toppmöller walked briskly through the glass hallway, boots tapping sharply against the tiles. He didn’t even bother wiping the sweat from training off his brow — whatever Zembrod had whispered... it had shaken him. The late-evening lights inside the administrative wing were dim, giving the corridor a faint golden hue. His heartbeat increased with every step.
He pushed open the door to Krösche’s office without knocking.
Hardung was already standing near the desk, tablet in hand. Krösche sat behind his desk, elbows propped up, fingers knitted together in front of his mouth. He didn’t look surprised to see the coach burst in—almost as if he expected it.
"Topp," Krösche said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. "Sit. Hardung, repeat what you just told me."
Hardung cleared his throat, still sounding stunned despite repeating it once already.
"We’ve just received an offer... official... from Manchester City."
He swallowed.
"77 million euros. Fixed."
For a moment, Toppmöller didn’t react. Then his eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
"Seventy-seven?" he repeated slowly, as if testing the number on his tongue. Then he shook his head sharply. "That’s not even close to his value. We can’t entertain that. We turn it down immediately."
Hardung exhaled through his nose.
"We can’t, Dino."
"What do you mean we can’t?" the coach snapped quietly, leaning forward.
Hardung tapped his tablet, pulling up Lukas’s contract and turning it toward him.
"Because of the clause. The good-faith negotiation clause. If an offer comes in from a club outside Germany, and it’s above the 75 million threshold, we are obligated to inform Marco and open negotiations. We can’t reject City. We have to start the process."
Toppmöller looked between them, stunned.
"That clause wasn’t supposed to function like a release clause," he muttered.
"It isn’t technically," Hardung said. "But legally? In practice? It might as well be."
Krösche leaned back in his chair, watching the coach carefully.
"Listen," he said, measured. "This is not... the worst business, you know."
He clasped his hands. "We took a sixteen-year-old for nothing. Nothing. Free. And within a year, someone is offering 77 million. That’s pure profit. It’s... objectively incredible business for Eintracht Frankfurt."
Toppmöller’s expression hardened.
"No," he said flatly. "No, Markus. That amount greatly undervalues him. You’ve seen what he is. He’s already influencing games at a world-class level. He just changed a Nations League quarterfinal on his debut. He’s not a 77-million player. He’s—"
"A generational one," Krösche finished for him, nodding. "I know."
"Exactly," Toppmöller insisted. "And I spoke to him before the break. He was very clear—he wants to stay. He wants to be here."
Krösche tapped a pen against the desk.
"Intentions change," he murmured. "Especially when the Premier League comes knocking... especially when it’s Guardiola. He’s a dream manager for creative midfielders. If Marco pushes, if the agent frames it as a once-in-a-lifetime chance..."
He lifted his brows.
"It could turn Lukas’s head."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Toppmöller stared at the floor, jaw clenched. The idea of losing Lukas — his star player, the beating heart of everything they were building — made his chest burn.
"It wouldn’t be like this at a bigger club,"
he thought.
Krösche broke the silence.
"We need a solution."
Hardung spoke up.
"There is one."
Both men turned toward him.
"We drag it out."
Toppmöller blinked. "Drag what out?"
"The negotiations," Hardung said. "We can stall City. Draw the process into the summer window, maybe beyond the early stages. Meanwhile, we push hard for the new contract on our end—one with a real release clause this time. Something huge. 130, 140 million. With an improved salary. Something that convinces Lukas to commit."
"And then?" Krösche asked.
"Then most clubs back off," Hardung explained. "They’ll think he’s still raw, still untested in the Champions League. They’ll wait a season before gambling that much."
He folded his arms.
"It buys us time. It buys you time. Enough for us to take him into next year’s Champions League. Enough for the board to justify keeping him."
Krösche slowly nodded.
"It’s a good plan."
Toppmöller looked up hopefully.
"And if he signs the new contract?"
Krösche exhaled.
"Then we control the situation again."
He turned toward Hardung.
"Inform Marco. Immediately. As per the contract."
"Yes," Hardung said, stepping aside to make the call.
Krösche then shifted his gaze back to his coach.
"Dino. Focus on Saturday. Focus on Bremen. Focus on keeping the boy happy. Motivated. And playing his best football."
Toppmöller hesitated at the door.
"I don’t want to lose him," he said quietly.
Krösche nodded.
"Then make sure he doesn’t want to leave."
And with that, the coach stepped out of the office — his stomach tight, his mind already racing with the weight of what the next few months might bring.
* * *
The team bus rolled to a smooth stop in front of the Dorint Park Hotel Bremen, one of the city’s finest—nestled beside the Hollersee, its grand white façade reflected softly in the lake’s still surface. The hotel’s classic architecture looked almost palatial, with tall arched windows, ornate stonework, and a sweeping driveway lined with trimmed hedges and early spring tulips. The moment the players stepped off the bus, they were greeted by crisp northern air and the faint scent of the surrounding Bürgerpark.
Inside, the lobby was bright and elegant—the marble floor a soft cream shade, chandeliers sending warm light over plush velvet seating. The team moved through as a unit, checking in one by one, room cards distributed by the staff and Zembrod.
"Dump your bags, gentlemen," Zembrod said. "We train at six. Light session. Don’t wander too far."
He had barely finished speaking when three familiar suspects turned toward him like a pack of mischievous schoolboys.
"Coach," Uzun began.
"...we were thinking," Larsson added.
"Could we jog to the training ground?" Knauff asked, already sounding like he expected a "no."
Zembrod raised an eyebrow. "Jog? Voluntarily?"
Uzun grinned. "We need to stretch the legs."
Larsson nodded. "Better than staying cooped up in a hotel room."
Knauff clasped his hands together dramatically. "Please, Herr Zembrod."
The assistant coach sighed with theatrical irritation. "Fine. Don’t tire yourselves out. And take someone responsible with you."
Uzun immediately clapped a hand on Lukas’s back. "Perfect. We’ll take the wonderkid."
Lukas blinked. "Wait, what? No, I literally just sat down."
"You’ll be fine," Knauff said, dragging him by the arm. "Aerobic king and all that."
"Coach, please save me," Lukas tried, but Zembrod just chuckled and waved them off.
They changed quickly into lighter training gear and stepped outside, the breeze cool but pleasant. The path from the hotel toward the Werder Bremen training facility wound through Bürgerpark—towering trees, winding trails, and the distant sound of ducks on the lake.
Knauff jogged backwards at first, facing the group. "First one there gets bragging rights."
Larsson snorted. "Bragging rights over what? Cardio?"
Knauff winked at Lukas. "Unless someone is scared of losing."
Uzun laughed. "Oh no, Ansgar, don’t—"
But Knauff was already sprinting.
Larsson burst out laughing and took off too. Uzun followed, yelling a string of dramatic threats. Lukas rolled his eyes, muttered "idiots," and slowly accelerated until his jog turned into an easy, effortless sprint.
Within ten seconds, he passed all three of them.
By the time they reached the gates of the training ground, Lukas was already sitting on the grass, leaning back on his hands, breathing calmly as if he’d merely crossed a small street.
Knauff collapsed face-first onto the turf.
"I... hate you..." he wheezed.
Uzun flopped down beside him. "He wasn’t even trying."
Larsson dropped onto his back, staring at the sky. "Good workout though... I think I saw my soul leave my body somewhere around the last hill."
Knauff turned his head toward Lukas, suspicious.
"How are you breathing like a normal human? I didn’t hear one gasp."
Lukas shrugged, pretending to look tired. "I’m catching my breath."
"Liar," Uzun said immediately. "Breathing doesn’t get calmer than that."
Larsson nodded. "Your VO₂ max is a crime."
Lukas grinned. "I just train a lot."
"Understatement of the century," Knauff muttered.
They lay there for a few seconds, letting their heartbeats settle, until Collins (who had driven ahead in the staff van) walked over, raising a brow.
"You lot raced here?"
Knauff lifted a thumb weakly. "He cheated. Genetics."
Collins chuckled. "So, Lukas... first time in Bremen?"
Lukas shook his head. "No. My grandparents live here. My dad was born and raised in Bremen. I’m pretty sure I was born here too... but I haven’t confirmed it. Haven’t been in a while, though."
That caught the others’ attention.
"You haven’t been here in a while?" Uzun asked.
"Five years," Lukas replied. His voice softened. "I’ll be visiting my grandparents after the match. Won’t travel back with you guys. Topp already approved it."
Larsson smiled. "That’s nice, man."
"Yeah," Lukas said, looking around at the familiar city he didn’t remember at all. "It’ll be good to see them."
Just then, the distant hum of a car engine grew louder. A black club vehicle rolled up and parked near the sideline. The door opened—
—and Toppmöller stepped out, stretching his back.
"Well," he called out as he walked over, "I knew if anyone dragged Lukas into extra cardio it would be you four."
The players sat up.
"Warm-up starts in five minutes," he said, clapping his hands. "Good job getting the blood flowing."