7:45 AM - FC Köln Training GroundThe familiar crunch of gravel under his boots should have been comforting, but today it sounded like an accusation with every step. Wyatt kept his head down as he walked from the car park toward the training complex, the weight of his kit bag feeling heavier than usual against his shoulder.The morning air was crisp, typical for early autumn in Cologne, but he barely noticed. His focus was entirely on avoiding the inevitable - the moment when he'd have to face his teammates and pretend that last night's humiliation hadn't happened.He could hear voices ahead, the usual pre-training banter that accompanied every session. Normally, he would be thinking to quicken his pace to join in, eager to prove he belonged despite his age and background. Today, he found himself walking slower, prolonging the few moments of relative peace before the scrutiny began."Lincoln!" Hector's voice carried across the training ground. "Over here!"There was no avoiding it now. Wyatt raised his head just enough to navigate toward the group of players gathered near the equipment shed, but kept his eyes focused on the grass at his feet. He could feel the weight of their attention, could almost hear the unspoken thoughts about his debut performance."Rough night, eh?" Kainz said with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as Wyatt approached. There was genuine kindness in the Austrian's voice, but it somehow made everything worse.Near the back of the group, Wyatt could hear Schmitz and Maina engaged in quiet conversation, their voices just low enough to seem private but loud enough for others to catch fragments."...never seen Šeško move that fast..." Schmitz was saying, a barely suppressed chuckle in his voice."Did you see the replay of the second goal?" Maina replied. "Kid looked like he was running through treacle."They weren't being malicious - this was standard training ground humor, the kind of ribbing that every player endured after a poor performance. But the words hit Wyatt like physical blows, each comment a reminder of his very public failure.Ljubicic joined the conversation with a grin. "At least he didn't get a red card. Could have been worse.""True," Schmitz nodded. "5.9 isn't that bad. I've seen players get lower ratings for less."The casual mention of his rating made Wyatt's stomach clench. He fumbled with the zip of his training jacket, using the motion as an excuse to avoid looking up, afraid that his face would betray the humiliation burning in his chest."Alright, gather round!" Mueller's voice cut through the morning air like a blade. The German manager emerged from the main building, his expression unreadable as always, clipboard in hand.The players began to form a loose circle, and Wyatt found himself instinctively positioning himself toward the back of the group. He kept his eyes fixed on Mueller's boots, unable to meet the manager's gaze. Every instinct told him to look up, to show confidence and resilience, but the shame was too overwhelming."Before we begin today's session," Mueller began, his German carrying easily across the training ground, "we need to address last night's performance."The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Wyatt could feel his teammates' eyes shifting toward him, could sense the collective intake of breath as everyone waited to see how their manager would handle the situation.
"Though luck for the newbie" Killian said.
"Football is a game of moments," Mueller continued, his tone measured and professional. "Some good, some bad. What matters is how we respond to both."Wyatt's hands were trembling slightly as he gripped his water bottle. Part of him wanted to look up, to meet Mueller's eyes and show that he was ready to learn from his mistakes. But the shame was paralyzing, keeping his gaze locked on the ground as if the grass held the answers to all his problems.Around him, his teammates remained silent.
Mueller's voice hardened, the measured tone giving way to something more cutting. "Last night was unacceptable. Not just from one individual, but from the collective. We looked like strangers on that pitch.The silence that followed was deafening. Wyatt could feel the weight of twenty-plus pairs of eyes, some sympathetic, others calculating. His water bottle felt slippery in his sweating palms."
"Šeško scored once and we almost conceded another from him because we gave him the freedom of Leipzig's penalty area," Mueller continued, his words sharp as broken glass. "Our defensive shape was non-existent.Our communication was pitiful. Our concentration..." He paused, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. "Our concentration lasted exactly thirty-seven minutes."
Wyatt's jaw clenched. He knew Mueller wasn't singling him out, but every word felt personally directed. The manager's tactical analysis was always surgical in its precision, and today it was cutting deep.
"Even though the odds were against us, I was expecting more.But since it is the first match of the season out of many, I will let it slide".
Mueller dissected the previous match with surgical precision,highlighting individual errors, positional lapses, and a shocking dip in discipline that left the team exposed. Strangely enough, Wyatt didn't heard his name mentioned for scolding.Wyatt's heart sank as Mueller moved on without mentioning his name—thoughts spiraled: Was I so bad he gave up on me? Am I invisible? Oh no..
"We have work to do," he concluded, his voice dropping back to its normal register but losing none of its intensity. "Serious work. Because what I saw last night was not FC Köln."
The manager turned sharply on his heel, walking toward the notice board mounted on the wall of the equipment shed. The players followed in a subdued procession, the usual pre-training energy completely absent."Bundesliga fixtures are posted," Mueller announced, tapping the board with his pen. "Next match is Bayer Leverkusen away. Seven days, hopefully we can fix what was wrong last night ."Wyatt finally risked a glance upward, his eyes focusing on the fixture list rather than his teammates' faces. Leverkusen away - another tough test against a side that would ruthlessly exploit any defensive frailties."Study the list. Prepare accordingly. And remember," Mueller's voice carried a final edge of warning, "there are no guaranteed places in this team. Performance earns selection. Last night's performance..." He let the sentence hang unfinished, its implication crystal clear.As the group began to disperse toward the training pitches, Wyatt remained frozen in place, staring at the fixture list without really seeing it. The prospect of another high-pressure match filled him with a dread so profound it felt like drowning.Around him, quiet conversations resumed, but the atmosphere remained subdued. The sting of Mueller's criticism lingered in the air like smoke, and everyone knew that today's training session was going to be particularly intense.
"Right, let's get moving," Hector called out, clapping his hands together with forced enthusiasm. "Pitch two for defensive drills."The group began to disperse, players grabbing cones and training equipment with the mechanical efficiency of routine. But there was an underlying tension that hadn't been there before last night - a collective awareness that mistakes would be scrutinized more harshly, that every touch would be analyzed for signs of weakness.Wyatt lingered by the notice board for a moment longer, pretending to study the fixture list while his teammates moved away. Bayer Leverkusen's name seemed to pulse on the paper like a warning. Another away match, another hostile crowd, another opportunity for public humiliation."You coming, Lincoln?" Fischer appeared beside him, his voice neutral but not unkind. The German center-back had partnered with him during those three months of intensive preparation, and their understanding on the pitch had been one of the few positives Mueller had highlighted."Yeah," Wyatt managed, his voice hoarse from the morning's tension. "Just... checking the dates."Fischer nodded, but there was something in his expression - not pity exactly, but a kind of professional sympathy that somehow made everything worse. "It happens to everyone," he said quietly. "Bad debuts. Bad matches. The important thing is what comes next."They walked together toward the training pitch, their boots squelching slightly in the dew-dampened grass. Around them, the morning routine continued - players stretching, coaches setting up drills, the groundskeepers making final adjustments to the pitch conditions."Pair up for passing drills!" one of the assistant coaches called out. "Short passes, quick touches. Focus on accuracy."It was a basic warm-up exercise, the kind of routine that should have been automatic after months of training. But as Wyatt took his position opposite Martel, he could feel the weight of observation. Every pass would be judged, every touch scrutinized for signs that last night's collapse had been more than just a one-off mistake.The ball came to him cleanly, and he cushioned it with his right foot before playing it back. Simple. Routine. But his heart was hammering as if he were back in the Red Bull Arena, facing down Šeško in front of 40,000 screaming fans."Relax," Martel said after receiving the return pass. "It's just training."But they both knew it wasn't just training anymore. Not after last night. Every session from now on would carry the unspoken question: was Wyatt Lincoln's Bundesliga debut a temporary setback, or evidence that he simply wasn't good enough for this level?The ball came back to him, and this time his first touch was heavy, the pass back to Martel slightly overhit. A minor error that would normally go unnoticed, but today it felt like confirmation of his worst fears.From the sideline, Mueller watched everything with the intensity of a predator, his clipboard in hand, his eyes missing nothing.The morning training session had officially begun, and with it, Wyatt's fight to prove he deserved a second chance.
11:30 AM - Outside FC Köln Training Facilities
The session had been brutal. Two hours of intense defensive drills, small-sided games, and tactical work that left every player drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Mueller had pushed them harder than usual, his voice cutting across the training pitch with surgical precision every time someone's concentration wavered.Wyatt had survived it, barely. His passing had been adequate, his positioning mostly sound, but the confidence that had once defined his play remained conspicuously absent. Every challenge felt like a test he might fail, every decision second-guessed before he'd even made it.As he emerged from the main building, kit bag slung over his shoulder and hair still damp from the shower, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against a black BMW in the car park. Tony cut an imposing figure even in casual clothes - expensive jacket, designer sunglasses, the kind of polished appearance that screamed successful football agent."Wyatt!" Tony called out, pushing himself off the car with practiced ease. "We need to talk."The agent's tone was carefully neutral, but Wyatt could detect the underlying tension. Tony had been conspicuously absent from his phone all morning, which usually meant he was dealing with damage control behind the scenes."Tony," Wyatt nodded, adjusting his bag strap as he approached. "I wasn't expecting to see you here.""After last night? Of course I'm here." Tony gestured toward the passenger door. "Get in. We'll take a drive."The BMW's interior was all leather and technology, a stark contrast to the modest hatchback Wyatt had been driving since moving to Cologne. Tony started the engine and pulled out of the car park without another word, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them."So," Tony finally said as they merged into traffic, "want to tell me why your parents have been calling me in a panic because their son won't answer his phone?"Wyatt felt his stomach drop. He'd been dreading this conversation since he'd switched his phone to silent the night before, unable to face the inevitable calls from Grimsby."I just... I needed some time," he said lamely."Time?" Tony's voice sharpened. "Wyatt, your mother called me at six this morning. Six AM. She was in tears, thinking something terrible had happened to you."The guilt hit Wyatt like a physical blow. In his self-absorbed misery, he'd completely forgotten that his parents would be desperate for news about his debut. They'd probably stayed up late to catch the match highlights, expecting to celebrate their son's breakthrough moment.Instead, they'd watched him get torn apart by Benjamin Šeško."She saw the rating," Tony continued, navigating through Cologne's morning traffic with practiced ease. "5.9. She didn't understand what it meant until your father explained it to her."Wyatt closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of his parents huddled around their laptop, watching their son's dreams crumble in real-time."Margaret Lincoln," Tony said, his voice softer now, "a woman who works double shifts at Grimsby Hospital to help pay for your career, spent her morning crying because she thought she'd failed you somehow. Because she couldn't protect you from what happened last night.""It's not her fault," Wyatt said quietly, his voice barely audible over the car's engine."Of course it's not her fault. It's not your fault either, not entirely. Bad games happen. But disappearing on your family when they need to know you're okay? That's on you."Tony pulled into a quiet side street and parked, turning to face his client directly. "I've been doing this for fifteen years, Wyatt. I've seen careers end and careers begin. Last night was rough, but it's not the end of the world. What concerns me more is how you're handling it."Wyatt stared out the passenger window at the ordinary suburban street, watching a woman walk her dog past neat front gardens. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the weight of public failure and family expectations."They sacrificed everything for this," he said finally. "Dad working weekends, Mum picking up extra shifts. All so their son could play professional football. And I repaid them by getting humiliated on national television.""So you think ignoring them makes it better?" Tony's question was direct but not unkind. "You think Margaret Lincoln cares more about a football rating than she does about her son's wellbeing?"The agent reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "Call her. Now. Before she drives herself sick with worry."Wyatt took the phone with trembling hands, Margaret Lincoln's number already displayed on the screen. All he had to do was press the call button, but somehow that simple action felt impossible."She's going to ask how I'm doing," he said."Then tell her the truth.""The truth is that I might not be good enough for this level. The truth is that I might have wasted years of their lives chasing something I was never going to achieve."Tony was quiet for a moment, studying his young client with the kind of professional assessment that had made him one of England's most successful agents."The truth," he said finally, "is that you're nineteen years old, you've had one bad game, and you're letting it define your entire career. But right now, that's not what matters. What matters is that your mother needs to hear your voice."The phone felt heavy in Wyatt's hands as he stared at the screen, Margaret Lincoln's name a reminder of everything he was afraid he'd lost.
The phone rang twice before her familiar voice answered, slightly breathless and tinged with the kind of worry that only mothers could carry."Tony? Is he alright? Please tell me he's—""Mum." Wyatt's voice cracked slightly on the word. "It's me."The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat, but it felt like an eternity. When Margaret Lincoln spoke again, her voice was thick with relief and something that might have been tears."Oh, sweetheart. Oh, Wyatt. I've been so worried. We both have. When you didn't answer your phone, I thought... I didn't know what to think."In the background, Wyatt could hear the familiar sounds of the hospital where his mother worked - distant conversations, the beep of medical equipment, the controlled chaos of a busy ward. She was probably standing in a supply closet or empty corridor, stealing a few minutes from her shift to take this call."I'm sorry, Mum. I should have called. I just..." The words stuck in his throat. How could he explain the crushing weight of public humiliation to someone who had never experienced anything like it?"We watched the match," Margaret said softly. "Your dad recorded it and everything. We were so excited, so proud. And then...""I know." Wyatt closed his eyes, leaning back against the BMW's leather seat. "I let everyone down. You, Dad, the club. Everyone.""Oh, love, no." Margaret's voice became firmer, carrying the strength that had sustained their family through years of financial struggle. "You didn't let anyone down. Football is just a game, Wyatt. Win or lose, good match or bad match, you're still our son.""But all those extra shifts you worked, all the money you and Dad put into my training—""Stop." The word came out sharper than usual, a rare display of maternal authority. "Don't you dare make this about money. Don't you dare think that your worth to us is measured by what happens on a football pitch."Through the car window, Wyatt watched a delivery van navigate the narrow street, its driver probably unaware that his world had been forever changed by ninety minutes of football the night before."I read about that rating thing," Margaret continued, her voice gentler now. "5.9 out of 10. Your father had to explain what it meant. But you know what I thought when I saw it?""What?" Wyatt's voice was barely a whisper."I thought about the first time you played for Grimsby's youth team. You were fourteen, remember? You were so nervous you were sick before the match. But you went out there anyway, and you played your heart out even though you were terrified."The memory surfaced unbidden - standing outside the youth team changing rooms, his stomach churning with anxiety while his parents waited in the car park. He'd wanted to run home and hide under his bed, but something had pushed him forward."That boy who was brave enough to step onto a professional football pitch at fourteen is the same young man who played in the Bundesliga last night," Margaret said. "One bad match doesn't change that. It doesn't change who you are."Wyatt felt tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. Tony was pretending to study his phone, giving him the privacy to fall apart if he needed to."I'm scared, Mum," he admitted, the words coming out in a rush. "I'm scared that I'm not good enough. That this was all a mistake. That I've wasted everyone's time.""Of course you're scared," Margaret replied. "You're nineteen years old, playing against some of the best footballers in the world. If you weren't scared, I'd be worried about you."She paused, and Wyatt could picture her checking the hospital corridor, making sure she had a few more minutes before returning to her patients."Your dad wanted to drive straight to Germany last night," she said with a slight laugh. "I had to physically stop him from getting in the car. He was ready to march into that stadium and give that manager a piece of his mind for putting his boy through that."Despite everything, Wyatt found himself smiling slightly. He could absolutely picture his father, red-faced with indignation, demanding to know why his son had been left to face Benjamin Šeško alone."Is he there? Can I talk to him?""He's at work, love. But he'll want to hear from you tonight. We both will. Properly this time, not through Tony's phone while I'm hiding in a supply cupboard."The guilt crashed over him again. "I'm sorry, Mum. I should have called. I was just—""You were hurting," Margaret finished for him. "And when we hurt, sometimes we don't think clearly. But we're your family, Wyatt. Whatever happens with football, whatever happens in Germany, we're here. We'll always be here."Wyatt nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I know. I love you, Mum.""I love you too, sweetheart. Now go home, get some rest, and call us tonight. Both of us want to hear how you're really doing."The line went quiet, leaving Wyatt staring at Tony's phone screen with a mixture of relief and lingering anxiety. His mother's words had helped, but they couldn't change the fundamental reality of his situation.He was still the defender who had been torn apart by Benjamin Šeško. He still had to face another Bundesliga match in seven days. And he still didn't know if he was good enough to survive at this level.But at least now he knew that his family's love wasn't conditional on his football success. In a world where everything else felt uncertain, that was something solid to hold onto.Tony started the engine again, pulling back into the flow of traffic without comment. They drove in comfortable silence for several minutes before the agent finally spoke."Feel better?""A bit," Wyatt admitted. "Thanks for making me call.""That's what I'm here for. Well, that and negotiating contracts, but mostly the emotional support thing."Despite everything, Wyatt found himself almost smiling. Tony's dry humor was exactly what he needed right now - a reminder that the world hadn't actually ended, even if it felt like it had.