The sun over Frankfurt felt almost unreal after the previous twenty-four hours. It was bright, warm, and sharp, the kind of sunlight that made the freshly-cut grass at the ProfiCamp shimmer with an almost artificial vibrance. The players trotted out in small groups, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, some already laughing at jokes, but all of them casting occasional, subtle glances at Lukas.
Not the kind of looks he used to get — awe, admiration, banter.
These were curious looks.
Soft ones.
The "Is he okay?" kind.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. But he kept his head down, clipped his shin pads into place, tied his boots, and stepped onto the pitch for the internal training match Toppmöller had scheduled.
"Alright, boys! Bibs on, two touch maximum, keep the tempo sharp," Zembrod shouted as he dropped the mesh bibs in a pile.
Lukas bent, picked a navy bib, and was about to pull it on when Larsson came over, bumped him lightly with his elbow, and gave him a grin.
