First Training Session:Final

The ball was stolen.

Kilian had received what looked like a routine pass from Hector, but Tigges had read the play perfectly, his powerful frame intercepting the ball with the kind of tackle that separated professional football from every other level of the game. The German striker's first touch was sublime, his second a perfectly weighted through ball that sent Lemperle racing toward goal like a greyhound released from its trap.

The transition was instantaneous and brutal. Four defenders who'd been methodically building toward the halfway line suddenly became four desperate figures sprinting backward, their legs already heavy from nearly an hour of relentless pressure and counter-pressure.

Wyatt's lungs burned as he tracked back, his nineteen-year-old legs feeling every one of the sixty minutes they'd been battling. Beside him, Hector was shouting instructions in rapid German that might as well have been ancient Greek, but the urgency in the captain's voice needed no translation.

The drill reset. Again. And again. And again.

Each iteration brought fresh torture disguised as education. Sometimes the defenders would make it past the halfway line, their careful passing combinations finally finding the rhythm that unlocked the press. Other times they'd lose the ball within thirty seconds, victims of a momentary lapse in concentration or a perfectly timed challenge that reminded them how quickly football could turn from friend to enemy.

The attackers rotated in and out, fresh legs replacing tired ones every twenty minutes as Mueller had promised. But for the defenders, there was no respite, no merciful substitution. Each group had to complete their full sentence in this purgatory of pressure and recovery.

Wyatt's shirt was soaked through by the thirty-minute mark, the club-issued fabric clinging to his torso like a second skin made of exhaustion and determination. His first touches, so crisp and assured in those opening moments, began to suffer as fatigue crept into his muscle memory. Passes that had been automatic became labored. Decisions that had felt instinctive required conscious thought.

But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Around him, his teammates were suffering the same deterioration - Kilian's usually perfect distribution becoming slightly wayward, Schmitz's movement losing its sharp precision, even Hector showing signs of the relentless wear.

Yet they continued. Pass, press, recover. Pass, press, recover. The rhythm became hypnotic, almost meditative in its repetition. Each successful sequence built something - not just fitness, but understanding. The kind of wordless communication between defenders that couldn't be taught in classrooms or learned from textbooks.

By the fifty-minute mark, Wyatt was operating on pure instinct. His German was still non-existent, but football's universal language had begun to make sense. When Hector pointed, he moved. When Kilian called, he responded. When the press intensified, he simplified his game until only the essential remained.

The hour mark approached like a mathematical certainty wrapped in physical agony. Wyatt's legs felt like concrete posts, his lungs like bellows that had forgotten how to draw clean air. Every muscle in his body was screaming for mercy, but his mind remained clear, focused on the next touch, the next pass, the next small victory in this war of attrition.

Then, finally, mercifully, Mueller's whistle cut through the morning air with the finality of a judge's gavel.

One hour. Sixty minutes that had stretched like elastic until they felt more like ten hours of accumulated suffering and incremental growth.

Players collapsed where they stood, some bent double with hands on knees, others flat on their backs staring at the cloudless German sky. The carefully maintained tactical discipline of the drill dissolved into the universal language of exhaustion - heavy breathing, burning muscles, and the sweet relief of knowing it was over.

Wyatt found himself on his knees, the perfectly manicured grass cool against his palms as he fought to regulate his breathing. Around him, his teammates were conducting their own private negotiations with oxygen debt and lactic acid buildup.

Mueller surveyed his troops with the satisfaction of a general who'd pushed his army to its limits and found them capable of more than they'd imagined. His coaching staff moved between the scattered players like medics on a battlefield, offering words of encouragement and bottles of water that tasted like liquid salvation.

"Gute Arbeit heute, alle zusammen!"

The coach's voice carried easily across the training pitch, and for once, Klaus didn't need to provide translation. The approval in Mueller's tone was universal, the kind of recognition that professional athletes live and die for.

"Good job today, everyone," Mueller continued, switching to English for Wyatt's benefit - a small gesture that somehow felt monumental after an hour of linguistic isolation. "Rest tomorrow and the next day. Day after that, meet me here again. Our preseason games are closing in fast."

He paused, his eyes sweeping across each exhausted face with the intensity of a man who understood that these moments - these crucibles of shared suffering - were where teams were forged.

"Stay sharp. Stay focused. What we did today was just the beginning."

Another pause, this one heavy with implication.

"Dismissed."

The magic word released them from their collective suffering. Bodies that had seemed incapable of movement suddenly found the energy to rise, to collect water bottles and towels, to begin the slow migration toward the tunnel that led back to showers and civilization.

Wyatt remained on his knees for a moment longer, letting the enormity of the last hour wash over him like tide. Sixty minutes ago, he'd been a nervous teenager trying not to embarrass himself. Now he felt like something different - not transformed exactly, but fundamentally altered by the shared ordeal.

His first real training session with FC Köln was over.

He was still alive.

More importantly, he felt like he belonged

⚠️ Author's Note ⚠️

This chapter was originally meant to be part of Chapter 9, but due to word limits, I had to separate it. Apologies for the brief length—think of it as a continuation rather than a standalone chapter. Thanks for understanding. ^⁠_⁠^