Sprechen Sie Football?"

The walk back to the tunnel felt like a pilgrimage through a cathedral of exhaustion. Wyatt's legs moved on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him forward while his mind tried to process the magnitude of what had just occurred. Around him, his teammates maintained the comfortable silence of soldiers who'd shared a battlefield - no words necessary, the bond forged through collective suffering speaking louder than any conversation.

The changing room's air conditioning hit like a blessing from heaven, cool air washing over sweat-soaked bodies with the mercy of absolution. Twenty-three players collapsed onto benches with the synchronized grace of a choreographed performance, each man claiming his territory in the sacred space where warriors became human again.

Wyatt found his spot between Hector and Kilian, the placement feeling natural now rather than intimidating. The veteran left-back was already unlacing his boots with methodical precision, while the German center-back sat with his head tilted back against his locker, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

"First session survived," Hector said without opening his eyes, his English carrying the satisfaction of a man who'd successfully guided a student through dangerous waters. "How do you feel, English boy?"

Wyatt considered the question while peeling off his soaked training shirt. How did he feel? Exhausted beyond measure. Elated beyond reason. Terrified of what came next. Hungry for more.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," he said finally. "But a truck I'd quite like to be hit by again."

Kilian's laugh was rough but warm. "Das ist gut. That is good. The truck, it gets easier to handle. But it never stops coming."

Around them, the changing room had settled into the familiar rhythm of post-training recovery. Shower doors slammed with metallic finality. Conversations resumed in the polyglot mixture of German, English, and whatever other languages twenty-three international footballers carried between them. The institutional smell of soap and liniment began to overpower the sharp tang of exertion.

Weber appeared in the doorway like a ghost materializing from steam, his clipboard still clutched against his chest like a shield. His eyes found Wyatt immediately, and for a moment, assistant coach and player shared a look that carried more weight than words.

"Lincoln," Weber called out, his voice cutting through the general chatter. "A word."

The changing room didn't quite fall silent, but conversations definitely quieted. Twenty-two pairs of eyes tracked Wyatt's movement as he rose from his bench and walked toward the doorway, his legs still unsteady from the hour of relentless pressure.

Weber led him into the corridor, away from the curious ears of teammates who were probably wondering if the young English defender was about to receive praise or condemnation. The assistant coach's expression was unreadable, his professional mask firmly in place.

"How are you feeling?" Weber asked, echoing Hector's question but with clinical precision rather than friendly concern.

"Honestly? Like I've just learned more about football in one hour than I did in six months at Grimsby."

Weber's nod was almost imperceptible. "Good. That's the point of these sessions - to strip away everything you think you know and rebuild from the foundation up."

He paused, consulting his clipboard with the kind of attention that suggested every mark and notation carried significance.

"Your first pass was excellent. Clean, confident, exactly what we needed. Your communication..." He made a notation that might have been positive or negative. "Well, that will come with time and language lessons."

Wyatt felt his stomach tighten. Here it comes, he thought. The gentle letdown wrapped in coaching speak.

"But," Weber continued, "you didn't panic. Not once in that entire hour. Players twice your age and three times your experience have crumbled under less pressure than what we put you through today."

The assistant coach's eyes met his directly, and Wyatt saw something that might have been approval flickering behind the professional assessment.

"Mueller wants to see you tomorrow. Not for training - that's a rest day. But he wants to discuss your... integration into the squad. Language lessons, tactical sessions, the kind of foundation work that will determine whether you sink or swim here."

Weber's pause carried weight.

"Be at his office at ten AM. Don't be late. Germans don't appreciate tardiness, and Mueller appreciates it even less than most."

With that, the assistant coach turned and walked back toward the changing room, leaving Wyatt standing in the corridor with his thoughts for company.

Ten AM tomorrow. A meeting that would either solidify his place in this football paradise or send him packing back to the grey reality of English lower leagues.

Back in the changing room, the atmosphere had shifted to something more relaxed. Players were beginning to dress in their civilian clothes, the transformation from professional athletes to ordinary men happening with the simple act of pulling on jeans and t-shirts.

Horn was holding court near the showers, regaling a small audience with what sounded like a particularly amusing anecdote in rapid German. The big goalkeeper's laughter was infectious, filling the space with warmth that had nothing to do with the residual heat from their training session.

"Everything alright?" Hector asked as Wyatt reclaimed his seat.

"Meeting with Mueller tomorrow morning."

The left-back's eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah. The real conversation begins."

"Should I be worried?"

Hector was quiet for a moment, pulling on his socks with the same methodical care he applied to everything else.

"Mueller doesn't waste time on players he doesn't believe in," he said finally. "If he wants to see you, it's because he sees something worth developing."

The veteran's words carried the weight of experience, but they didn't entirely calm the butterflies that had taken up residence in Wyatt's stomach.

As players began filtering out of the changing room, heading toward cars and homes and whatever recovery rituals helped professional athletes prepare for the next battle, Wyatt found himself moving more slowly than usual. The weight of the day was settling on his shoulders like a familiar coat - heavy but not unwelcome.

His phone buzzed with a text from his mother: *How was your first day? Dad and I are thinking about you. Love you.*

Margaret Lincoln was probably finishing her shift at the hospital, her nurse's uniform stained with the evidence of another day spent caring for people who needed her expertise. David would be coming home from the construction site, his hands rough from honest work, both of them anxious for news from their son who'd traveled further from home than any Lincoln had ever gone.

Wyatt typed back: *Survived. More tomorrow. Miss you both.*

It wasn't much, but it was honest. And honesty, he was learning, was about all he could offer in this strange new world where dreams and reality collided with the force of professional football.

The changing room was nearly empty now, just a few stragglers gathering their belongings with the unhurried pace of men who'd earned their rest. Wyatt collected his training gear, stuffed it into the club-issued bag that still smelled of newness and possibility, and headed toward the exit.

The automatic doors of the training facility whispered shut behind Wyatt like a final punctuation mark on the day's chapter. The late afternoon sun felt different on his skin now - not the harsh spotlight of morning anxiety, but something warmer, more welcoming. His legs still carried the pleasant ache of genuine exertion, and his club-issued bag felt heavier with the weight of earned respect rather than nervous equipment.

He'd barely taken three steps toward the car park when a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise of departing players and staff vehicles.

"Ahh, there you are!"

Jonas Hector emerged from the shadow of a sleek BMW like a character stepping out of a film, his civilian clothes - dark jeans and a simple grey henley - making him look more like a university lecturer than a professional footballer. The veteran's timing was impeccable, as if he'd been monitoring the facility's exit with military precision.

"Did you forget something?" Wyatt asked, genuinely confused. The changing room had seemed thoroughly emptied when he'd finally gathered his belongings.

Hector's grin was patient, tinged with the kind of amusement that comes from dealing with slower students. "Language lessons, English boy. You were supposed to remind me after training, remember? Though to be fair, you looked like you were concentrating quite hard on not collapsing, so I'll forgive the oversight."

The memory hit Wyatt like a tactical revelation - Hector's promise during that first lap, delivered when the veteran had accelerated past him with effortless grace. *Don't worry, I got a good teacher. Remind me after training.*

"Christ, sorry. My brain's still catching up with my legs."

"No problem. That's what happens when Mueller puts you through the blender for the first time." Hector gestured toward the main road that led away from the training complex. "Come on, it's not far. We'll walk - good for the recovery, and I can start teaching you the most important German phrases for a defender."

They fell into step together, their pace comfortable and unhurried. The contrast between this casual stroll and the morning's intensity was almost surreal - like shifting from a war movie to a buddy comedy without changing the channel.

"So," Hector said as they crossed the car park, "what's the most important German word a defender needs to know?"

Wyatt considered this seriously, his post-training brain still operating at half speed. "Raus? Away?"

"Not bad, but no." Hector's laugh was warm. "The most important word is 'Entschuldigung' - sorry. You'll be saying it a lot in your first few weeks."

"Entschuldigung," Wyatt repeated, the unfamiliar syllables feeling clumsy in his mouth.

"Better. But you pronounced it like you're ordering a sandwich. Try again - Ent-SHUL-di-gung. Feel the shame in your voice."

"Ent-SHUL-di-gung."

"Perfect. Now you sound appropriately apologetic for whatever tactical disaster you're about to cause."

The road they were walking along was tree-lined and pleasant, the kind of suburban German street that looked like it had been designed by someone who actually cared about aesthetics. Clean sidewalks, well-maintained buildings, the occasional cyclist gliding past with the serene efficiency that seemed to characterize everything German.

"Question," Wyatt said, adjusting his bag strap. "Why are you helping me? I mean, really helping, not just being polite to the new guy."

Hector was quiet for a moment, his stride maintaining its measured rhythm. "You want the honest answer or the diplomatic one?"

"Honest. Always honest."

"Because you remind me of myself at nineteen - scared shitless but too stubborn to quit." The veteran's grin took any sting out of the assessment. "Also because Mueller specifically asked me to keep an eye on you. Apparently, he thinks you have potential but need 'cultural integration support.' Those were his exact words."

"Cultural integration support?"

"Fancy way of saying 'don't let the English boy embarrass us in front of the media.'"

They turned onto a quieter street, the traffic noise fading to a comfortable background hum. A few locals were out walking dogs or tending to impossibly neat front gardens, offering polite nods to the two obvious footballers in their midst.

"Right," Hector said, switching into teaching mode with the ease of someone who'd clearly done this before. "Lesson one - basic defensive communication. When you want someone to mark their man, you say 'Mann decken.' Try it."

"Mann decken."

"Good. When you want them to close down quickly, it's 'Pressing!' - which is basically the same in English, so that's one less thing to worry about."

Wyatt repeated the phrase, filing it away in the mental notebook he was rapidly compiling.

"And when everything goes to hell and you need everyone to just get the ball clear?"

"Weg damit?"

Hector stopped walking entirely, turning to stare at his student with genuine surprise. "That's... actually correct. How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess. 'Weg' sounds like 'away' and 'damit' sounds angry."

"Impressive deduction, Sherlock. Maybe this won't take as long as I thought."

They resumed walking, passing a small bakery whose windows displayed the kind of perfectly arranged pastries that made Wyatt's post-training hunger suddenly very real. The smell of fresh bread and coffee drifted onto the street like an invitation.

"Tell me something," Hector said, nodding toward the bakery. "What do you miss most about England? And don't say the weather, because that would be obviously insane."

Wyatt considered the question while his stomach rumbled its own commentary on the bakery's proximity. "Probably my mum's Sunday roasts. And being able to understand what people are laughing about in pubs."

"Ah, the language barrier social anxiety. Classic expat problem." Hector's expression grew mock-serious. "Here's a survival tip - when Germans are laughing and you have no idea why, just nod and say 'Ja, genau.' It means 'yes, exactly' and works in about eighty percent of situations."

"What about the other twenty percent?"

"You accidentally agree to something terrible and have to live with the consequences. But that's character building."

The street they were on curved gently to the left, revealing their destination - a modest community center with large windows and the kind of functional architecture that prioritized substance over style. A small sign by the entrance read "Volkshochschule Köln-Süd" in neat Germanic lettering.

"Adult education center," Hector explained, noting Wyatt's curiosity. "They run evening language classes for immigrants, business people, football players who need to learn German fast enough to avoid embarrassing their clubs."

"You learned German here?"

"God no. I'm German, you muppet. Born in Augsburg." Hector's deadpan delivery made the revelation even funnier. "But my English came from three seasons in the Championship, and I remember what it felt like to be lost in translation every single day."

As they approached the building's entrance, Wyatt felt a familiar flutter of nervous energy. Another new environment, another test of his ability to adapt and survive outside his comfort zone.

"One more phrase before we go in," Hector said, his hand on the door handle. "When you inevitably make a mistake in German and want to ask someone to speak English, you say 'Sprechen Sie Englisch?' But..." He paused dramatically. "The secret is to say it with confidence, like you're doing them a favor by giving them the chance to practice their English."

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

"Perfect. Now you sound like a entitled English tourist, which is exactly what we're going for."

Hector pulled open the door, releasing a wave of warm air scented with coffee, cleaning supplies, and the indefinable smell of educational institutions everywhere.

"After you, English boy. Time to see if your brain can learn German faster than your legs learned to run from Lemperle."

As they stepped inside, Wyatt realized that this was exactly what he'd needed after the intensity of training - not just language lessons, but the easy camaraderie of a teammate who understood the challenge of building a life in a foreign place. The jokes, the gentle teasing, the genuine offer of help - it all felt like the first real building blocks of belonging.

His phone buzzed with another text from his mother, but for once, he didn't feel the urgent need to check it immediately.

The registration didn't take long - a friendly receptionist with wire-rimmed glasses and the patient demeanor of someone accustomed to dealing with confused foreigners processed Wyatt's enrollment with Germanic efficiency. Forms were filled, fees were paid (Hector insisted on covering it, waving away Wyatt's protests with casual generosity), and within fifteen minutes they were being directed down a corridor lined with motivational posters in multiple languages.

"Room 205," the receptionist had said in carefully enunciated English. "Frau Weber will be your instructor."

"Weber?" Wyatt asked as they climbed the stairs. "Any relation to...?"

"Different Weber. Germany has about three surnames for the entire population," Hector replied, though something in his tone suggested he knew more than he was letting on.

Room 205 turned out to be a bright, airy classroom with windows facing the street they'd just walked down. Adult-sized desks were arranged in a casual semicircle, and educational posters covered the walls - German grammar charts, vocabulary lists, and what appeared to be a timeline of German history featuring an unfortunate number of wars.

The woman standing at the front of the room looked up from her lesson plans as they entered, and Wyatt felt his carefully maintained post-training composure falter slightly.

She was young - maybe twenty-one, with the kind of effortless prettiness that came from good genes rather than careful styling. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she wore simple clothes - dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that somehow managed to look both professional and approachable. When she smiled, it was genuine and warm, reaching her eyes in a way that immediately put nervous students at ease.

"Jonas!" she said, her English accent crisp and clear with just a hint of German precision underneath. "I was wondering when you'd show up with another stray footballer."

Hector's grin was sheepish in a way that suggested a history of exactly this kind of favor. "Lisa, meet Wyatt Lincoln. Wyatt, this is Lisa Weber - the best German teacher in Cologne, and unfortunately for her, also the most patient."

Lisa stepped forward to shake Wyatt's hand, her grip firm and professional. "Nice to meet you, Wyatt. I heard about the new English signing - the whole city's talking about Mueller's latest project."

"Nothing like adding pressure," Wyatt said, trying to match her easy confidence.

"Don't worry. In here, you're just another student trying not to embarrass himself in a foreign language. Very democratic."

She gestured toward the arranged desks, and Wyatt realized they weren't alone in the room. About eight other students were scattered around the semicircle - a mix of ages and nationalities, all united by the slightly glazed expression of people grappling with German grammar.

"Actually," Hector said, his tone becoming more serious, "I was wondering if you might have time for some private sessions with Wyatt. The club situation is... intense. Group classes might not give him the focused attention he needs."

Lisa raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from friendly teacher to shrewd businesswoman. "Private lessons are more expensive, Jonas. And my schedule is pretty full."

"Money's not an issue," Hector said quickly. "The club will cover it. And the timing can be flexible - early mornings, evenings, whenever works around training."

Wyatt watched this negotiation with growing unease. "I don't want to be any trouble..."

"You're not trouble," Lisa said, her attention shifting back to him with assessing eyes. "But private lessons are intensive. I'll push you harder than I would in a group setting, expect more homework, demand better results. Are you sure you're ready for that level of commitment?"

The question hung in the air between them, and Wyatt realized this was another test - different from the tactical pressure of training, but no less important. His ability to function in German would determine whether he could truly integrate into the team, the club, the city that was supposed to become his home.

"I'm ready," he said, meeting her gaze directly. "I need to be."

Lisa's smile returned, though now it carried a hint of challenge. "Alright then. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"Three sessions a week minimum. One hour each, no exceptions unless you're traveling with the team. You'll have homework - real homework, not just memorizing vocabulary lists. And..." She paused, glancing at Hector with amusement. "No special treatment just because you're a footballer. In my classroom, you're just another student who needs to learn German properly."

"Deal," Wyatt said without hesitation.

"Good." Lisa pulled out her phone, scrolling through what appeared to be a packed schedule. "I can do tomorrow evening at seven - that gives you time to recover from whatever tactical torture Mueller puts you through in the morning. We'll start with an assessment to see exactly how much German you actually know versus how much you think you know."

Hector clapped Wyatt on the shoulder. "Fair warning - Lisa's assessments are more thorough than Mueller's fitness tests."

"I'm standing right here, Jonas," Lisa said with mock irritation. "And you failed my assessment twice before you finally admitted you needed help with your English grammar."

"That was years ago! And my English is perfect now."

"Your English is adequate. Don't let it go to your head."

The easy banter between them made Wyatt wonder about their history - clearly more than just teacher and student, but the exact nature of their relationship remained diplomatically unclear.

"Right then," Lisa said, turning back to her lesson plans. "Tomorrow at seven. Don't be late, don't bring excuses, and don't expect me to go easy on you just because you had a long day of playing football."

"Understood."

"And Wyatt?" She looked up from her papers, her expression serious. "Welcome to Cologne. I know it's overwhelming, but you'll figure it out. Most people do, eventually."

There was something in her tone - a warmth that went beyond professional courtesy - that made Wyatt feel like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to collect the right kind of allies in this strange new world.

As they left the classroom and walked back toward the main entrance, Hector was unusually quiet, his usual stream of commentary replaced by thoughtful silence.

"She seems nice," Wyatt said eventually.

"Lisa? Yeah, she's... she's good at what she does."

"You two have history."

It wasn't a question, and Hector's slight smile confirmed the accuracy of Wyatt's observation.

"Nothing dramatic. We dated for a few months last year. Ended amicably when we both realized we were better as friends than as anything else." He paused. "But she's genuinely the best German teacher in the city, and she'll make sure you don't embarrass yourself in interviews."

They emerged into the early evening air, the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. The walk back to the training facility felt different now - less like a journey into the unknown and more like a routine that might, eventually, become familiar.

"One more thing," Hector said as they reached the car park. "Lisa's tough but fair. She'll push you because she wants you to succeed, not because she enjoys watching students struggle. Trust the process."

Wyatt nodded, his mind already shifting toward tomorrow's challenges - the meeting with Mueller, the first private German lesson, the ongoing project of proving he belonged at this level of football.

"Thanks," he said. "For all of this. The language lessons, the guidance, putting up with my questions."

"Don't get sentimental on me, English boy," Hector said with a grin. "Save the emotion for when you actually manage to hold a conversation in German without embarrassing yourself."

As they parted ways in the car park - Hector toward his BMW, Wyatt toward the waiting taxi that would take him back to his hotel - Wyatt felt something shift in his chest. Not quite confidence, but something approaching it.