Cut Off

The hotel room felt smaller somehow as Wyatt moved through it, pulling clothes from drawers and the wardrobe with mechanical efficiency. His club-issued bag lay open on the bed, half-filled with the modest collection of belongings that represented his entire life in Germany. Training gear, casual clothes, the German phrasebook Hector had recommended - everything that had seemed so important yesterday now felt like props from someone else's story.

His phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table, the screen lighting up with "Mum" in simple letters. The same photo from six months ago - Margaret Lincoln in her nurse's uniform, smiling tiredly after a long shift but still managing to look proud of something David had said off-camera.

For a moment, Wyatt considered letting it ring. In less than an hour, he wouldn't be able to answer calls at all. Maybe it would be easier to just... disappear.

But that was cowardice, and Margaret Lincoln had raised a son who faced difficult conversations head-on.

"Mum," he said, pressing the phone to his ear while continuing to fold a training shirt with one hand.

"Finally!" Her voice carried the particular blend of relief and mild irritation that only mothers could perfect. "I've been calling since yesterday evening. You said you'd ring after your first training session."

"Sorry, sorry. Yesterday was..." Wyatt paused, searching for words that wouldn't worry her. "Let's just say the training here is intense enough to make you question your life choices. I got back to the hotel and basically collapsed into bed."

Margaret's laugh was warm and familiar, carrying with it the scent of Sunday roasts and the sound of Match of the Day playing in the background. "That bad, was it? Your father said German football would be tough, but he didn't think it would actually kill you."

"Not quite killed. Just thoroughly humbled." Wyatt sat on the edge of the bed, his packing temporarily forgotten. "How's Dad? Still convinced I should have stayed at Grimsby and worked my way up the English leagues like a proper footballer?"

"He's proud as punch, actually. Been telling everyone at the site about his son playing for a proper German club. Though he did mutter something about 'fancy foreign tactics' being no substitute for 'good old-fashioned defending.'"

The easy familiarity of the conversation made what he had to say next even harder. Wyatt found himself staring at his reflection in the hotel room's mirror - still the same face, still the same uncertain nineteen-year-old, but about to embark on something that would change everything.

"Mum," he said quietly, and something in his tone must have shifted because Margaret's voice immediately became more focused.

"What is it, love?"

"I need to tell you something. And... and you're not going to like it."

A pause that seemed to stretch across the distance between Cologne and Grimsby, carrying with it all the weight of parental worry that had followed him across borders and languages.

"Go on then."

Wyatt took a breath, knowing he was about to break Mueller's explicit instruction about secrecy. But these were his parents - the people who'd sacrificed and saved and believed in him when believing seemed foolish. They deserved more than supervised ten-minute phone calls and vague reassurances.

"The head coach wants to put me through some special training. Intensive development, he called it. But it means... it means I'll be out of contact for a while. Months, actually."

"Out of contact?" Margaret's voice sharpened with the professional concern of someone who'd spent years reading between the lines of what people didn't say. "What does that mean exactly?"

"No phone calls except for brief check-ins. No social media, no contact with other players, no... no normal life, really. Just training and study and trying to prove I belong at this level."

The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Wyatt could almost hear his mother's mind working, processing this information through the filter of maternal protectiveness and practical nursing experience.

"Wyatt," she said finally, "that sounds..."

"Mental? Yeah, I know." He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the German street where yesterday he'd walked with Hector, learning basic phrases and feeling like he might actually fit in somewhere. "But Mum, this is the chance. The real chance. The head coach thinks I have potential, but only if I'm willing to go through something that will either make me or break me."

"And if it breaks you?"

The question hung between them, honest and direct in the way that only family could manage.

"Then I come home having tried everything. And at least we'll know."

Margaret was quiet for a long moment, and Wyatt could picture her in the kitchen of their terraced house, probably making tea while processing this latest development in her son's increasingly surreal journey.

"Why?" she asked suddenly.

"Why what?"

"Why the isolation? Why the secrecy? If you're good enough to be there, why do they need to hide you away like some sort of..." She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Like some sort of witness protection program?"

Wyatt had been dreading this question because he wasn't entirely sure he understood the answer himself.

"Because failure can't be public, apparently. If I can't make the grade, they want it to be quiet. No media attention, no public embarrassment for anyone involved."

"That sounds like they don't have much confidence in you."

The words hit harder than they should have, probably because they echoed his own fears. "Or maybe they want to give me the best possible chance without the pressure of everyone watching."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Wyatt, love, are you sure about this? It sounds like they're asking you to disappear completely. What if something goes wrong? What if you need help, or support, or just... just someone to talk to who isn't trying to turn you into something else?"

Her voice carried the weight of every scraped knee she'd bandaged, every disappointment she'd helped him navigate, every time she'd been the steady presence that made the world make sense again.

"I know it sounds scary, Mum. It terrifies me, honestly. But this is what it takes. This is the price of trying to make it at this level."

"The price seems awfully high for a nineteen-year-old."

Wyatt found himself smiling despite the gravity of the conversation. "You sound like you're trying to talk me out of it."

"I'm trying to make sure you're doing this for the right reasons, not because some coach has convinced you that suffering in silence is the only path to success."

It was a fair point, delivered with the kind of clarity that came from years of dealing with people in crisis.

"What if I told you I think I need this?" Wyatt said slowly. "What if I told you that yesterday, for the first time since I started playing football seriously, I felt like I was being challenged at the right level? Not too easy, not impossible, just... right at the edge of what I can handle?"

Margaret's sigh was audible across the connection. "Then I'd say you sound like your father when he decided to take that job on the North Sea rigs. Dangerous, difficult, but necessary for the family."

"And you let him go."

"I let him go because I knew he'd regret it forever if he didn't try. Just like I know you'd regret it if you walked away from this."

The hotel room felt very quiet suddenly, as if the weight of the decision had absorbed all other sound.

"I love you, Mum. Both of you. And I'm sorry I won't be able to call properly for a while."

"We love you too, you daft boy. Just... just promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll remember who you are underneath all this training and pressure and German efficiency. You're not just a football project, Wyatt. You're our son, and that matters more than any of this."

Wyatt felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. "I promise."

"Good. Now go show these German coaches what proper English determination looks like. And if any of them give you trouble, you tell them your mother's a nurse and she knows seventeen different ways to make someone very uncomfortable without leaving marks."

Despite everything, Wyatt laughed - really laughed - for the first time since entering Mueller's office.

"I'll be sure to mention that in my first tactical meeting."

"You do that. We'll be here when you get back, love. However long it takes."

The call ended, leaving Wyatt alone with his half-packed bag and the weight of what he'd just committed to. Outside, a car would be arriving soon to take him away from everything familiar and comfortable.

But Margaret Lincoln's voice lingered in the room like a blessing, reminding him that some connections couldn't be severed by distance or isolation or the demands of professional football.

He had fifty-three minutes left before his old life ended and something entirely new began.

Time to finish packing.

The hotel lobby felt like a museum of his former life as Wyatt wheeled his single suitcase toward the reception desk. The same efficient staff who'd checked him in three days ago processed his departure with professional courtesy, unaware that the young Englishman settling his bill was about to vanish from the normal world entirely.

His bag felt heavier than it should have, weighted not just with clothes and toiletries but with the gravity of what lay ahead. Three months of isolation. Three months of proving himself worthy of something he wasn't even sure he understood yet.

The vehicle waiting outside was unmarked and unremarkable - a dark Mercedes van with tinted windows that could have belonged to any corporate fleet. The driver, a middle-aged German man with the weathered look of someone who'd spent years ferrying people to places they weren't entirely sure they wanted to go, simply nodded and gestured toward the rear doors.

"Mr. Lincoln?"

"That's me."

No small talk, no explanation of their destination. Just the efficient execution of instructions that had been given by someone with enough authority to make questions unnecessary.

Wyatt climbed into the back seat, his bag stowed in the cargo area with the finality of a decision that couldn't be undone. The interior was comfortable but anonymous - leather seats, climate control, and the kind of soundproofing that suggested serious money behind whatever operation he was now part of.

As they pulled away from the hotel, Wyatt watched the familiar streets of Cologne slide past the tinted windows. The bakery where he and Hector had caught the scent of fresh bread. The community center where Lisa Weber waited to continue their language lessons. The route back to the main training facility where twenty-two teammates were probably going through their normal recovery routines, unaware that the young English defender had just disappeared from their world.

The city gave way to suburbs, then to countryside that looked like something from a German tourism brochure. Rolling hills covered in forests that were too perfectly maintained to be entirely natural. Small villages with church spires and half-timbered houses that seemed designed to remind visitors that this was a country with deep roots and older wisdom.

The journey took just over an hour, though Wyatt lost track of time somewhere between watching the landscape change and trying to process the magnitude of what he'd agreed to. Complete isolation. No contact with the outside world except for supervised calls. Three months of having every aspect of his existence focused on the single question of whether he could become good enough.

When the van finally slowed, it was to turn through gates that looked like they belonged to a private estate rather than a football facility. High stone walls, electronic security, and the kind of discretion that money could buy when privacy was essential.

The road beyond the gates wound through carefully maintained grounds - more forest, a few buildings visible in the distance, and the sense of being somewhere completely removed from the ordinary world. No traffic noise, no city bustle, just the quiet hum of the van's engine and the weight of anticipation building in Wyatt's chest.

The main building, when it finally came into view, was impressive without being ostentatious. Modern architecture that somehow managed to fit naturally into the forested landscape, with large windows and clean lines that suggested serious purpose rather than luxury. Other structures were visible in the distance - what looked like accommodation blocks, training facilities, and the kind of infrastructure that spoke of significant investment in whatever happened here.

The van pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance, and Wyatt felt his pulse quicken as he recognized the figure standing beside the imposing wooden doors.

Hans Mueller stood with his hands clasped behind his back, still wearing the same expression of measured assessment that had characterized their meeting that morning. But there was something different about seeing him here, in this isolated place that would become Wyatt's entire world for the next three months. The head coach looked less like a football manager and more like a general preparing for a campaign that would determine not just tactical success, but the fundamental question of whether his newest recruit had what it took to survive at this level.

"Thank you," Wyatt said to the driver as he collected his bag from the cargo area.

The man simply nodded and drove away, leaving Wyatt standing alone in front of the facility with his single suitcase and the growing realization that he had just crossed a threshold from which there was no easy return.

Mueller approached with measured steps, his pale eyes taking in every detail of Wyatt's posture, expression, and demeanor. Even here, even in this moment of arrival, everything was being assessed and catalogued.

"Welcome to your new home, Lincoln," Mueller said simply.

Wyatt looked up at the building that would contain his entire existence for the next ninety days. Clean lines, serious architecture, and windows that looked out onto forest rather than the world he'd left behind. No media, no teammates, no distractions from the singular focus of proving himself worthy.

The thought hit him with unexpected force: *This is my home for three months now.*

He studied Mueller's impassive expression, searching for any sign of confidence or belief in what they were about to attempt together. But the head coach's face revealed nothing - not optimism, not doubt, just the professional neutrality of someone who had designed a test and was now waiting to see how it would unfold.

*They don't believe in me,* Wyatt realized with sudden clarity. *This isn't about development or opportunity. This is about giving me enough rope to either pull myself up or hang myself with. They're expecting me to fail.*

The thought should have been crushing, but instead it sparked something harder and more determined in his chest. He'd been underestimated before - by coaches who thought he was too small, by scouts who thought he was too slow, by teammates who thought he was too quiet to lead from the back.

But he was still here. Still standing in front of a training facility that represented the highest level of professional football development, with a bag full of clothes and a head full of dreams that refused to die despite every reasonable argument for their impossibility.

*I have to prove them wrong.*

The determination settled into his bones like conviction, transforming nervous energy into something more useful. They could isolate him, test him, push him to the breaking point and beyond. But they couldn't make him quit.

Mueller was still watching him, probably reading every micro-expression and cataloguing it for future reference. Wyatt met the head coach's gaze directly, letting his own expression harden into something approaching resolve.

"I'm ready," he said simply.

Mueller's slight nod might have been approval, or it might have been simple acknowledgment that the program was about to begin.

"Good," the head coach replied. "Let's see if you still feel that way in three months."

As they walked toward the entrance of the facility that would become his entire world, Wyatt felt the weight of the challenge settling around him like armor. Ninety days to transform himself from a League Two defender into something approaching a professional footballer. Ninety days of complete isolation from everything familiar and comfortable.

Ninety days to prove that Hans Mueller's assessment of his potential wasn't just wishful thinking disguised as tactical analysis.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing corridors that looked like they belonged in an expensive private school rather than a football facility. But Wyatt barely noticed the architecture or the institutional smell of cleaning supplies and fresh paint.

His focus had narrowed to a single, burning certainty: whatever they threw at him over the next three months, he would not break.

Not today. Not ever.

The doors closed behind them with the finality of a decision that couldn't be undone.