Nightmare Came True pt2

The dressing room at half-time had been a sobering experience. Mueller's voice had been measured, analytical rather than emotional, his approach that of a manager who understood the bigger picture.

"*This is one match,*" he had said, his eyes scanning the dejected faces around him. "*One fixture out of thirty-four this season. We learn, we adapt, we move forward.*"

The words weren't meant to inspire a miraculous comeback - everyone in the room understood that Leipzig were simply the better team on the night. Instead, Mueller's message was about perspective, about the long journey ahead rather than the immediate pain of being outclassed.

"*Some of you are playing your first Bundesliga match,*" the manager had continued, his gaze lingering briefly on Wyatt. "*This is education. Expensive education, but education nonetheless.*"

---

**SECOND HALF - 46th MINUTE**

The tunnel walk back onto the pitch felt like returning to a battlefield. The Leipzig supporters' confidence had crystallized into something approaching certainty, their chanting more rhythmic, more assured. They could sense their team was in complete control, and the atmosphere reflected that dominance.

Wyatt's legs felt heavy as he jogged to his position, the weight of the first half's failures clinging to him like a physical burden. Every step reminded him of his positioning errors, every glance toward Šeško brought back the memory of being beaten for the opening goal.

The restart came quickly, Köln kicking off with what little urgency they could muster, but Leipzig's pressing was immediate and suffocating. Within thirty seconds, they'd won the ball back and were probing Köln's defensive line once again.

In the fifty-second minute, disaster nearly struck.

A simple through ball from Klostermann should have been dealt with easily - the kind of routine defensive action that center-backs complete hundreds of times per season. But Wyatt's first touch was heavy, the ball bouncing off his foot at an awkward angle that sent it directly into Šeško's path.

The striker's eyes lit up as he saw the gift presented to him, his acceleration instant as he burst toward goal with only Schwäbe to beat. For a moment, the Red Bull Arena seemed to inhale collectively, the home supporters sensing their team's second goal.

But then Jonas Hector appeared from nowhere, his veteran's reading of the game allowing him to anticipate the danger before it fully materialized. The left-back's sliding tackle was perfectly timed, his foot connecting with the ball just as Šeško was about to pull the trigger.

The striker tumbled over Hector's outstretched leg, both players ending up in a heap just outside the penalty area. The referee's whistle remained silent - it was a clean tackle, perfectly executed under the most intense pressure.

"*What a tackle from Hector!*" the commentator's voice carried across the stadium. "*The veteran defender saving his young partner from what could have been a catastrophic error!*"

As both players picked themselves up, Hector shot Wyatt a look that contained no anger, only professional concern. The message was clear: *Focus. Now.*

But the damage to Wyatt's confidence was complete. That single moment of poor control had exposed him entirely, and everyone in the stadium had witnessed it. Mueller's voice could be heard from the touchline, shouting instructions that sounded increasingly urgent.

The fifty-fifth minute brought the inevitable decision.

The substitution board was raised on the touchline with numbers that made Wyatt's heart sink: **23 OFF - 5 ON**

Dominique Heintz was jogging toward the pitch, his face set in professional concentration. The veteran defender's introduction meant one thing: Wyatt Lincoln's Bundesliga debut was over.

The walk to the touchline felt surreal, disconnected from reality. The stadium noise seemed muffled, as if he was hearing it through water. Some Leipzig supporters applauded politely - the standard acknowledgment of a substituted player - while others simply watched in silence.

As Wyatt reached the sideline, Mueller's face was grim but not entirely unsympathetic.

"*Kopf hoch,*" the manager said quietly as they briefly embraced. *Head up.* "*This is learning. Nothing more, nothing less.*"

Wyatt slumped onto the bench, his legs feeling like they might not support him much longer. The substitution had been necessary - everyone in the stadium could see that - but it felt like a public declaration of failure nonetheless.

From his position on the bench, he watched helplessly as his team continued to struggle.

In the sixty-first minute, a corner kick from the right was delivered with precision toward the near post, where a cluster of players had gathered in the kind of chaotic melee that defined modern football. Bodies collided, arms grabbed shirts, and in the midst of it all, Openda found himself in the perfect position to capitalize on the confusion.

The ball ricocheted off three different players before falling to the winger's feet just six yards from goal. His finish was clinical, a side-footed effort that gave Schwäbe no chance despite the goalkeeper's desperate dive.

**GOAL: RB Leipzig 2-0 FC Köln (Openda 61')**

The celebration was exuberant but not excessive, Leipzig's players understanding that they were simply doing their job at the highest level. The home supporters were delighted, but there was no malice in their joy - just appreciation for good football played by their team.

Ten minutes later, the scoreline became even more emphatic.

Simmons collected the ball thirty yards from goal, his first touch immaculate as he cut inside from the right flank. The space opened up in front of him, Köln's midfield unable to close him down with sufficient urgency.

His shot was a thing of beauty - a curling effort that bent around Schwäbe's outstretched hand and nestled in the far corner of the net with perfect precision. The technique was sublime, the execution clinical.

**GOAL: RB Leipzig 3-0 FC Köln (Simmons 71')**

The Red Bull Arena erupted in celebration, the home supporters recognizing they were witnessing a comprehensive display of superiority. This wasn't just a victory anymore - it was a demonstration of the gulf in class between the two teams.

Wyatt watched from the bench as his teammates' heads dropped, their body language reflecting the reality of the situation. The final twenty minutes passed with Leipzig managing the game professionally while Köln simply tried to prevent further damage.

When the final whistle blew, confirming the 3-0 scoreline, Wyatt remained seated on the bench while his teammates trudged toward the away section to acknowledge their traveling supporters. The three thousand Köln fans who had made the journey deserved recognition for their loyalty, even in defeat.

The statistics that appeared on the giant screen told the story of complete domination:

**Final Score: RB Leipzig 3 - FC Köln 0**

**Shots: Leipzig 15 - Köln 3**

**Possession: Leipzig 71% - Köln 29%**

**Pass Accuracy: Leipzig 91% - Köln 68%**

But it was the individual ratings that would haunt him. As journalists began compiling their match reports, Wyatt caught glimpses of the scores being discussed: **Lincoln - 5.9**

Five-point-nine out of ten. In football terms, that was catastrophic - the kind of rating reserved for players who had actively hindered their team's chances. It was a numerical representation of complete failure at the highest level.

His Bundesliga debut was over, and it had been a brutal education in the realities of top-level football. Beaten for the opening goal, nearly gifted Leipzig a second through poor control, substituted after fifty-five minutes of struggle, and forced to watch his team crumble from the bench.

As he finally stood to follow his teammates toward the tunnel, there was no malice in the atmosphere - just the professional acknowledgment that one team had been significantly better than the other.

The tunnel swallowed him once again, but this time there was no anticipation, no nervous energy - only the crushing weight of complete failure and the knowledge that he had just received the most expensive and humiliating education of his life.

The real test had been completed, and Wyatt Lincoln had failed it in the most public way possible.

A 5.9 rating wasn't just poor - it was a declaration that he had no business being on the same pitch as these players.

**POST-MATCH PRESS CONFERENCE**

*Red Bull Arena - Media Room*

*RB Leipzig 3-0 FC Köln*

The media room at the Red Bull Arena buzzed with the familiar energy of post-match analysis. Hans Mueller sat behind the microphone, his face bearing the composed resignation of a manager who had just watched his team receive a harsh lesson in Bundesliga reality. The scoreline - 3-0 - glowed on the screens behind him, accompanied by statistics that told the story of complete domination.

The first question came from a German sports journalist, his tone professional but pointed.

"*Herr Mueller, your decision to start the young English defender Lincoln seemed to backfire tonight. He was directly involved in the opening goal and looked overwhelmed by the pace of Bundesliga football. Do you regret that selection?*"

Mueller's response was immediate, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades in professional football.

"*I don't regret anything about tonight's team selection. What I saw was a nineteen-year-old boy playing his first match at this level against one of the best attacks in German football. Did you expect him to be perfect? Did you expect him to stop Benjamin Šeško single-handedly?*"

He leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming more emphatic.

"*Wyatt Lincoln is not here to save FC Köln on day one. He's not Superman, he's not some miracle solution to our defensive problems. He's a teenager who three months ago was playing in England's fourth division. Tonight was education - expensive education, yes, but education nonetheless.*"

A second journalist, from Sky Sports Germany, pressed further.

"*But surely the gap in quality was evident from the first minute? Šeško nearly scored within thirty seconds, and Lincoln looked out of his depth throughout. Was it fair to expose a young player like that?*"

Mueller's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained controlled.

"*Fair? What's fair in football? Is it fair that we lost our best center-back to injury in pre-season? Is it fair that we're competing against teams with five times our budget? Football isn't about fair - it's about learning and adapting.*"

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"*Yes, Wyatt struggled tonight. Yes, he made mistakes. But show me a defender who hasn't been beaten by quality attackers. Šeško has scored against far more experienced center-backs than Lincoln. The boy will learn from this, he'll grow stronger, and he'll be better for having faced this level of opposition.*"

A third question came from a local Cologne newspaper.

"*The substitution in the fifty-fifth minute seemed to suggest you had lost faith in Lincoln's ability to cope with the match. Was that a tactical decision or an acknowledgment that the experiment had failed?*"

Mueller's response was sharp, decisive.

"*It was a tactical decision based on what the match required at that moment. Wyatt was struggling, yes, but so was our entire defensive structure. Leipzig were creating chances at will, and I needed experience on the pitch to try to stabilize the situation.*"

He gestured toward the statistics displayed behind him.

"*Look at those numbers. Fifteen shots to three. Seventy-one percent possession. This wasn't about one player - this was about the difference in quality between two squads. Lincoln was part of that, but he wasn't the cause of it.*"

A British journalist, likely from one of the English papers covering Lincoln's journey, asked the next question.

"*Given tonight's performance, do you see a future for Lincoln in the Bundesliga? Will he get another opportunity to prove himself?*"

For the first time during the press conference, Mueller's expression softened slightly.

"*Of course he has a future. Did you think his development would be a straight line upward? Did you think he would arrive from League Two and immediately dominate Bundesliga attackers? That's not how football works, that's not how life works.*"

He leaned back in his chair, his voice taking on a more reflective tone.

"*Three months ago, this boy was playing in front of three thousand people at grounds where the floodlights barely work. Tonight, he played in front of sixty thousand at one of Germany's most modern stadiums against international-class players. The fact that he struggled is not surprising - the fact that he was on the pitch at all is remarkable.*"

The final question came from a tactics-focused German website.

"*What specifically will you work on with Lincoln before his next opportunity? What does he need to improve most urgently?*"

Mueller's answer was detailed, professional.

"*Decision-making under pressure. Positioning in transitions. Communication with his defensive partners. These are all things that come with experience at this level. You can't simulate the intensity of Bundesliga football in training - you can only learn it by playing it.*"

He stood, indicating the press conference was concluding.

"*What I will not do is throw a nineteen-year-old under the bus because he struggled against world-class opposition. Wyatt Lincoln has enormous potential, but potential takes time to develop. Tonight was one step in that development, nothing more, nothing less.*"

As Mueller left the podium, the journalists began filing their reports. The headlines would write themselves: another young talent exposed at the highest level, another reminder that the gap between leagues was wider than many believed.

But in Mueller's defense of his young defender, there was something that transcended the immediate disappointment of the result. It was the voice of experience speaking truth about development, about patience, about the long journey required to succeed at football's highest level.

The locker room felt like a morgue.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of studs being scraped against concrete and the occasional rustle of kit being stuffed into bags. No one spoke. No one made eye contact. The weight of the 3-0 defeat hung in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating.

Wyatt sat in his corner, still in his sweat-soaked kit, staring at the floor tiles between his feet. The geometric pattern of black and white squares seemed to mock him - a stark representation of the binary nature of football success and failure. Tonight, he had been definitively, catastrophically on the wrong side of that equation.

The sound of plastic hitting the bench beside him made him look up. A water bottle had landed there, condensation beading on its surface. Jonas Hector was already turning away, his shoulders set in the rigid posture of a man who had said everything he needed to say through action rather than words. The veteran left-back moved toward his own space without so much as a glance in Wyatt's direction.

The gesture wasn't cruel - Hector wasn't the type for petty vindictiveness. But the lack of eye contact spoke volumes. It was professional courtesy extended to someone who had let the team down, a basic human necessity offered without warmth or encouragement.

*Here's water. You need to hydrate. That's all.*

Wyatt unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers, the plastic threads feeling strange against his skin. The water was cold, almost shockingly so, and it did nothing to wash away the bitter taste of failure that coated his mouth like ash.

Around him, his teammates went through the mechanical process of post-match routines. Shirts were peeled off and dropped into laundry bags. Boots were unlaced with the methodical precision of men who had done this thousands of times before. Shower gel and towels were gathered with the efficiency of professionals who understood that defeat, however painful, was just another part of the job.

But none of them had endured what Wyatt had just experienced. None of them had been substituted after fifty-five minutes of complete humiliation. None of them would wake up tomorrow morning to newspaper ratings that declared them fundamentally unfit for this level of football.

Mueller appeared in the doorway, his face drawn with the exhaustion that came from watching his tactical plans dismantled by superior opposition. His eyes swept the room, taking in the dejected postures and defeated body language of his players.

"*Bus leaves in fifteen minutes,*" he said simply, his voice carrying none of the fire that had marked his half-time team talk. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been said by the scoreline.

The manager's gaze found Wyatt for a moment, and in that brief connection, there was something that might have been sympathy. But it was the clinical sympathy of a surgeon examining a failed operation - professional, necessary, and utterly devoid of comfort.

---

The journey back to the team hotel passed in a blur of motorway lights and uncomfortable silence. The club bus, which had carried them to the Red Bull Arena with something approaching confidence three hours earlier, now felt like a hearse transporting the remains of their dignity.

Wyatt had claimed a seat near the back, as far from the coaching staff as possible. Through the tinted windows, he watched the German countryside roll past in darkness, the occasional flicker of house lights serving as reminders that there was a world beyond football, a world where people slept peacefully without caring about defensive positioning or 5.9 match ratings.

Some of his teammates dozed fitfully, their heads lolling against the windows as exhaustion overcame the adrenaline crash that followed every match. Others stared at their phones, scrolling through social media or messages from family members who would either offer comfort or, worse, pretend the match had never happened.

Wyatt's phone remained face-down on his lap, its screen dark and accusatory. He could feel it vibrating periodically with incoming calls and messages, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Not yet. The outside world would have to wait until he was alone, until he could process the magnitude of his failure in private.

The bus pulled into the hotel's circular driveway with a soft hiss of air brakes, and the players began filing off with the mechanical efficiency of the defeated. Wyatt waited until last, his legs feeling disconnected from his body as he stepped down onto the tarmac.

The hotel lobby was mercifully quiet, the late hour ensuring that only a skeleton staff remained to witness their return. The elevator ride to his floor felt interminable, each floor marker lighting up with agonizing slowness as he ascended toward the sanctuary of his room.

---

Room 847 was exactly as he'd left it that morning - bed made with military precision, curtains drawn against the outside world, the complimentary fruit basket sitting untouched on the desk. It felt like a different lifetime since he'd stood at these same windows, looking out at the city lights and imagining what his Bundesliga debut might bring.

Wyatt closed the door behind him and leaned against it, the cool wood pressing against his back through his tracksuit. The silence was absolute now, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel's air conditioning system and the occasional sound of traffic from the street below.

He moved through his post-match routine with robotic precision - tracksuit off, shower gel applied with hands that still trembled slightly, water temperature adjusted to scalding in an attempt to wash away more than just the physical remnants of the evening.

The shower lasted twenty minutes, steam filling the bathroom until the mirror became completely opaque. When he finally emerged, his skin was red and raw, but the feeling of failure remained as fresh as ever.

The bed was exactly as the housekeeping staff had left it - crisp white sheets pulled tight enough to bounce a coin, pillows arranged with geometric precision. Wyatt collapsed onto it fully clothed, not bothering to pull back the covers, and stared at the ceiling where shadows from the street lights outside played across the textured surface.

His phone sat on the nightstand where he'd placed it, its screen lighting up every few minutes with incoming notifications. Each buzz felt like an accusation, a reminder that the outside world had witnessed his humiliation and was now trying to process it, to make sense of how someone could fail so completely at something they'd supposedly trained for their entire life.

Finally, with the kind of morbid curiosity that compels people to examine their own wounds, Wyatt reached for the device.

**7 Missed Calls - Mum**

**4 Missed Calls - Dad**

**3 Missed Calls - Tony Ricci**

**12 Missed Calls - Marcus Chen**

The numbers glowed accusingly in the darkness of his hotel room. Twelve calls from Marcus. His childhood friend, the boy who'd shared his dreams of professional football until a horrific tackle in a reserve match had shattered his knee and ended his career before it had truly begun. Marcus, who now walked with a permanent limp and worked as a physiotherapist, helping other people's dreams stay alive while his own had died on a muddy pitch in non-league football.

Marcus, who had probably watched every minute of tonight's disaster and understood, better than anyone else, exactly what it meant.

The voicemails could wait. The text messages could wait. The inevitable flood of social media notifications and news articles could wait.

Right now, all Wyatt could do was lie on his back in a German hotel room, staring at a ceiling that seemed to press down on him like the weight of his own inadequacy, and try to process the fact that his Bundesliga dream had lasted exactly fifty-five minutes.

Outside, the city of Leipzig continued its nightly rhythm, oblivious to the fact that in room 847, a nineteen-year-old boy from Grimsby was learning what it felt like to fail at the highest level of professional football.

The numbers glowed on his phone screen: 5.9 out of 10.

In football terms, that wasn't just failure.

It was humiliation.