Be Undeniable

The next morning, I was the first one at training.

Still buzzing. Still chasing it.

They say after your debut goal, you should rest, soak in the moment. But I couldn't. I wasn't finished — not even close. I needed to prove it wasn't a fluke.

So I stayed late. Every day.

Free kicks. One-touch passes. Turns in tight spaces. I trained like someone was always watching. Because someone always was.

The coaches didn't tell me to slow down. The staff whispered about burnout, but I didn't listen. I didn't care. I had one thought, every morning when I tied my boots:

Be undeniable.

And when I wasn't training, I was watching. Studying. Soaking in every movement of the veterans around me — how they read space, when they rested, how they spoke in the dressing room. I asked questions. I stayed quiet when I needed to. 

Confidence isn't volume. It's consistency.

A few weeks later, we played away at Frankfurt.

Tough crowd. Freezing rain. One of those nights where nothing feels clean, and your legs feel like concrete by the 70th minute.

Still, I found the net.it was a scrappy goal but decisive.

As I walked off the pitch, soaked and freezing, I saw her.

She wasn't part of the media swarm shouting for interviews. No big camera. No giant microphone. Just a slim notebook in one hand, pen in the other.

Blonde hair tucked behind one ear. Calm eyes. Focused.

Not chasing quotes. Just… observing.

She caught my glance and didn't look away.

Then she stepped forward. Just one step.

"Lukas Müller, right?"

Her accent was faint. English, but softened — the kind that comes from moving a lot.

"That obvious?" I asked.

"You play like you've been here for years," she said. "But your face says you're still figuring it out."

I half-smiled. "Are you a journalist or a psychologist?"

"Elise Hart," she said, offering a hand. "Fussball Focus. I do long-form profiles. 

I shook her hand — cold fingers, firm grip.

"So I'm a story now?"

"Not yet," she said. "But maybe."

There was a pause. One of those rare ones that didn't feel awkward. Just… quiet.

"You surprised me," she added. "A lot of guys your age are louder."

"I'm not here to be loud," I said. "I'm here to stay."

She nodded. Scribbled something quick in her notebook

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"I get that a lot."

Something about the way she looked at me made me feel seen — not as a product or a prospect, but as a person.

And for a second, I felt the pull. A thread between us.

But I let it hang.

"I've got recovery in twenty," I said. "But thanks. For being… different."

She smiled — a real one.

"It's rare these days," I added.

"Yeah," she said. "That's why it matters."

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

I stood there, rain dripping from my jaw, heart still steady from the match — but not from that.

Then I headed down the tunnel.

There was still work to do.