DaoistvK2Pv4

From golden boy to public disgrace.
lukas mullers's career nosedived after a high-profile transfer turned him into a flop. With his reputation in ruins and his personal life in shambles, he’s trying to prove everyone wrong.

Second Half

5 years ago — Lukas, Age 20German Super Cup Final – – Bavaria Dome, packed and shaking.

the final was against HSV Alster 87it was a tight gameI stood on the edge of the box, jersey sticking to my back, sweat on my brow, corner flag swaying from the wind.

89th minute. 1–1.

I looked over at the sideline. Our set-piece coach pointed twice — signal for a near-post run. Everyone knew it. Everyone had seen the clip. But knowing it and stopping it were two different things.

I locked eyes with the corner taker — Miloš, our Serbian winger. Left-footed. Deadly delivery.

He raised a finger. I nodded.

I took two steps back. Then exploded.

Near post. Off the defender's shoulder. Airborne.

I met it clean — forehead, center of the ball — and smashed it inside the far post.

The crowd didn't roar — it erupted. Like a bomb beneath the stands.

I didn't think. I just ran. Arms wide. Teammates chasing me. First trophy. First final. First time I felt what it meant to give a city something real.

Flashback: Two weeks earlier – Training Ground, Afternoon Sun

"Again," barked Coach Jansen, our set-piece analyst. "But this time, don't wait. Hit the angle early."

I jogged back to the edge of the box, panting.

"Lukas," he said, grabbing my shoulder. "You've got something most strikers don't — timing. You just need to trust it."

We did it eighteen times. Same run. Same movement. Head down, angle sharp, leap at the near post.

By the end, my neck was sore. But I remembered what he said —"Timing wins trophies."

Back to the Final.

2–1. Borlen Dortmund: Super Cup champions.

We lifted the trophy under the lights. Confetti in our hair. Sweat in our eyes. I held the cup over my head and for once, let myself smile without restraint.

That night, I was named Best Player of the Tournament.Top scorer.Youngest on the pitch.

Still, when the cameras left, and the fireworks faded, I sat alone by the tunnel with my boots half untied. Watching the empty stands. Listening to the echo of chants that had already passed.

And that's when I heard her voice.

"You don't celebrate like the others," she said.

I turned. Elise Hart. Jacket zipped halfway, notebook clutched to her chest.she interviewed me multiple times before but this time was kinda special

I shrugged. "Guess I'm still chasing something bigger."

She tilted her head. "You just won the first trophy of your career."

"I know," I said. "But it's not the last."

She smiled — like she was studying a rare animal that just spoke.

"I'm writing a profile on tonight's match," she said. "Can I ask you a few things?"

I nodded. "Only if I get to ask something back."

She laughed, quiet and genuine. "Deal."

We sat there, just outside the locker rooms, while the night wore down and the cleaning crews started sweeping the confetti.

We didn't talk like a journalist and a player.We talked like two people not pretending to be anything.

No flirting. No performances. Just... respect.

She asked about the goal. The pressure. My routine.

I asked about her job. The deadlines. The editors who never left her alone.

Eventually, the PR team called me in.

"Same time next trophy?" she said as I stood up.

"Only if you're still writing," I replied.

The One We Won