After that encounter, weeks went on in a flash. Training sessions, college lectures, and sleepless nights all blurred together as Wyatt wrestled with the decision that would define his life. Every conversation felt like it had an agenda - teammates wanting inside information, classmates treating him like a walking transfer rumor, even his barber asking which haircut would suit the Bundesliga.
The offers remained on the table, each club growing more insistent. Tony called twice daily with updates: Leicester had sweetened the deal, Sunderland were getting impatient, Köln wanted an answer before their summer training camp began. But still, Wyatt couldn't pull the trigger.
He was stirring sugar into his morning tea when his mother's voice drifted from the kitchen table, quiet and strained in a way that made his stomach clench.
"The mortgage payment's gone up again," Margaret Lincoln said, not looking up from the stack of bills spread across the worn wooden surface. "Third time this year. And the boiler's making that noise again - engineer says it needs replacing before winter."
Wyatt paused, spoon halfway to his mug. His mother rarely talked about money troubles directly, preferring to shoulder the burden alone rather than worry him. But lately, the cracks had been showing.
"How much, Mum?"
"Doesn't matter. We'll manage. We always do." She finally looked up, her nurse's uniform already creased from an overnight shift at the hospital. Dark circles under her eyes told the story of too many double shifts, too many nights spent calculating how to make ends meet.
"Mum, how much?"
A long pause. "About three thousand for the boiler. Maybe more if the pipes need work too."
Three thousand pounds. The same amount he'd earn in less than five days at any of the clubs courting him. The weight of those offers suddenly felt different - not just about his career, but about fixing his family's problems with the stroke of a pen.
One week left.
The deadline hung over Wyatt like storm clouds as he walked through the familiar streets of his neighborhood. Seven days to choose between three different futures, three different versions of himself.
Tony had been relentless - Leicester were getting nervous about other defensive targets, Sunderland had set a hard deadline of next Friday, and Köln's sporting director was flying to England specifically to meet with Wyatt on Thursday. The pressure was suffocating.
His phone buzzed with another text from his teammate Jamie Morrison: "Whatever you choose, lad, just bloody choose it. This uncertainty is killing me and I'm not even the one deciding!"
At home, the atmosphere had grown thick with unspoken tension. His mother tried to act normal, but he caught her staring at those bills more often now. She'd started picking up extra shifts at the hospital, coming home exhausted at hours that made Wyatt's chest tight with guilt.
His father, usually the optimist, had grown quiet too. No more jokes about "my son the footballer" or proud boasts to the neighbors. Just worried glances between his parents when they thought he wasn't looking.
College had become almost unbearable. Every corridor conversation stopped when he appeared. Even Marcus seemed different - supportive but distant, as if he was already watching his best friend disappear into a world he could never enter.
The three contracts sat in a manila envelope on his desk, each one representing a different path through life. Leicester's familiar blue letterhead. Sunderland's bold red logo. Köln's crisp, professional German efficiency.
Seven days to stop being the boy who made one crucial tackle and become whoever he was meant to be next.
The clock was ticking, and for the first time since that magical night, Wyatt Lincoln felt truly afraid.
The fear followed him everywhere now - to training where his teammates watched his every move for clues, to college where lecturers asked if he'd still be completing his coursework, to the corner shop where even old Mrs. Patterson wanted to know which club had the "nicest uniforms."
Wednesday night, unable to sleep, Wyatt found himself in the kitchen at 2 AM, the three contracts spread across the same table where his mother counted bills. Under the harsh fluorescent light, the numbers seemed to mock him. Leicester: £12,000 a week. Sunderland: £15,000. Köln: £22,000. Life-changing money that could solve every problem his family had ever faced.
But Marcus's words echoed in his head: *Chase the place where you'll become the player you're meant to be.*
His phone lit up with a notification - another Instagram message from someone claiming to be a Leicester fan, begging him to "come home to the Foxes." He'd stopped reading them days ago. The noise was deafening now, everyone with an opinion about his life except the person who had to live it.
Thursday arrived like a punch to the gut. The Köln sporting director, Hans Mueller, was a tall, precise man who spoke about "tactical evolution" and "systematic development" over coffee in a hotel that cost more per night than Wyatt's family spent in a month. His presentation was flawless - training facilities that looked like football temples, a clear pathway to first-team football, a club culture built on nurturing young talent.
"In Germany, we do not just make players," Mueller said in his careful English. "Wemake complete footballers. Mind, body, and understanding of the game as one system."
Friday morning. Twenty-four hours left.
Wyatt sat on his bed, staring at his phone. Forty-seven missed calls from Tony. Leicester wanted an answer by 6 PM. Sunderland by midnight. Köln would wait until Saturday morning, but only just.
Downstairs, he could hear his parents having one of their whispered conversations - the kind they'd been having more often lately, voices low but tension high.
The boy who'd saved his club with one tackle now had to save his own future.
And he still had no idea how.
3:17 AM. Wyatt's thumb hovered over his phone screen, the FC Köln Instagram page glowing in the darkness of his bedroom. He'd been scrolling through their posts for the past hour - training videos of their academy, photos of the RheinEnergieStadion packed with red and white, young players celebrating goals with that distinctive German precision.
Without really thinking, muscle memory from countless late-night social media sessions, he tapped "Follow."
The decision felt anticlimactic. No fanfare, no dramatic moment of clarity. Just a nineteen-year-old boy, exhausted and overwhelmed, making a choice that would reshape his entire existence with the touch of a button.
He was asleep within minutes, his phone buzzing unnoticed on the nightstand.
By 6 AM, Twitter was on fire.
*@TransferGuru247: LINCOLN FOLLOWS KÖLN ON INSTAGRAM 👀 Is this the hint we've been waiting for? #YNWA*
*☑️@FootyInsider: Wyatt Lincoln activity suggests Bundesliga move imminent. Leicester and Sunderland fans in shambles.*
*@CologneFanTV: HE'S COMING HOME (to a city he's never been to)! 🔴⚪ #EffZeh*
The notifications woke him at 7:30 - his phone had crashed twice from the volume of alerts. Tony was calling before Wyatt had even wiped the sleep from his eyes.
"Did you mean to follow them, or was this some sort of sign from the universe?" his agent asked, sounding like he'd been mainlining espresso since dawn.
"I... I think I made my choice, Tony."
Then, at 11:47 AM, the notification that made the football world stop:
*☑️@FabrizioRomano: Wyatt Lincoln to FC Köln, here we go! 🔴⚪🇩🇪 Agreement reached between all parties for €1.1m + add-ons. 19-year-old English defender expected to travel to Germany today to complete medical and sign contract. More details soon... #FCK*
His phone exploded. Literally crashed from the notifications. His mother screamed from downstairs - someone had told her at work.
Wyatt Lincoln was going to Germany.
The boy who'd made one tackle was about to become German football's newest project.
He rolled out of bed like he was moving through treacle, his legs unsteady beneath him. The Romano tweet had sent shockwaves through his nervous system - seeing his name in that unmistakable format made everything suddenly, terrifyingly real.
"WYATT!"
His mother's voice cut through the house like a siren, but it wasn't her usual "get out of bed" shout. This was different. Higher pitched. Urgent.
He stumbled down the stairs in his boxers and yesterday's t-shirt, finding Margaret Lincoln standing in the kitchen doorway still wearing her nurse's uniform, her phone clutched in her trembling hand.
"Germany?" she whispered, her eyes wide and glassy. "Germany, Wyatt? Really?"
"Mum, I—"
"Susan from Ward 7 just showed me this Romano fellow's tweet. Everyone at the hospital is talking about it." Her voice was barely controlled, wavering between pride and panic. "My son is moving to Germany."
They stood there staring at each other across the narrow hallway, mother and son, both trying to process the enormity of what had just happened.
"It's the right choice, Mum. For my development, for—"
"Development?" Margaret's voice cracked. "You're nineteen years old, Wyatt. You still leave your dirty plates in your bedroom. You can't work the washing machine properly. And now you're moving to a country where you don't speak the language?"
The tears came then, streaming down her face as she sank onto the bottom step of the stairs.
"I'm proud of you, son. So bloody proud I could burst. But... but Germany?" She looked up at him, her boy who was suddenly a man making grown-up decisions about his life. "You're all I've got, Wyatt. You and your dad. What am I supposed to do when you're a thousand miles away and something goes wrong?"
Wyatt sat down beside her, the step creaking under their combined weight just like it had when he was little and she'd comfort him after nightmares.
"You're supposed to be proud, Mum. And trust that you raised me right."
Margaret wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of mascara across her cheek. "When do you leave?"
"Today, Mum. This afternoon. Tony's arranging everything - flights, hotel, the medical tomorrow morning."
She nodded slowly, processing the speed at which her world was changing. "Right then. I suppose I better make you a proper breakfast before you go off to eat... whatever it is Germans eat."
Wyatt pulled out his phone while his mother busied herself with bacon and eggs, her way of coping with emotions too big for words.
**Messages**
**Wyatt:** Yo
**Marcus:** are you really going to Germany
**Wyatt:** Was about to tell you that
**Marcus:** Saw it on Fabrizio Romano page
**Wyatt:** Yeah..😄
**Marcus:** I'll meet you at the airport then?
**Wyatt:** see you soon
He stared at Marcus's response for a long moment. His best friend - the one person who truly understood what this meant, what it cost, what it promised. The boy who should have been making this journey himself if fate had been kinder.
"Your eggs are getting cold," his mother called from the kitchen, her voice steadier now.
Wyatt dropped his phone and joined her at the table. The bacon sandwich sat between them like a peace offering, steam rising in the morning light streaming through their small window.
"I'm scared, Mum," he admitted quietly.
Margaret reached across and squeezed his hand. "Good. Means it matters to you. But scared or not, you're going to get on that plane and show those Germans what a proper English defender looks like."
She paused, smiling through fresh tears.
"Just... call me every day, yeah? Even if it's just to tell me what you had for breakfast."
The black taxi pulled up to Manchester Airport's Departure drop-off zone with a gentle hiss of brakes. Through the rain-streaked window, Wyatt could see them waiting - a small cluster of familiar faces huddled under umbrellas near the terminal entrance.
"There they are," his mother whispered, her voice tight with emotion.
Wyatt stepped out into the drizzle, pulling his single black suitcase - everything he owned that mattered packed into one bag that suddenly felt impossibly heavy. His mother emerged from the other side, clutching a Tupperware container of sandwiches she'd insisted on making despite his protests.
Marcus was the first to approach, his slight limp more pronounced as he hurried forward. Behind him came his father, David Lincoln, looking uncomfortable in his best jacket - the one he wore to weddings and funerals. Coach Henderson from his old club stood awkwardly with three of Wyatt's former teammates, all of them trying to look casual while clearly emotional.
"Bloody hell, look at this turnout," Wyatt muttered, but he was smiling.
"You expecting a red carpet, were you?" Marcus grinned, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Thought we'd give you a proper send-off before you become all German and efficient."
Jamie Morrison stepped forward, the captain's armband from their promotion battle tucked into his jacket pocket. "Couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye properly, could we?"
Coach Henderson cleared his throat, clearly struggling with words. "Lad, I've seen a lot of players come and go, but what you did that night..." He shook his head. "Just remember where you came from, yeah? And don't let them change that fire in your belly."
The departures board flickered above them: *Flight LH901 to Cologne - Now Boarding*.
Time was running out, and suddenly everyone was talking at once, hands reaching for hugs, voices overlapping with advice and good wishes and promises to visit.
But all Wyatt could focus on was his mother's face, watching her boy prepare to fly away.
The boarding gate felt like a threshold between two different lives. Wyatt turned one last time, his mother's tear-streaked face etched into his memory as she pressed her hand against the glass barrier. Marcus gave him a thumbs up, that crooked grin hiding everything he couldn't say. His father stood with his arm around Margaret's shoulders, looking smaller somehow in the fluorescent airport lighting.
Tony nudged him gently. "Come on, son. Time to go make history."
The airplane tunnel stretched ahead like a portal to another world. Each step echoed with finality - away from the cramped terraced house, away from college lectures and Sunday league pitches, away from everything that had shaped him into the boy who'd made one perfect tackle on a cold night in League Two.
"Seat 14A," Tony said, checking their boarding passes. "Window seat. Thought you'd want to see England disappear."
Wyatt settled into the narrow airplane seat, his agent taking the aisle. The plane was filling up with business travelers and holidaymakers, none of them aware they were sitting near a teenager whose life was about to change forever. He pulled out his headphones - the cheap ones his mum had bought him for Christmas - and plugged them into his phone.
As the engines began their pre-flight whine, Wyatt pressed his face to the small oval window. Manchester Airport sprawled below, gray and industrial under the overcast sky. Somewhere out there, his family was driving home to a house that would feel too quiet without him.
The plane began to taxi, and Wyatt Lincoln - nineteen years old, afraid and excited and everything in between - closed his eyes and let the music wash over him.
When he opened them again, England was shrinking beneath the clouds, and Germany was waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.
The boy who'd saved his club, is he ready to save himself?
Did he make the right choice? Did he went for money?
*FC Köln, here we go.*