6:30 AM. The alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but Wyatt was already awake, staring at the ceiling with the kind of clarity that only comes after sleeping properly for the first time in days. No twisted limbs, no missed calls - just the quiet anticipation of someone finally ready to take control of his new reality.
He reached for his phone immediately.
**Messages**
**Wyatt:** Morning Mum. Up early, feeling good. Training tomorrow 💪
**Wyatt:** Dad - hope you're not still googling flights to Germany 😂
**Wyatt:** Marcus - day before training. Nervous but ready
The responses came quickly - his mum's relieved emoji, his dad's thumbs up, Marcus's encouraging message about showing the Germans what English defending looked like.
After a quick shower, Wyatt was pulling on his tracksuit when the familiar knock came at his door. The same hotel staff member as yesterday stood there with the same polite smile and the same covered tray.
"Guten Morgen, Mr. Lincoln. Your breakfast from FC Köln nutrition team."
Wyatt lifted the silver cloche to reveal the same meticulously portioned meal - egg whites, whole grain toast, fresh fruit arranged with Germanic precision, and what looked like the world's blandest protein shake.
"Just like yesterday," he muttered, but took a bite anyway. The food tasted like cardboard dipped in health, but he could feel his body responding to the quality nutrients. This was fuel, not food.
Twenty minutes later, he was walking through Cologne's morning streets toward the local gym Weber had recommended. The city was waking up around him - commuters with serious faces, shopkeepers opening their doors, the distant hum of efficiency that seemed to define everything German.
The gym was small but well-equipped, nothing like the football-specific facilities at the club, but perfect for what he needed. As he laced up his trainers, Wyatt realized this was the last day he'd be just a tourist in Germany.
Wyatt Lincoln stepped out of the hotel lobby, hood up, cheap headphones pressed into his ears—not for music, just for silence. The receptionist, an older woman with kind eyes, gave him a polite nod. She'd seen him come and go enough to recognize the routine: early starts, quiet focus, no questions.
He pulled out his phone as he walked along the damp cobblestones, breath puffing in short, controlled bursts. The chill bit at his fingertips as he typed:
"Local gym near me."
Three hits. The first was a sleek, high-end place with glass walls and yoga rooms—he scrolled past it without a second glance. The second didn't open until nine. The third—EisenKraft Gym—was 1.3 km away, open 24/7. Photos showed exposed brick, squat racks, and grimy steel. It looked more like a basement than a fitness centre.
Perfect.
Wyatt chose to walk. The tram rolled by with a metallic groan, but he needed to feel the pavement under his feet. Cologne's streets were still half-asleep. Closed bakeries, shuttered corner shops, and condensation on the café windows. A jogger with a Dobermann passed him, nodding. Wyatt didn't nod back—he was already locked in.
His legs ached from yesterday's double session. The soreness was deep, low in the thighs—the kind that reminded him he wasn't match fit yet. He welcomed it. It meant progress.
The gym was wedged between a locksmith and a vape shop, hidden behind an unmarked grey door. No signage. No branding. Just a keypad and an old, flickering intercom.
Wyatt pressed the buzzer.
A moment later, the door creaked open. A man with a thick beard and arms like scaffold poles eyed him up and down.
"English?" Wyatt asked.
The man didn't answer—just handed him a clipboard.
Name. ID. Five Euro.
Wyatt scribbled his full name: Wyatt Lincoln. The man barely looked at it before stepping aside.
The gym's automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, revealing a space that was functional, not flashy. Morning light streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across polished floors. Inside, the quiet hum of focused effort filled the air. A middle-aged woman paced herself on an elliptical. Two men in business suits grunted through early bench reps. An elderly man cycled steadily through a weight circuit with the calm of routine.
Wyatt Lincoln nodded to the receptionist, who barely glanced up from her magazine, and moved toward the stretching area. Wyatt dropped his bag beside a cracked bench. Took a breath.
The motions came instinctively—hamstring reach, hip flexor pulse, slow shoulder rolls. His body ached from travel and tension, but as muscle memory kicked in, the tightness began to loosen. He welcomed the discipline of it.
The treadmill waited across the room, sleek and indifferent.
He stepped onto the belt, slid in his cheap headphones, and scrolled his playlist. Nothing lyrical—just raw percussion, a beat hard enough to drown out the noise in his head. The music surged in his ears, bass-heavy and fast. His fingers hovered over the speed setting.
5 mph.
6.
7.
His legs adjusted, settling into rhythm. That familiar burn returned, slow and satisfying. This was his language—feet pounding rubber, lungs working in sync, sweat beading at his temple. No contracts. No media training. No tactics boards. Just sweat and silence.
Outside, Cologne flickered past—trams, cyclists, café chairs being arranged under morning skies—but Wyatt was gone from all that. Eyes focused forward, stride locked in. Alone in motion.
The treadmill's belt gradually slowed to a stop as Wyatt brought his run to a controlled end, sweat beading on his forehead despite the gym's cool morning air. He pulled out one earbud, the sudden return of ambient gym sounds - clanking weights, quiet grunts of effort, the hum of air conditioning - grounding him back in reality.
Strength training. The foundation of any serious defender's game.
He made his way to the free weights section, eyeing the familiar setup of barbells and dumbbells. In League Two, he'd been strong enough to outmuscle most strikers, but Weber's words echoed in his mind: *German football is different. More physical. More demanding.*
Starting with squats, Wyatt loaded the barbell with a moderate weight - nothing flashy, just solid, functional strength. His legs were still warm from the run, but this was a different kind of work. Controlled power. The kind that would let him stand toe-to-toe with seasoned Bundesliga forwards who'd been perfecting their craft since they were teenagers.
Three sets of eight reps, focusing on form over ego. His reflection in the mirror showed the concentration etched across his face - this wasn't just exercise, it was preparation for war.
Next came deadlifts. The movement that built the posterior chain every defender needed - the explosive power to leap for headers, the core strength to shield the ball, the raw functional strength to hold his ground when a striker tried to back into him.
The elderly German man on the machines caught his eye and nodded approvingly at Wyatt's technique. No words needed - the universal language of serious training spoke for itself.
Pull-ups followed, then overhead presses. Each exercise carefully chosen, each rep deliberate. This wasn't about looking good in a mirror - this was about surviving in the most tactically sophisticated league in the world.
Tomorrow, the real test would begin. He thought in his mind
The gym doors slid shut behind Wyatt Lincoln as he stepped into the midday Cologne sunlight. His training shirt clung to his skin, soaked through, and his legs carried that familiar post-workout heaviness. Two and a half hours of focused effort—longer than planned—but his body had needed every second. The release of nervous energy, the quiet reassurance that he was still sharp, still strong, still ready. No cameras. No coaches. Just him and the work.
The walk back to the hotel felt different now.
His shoulders were looser. His stride more assured. The city no longer felt like a foreign body pressing in. He recognized landmarks now—the corner bakery with its chalkboard menu, the flower shop with tulips in crates, the cadence of German conversations washing around him like flowing water. Even the traffic moved with a kind of quiet logic he'd begun to understand.
A few passersby looked up as he passed. Maybe they recognized him. Maybe he just looked like what he was—an athlete cooling down from a serious session. Either way, he didn't mind. For the first time since arriving, he felt like he belonged. Even if it was only for a while.
The hotel lobby's air conditioning hit him in a wave as he stepped inside. Greta at reception looked up from her desk, her smile immediate.
"Guten Tag, Mr. Lincoln! You have been training, yes? You look very... how do you say... worked out?"
Wyatt laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Something like that. Just trying to stay ready for tomorrow."
"Ah, yes—your first training with the team! Very exciting. The whole city is talking about it."
In the elevator, the hum of machinery and the soft clink of cables were the only sounds. Fatigue settled in his muscles like warm sand. Anticipation too—quiet, steady. A different kind of tension now. Not fear, not doubt. Just the weight of what tomorrow meant.
The keycard beeped. The door clicked open.
His room was cool, dim, and still. A small sanctuary that would, by this time tomorrow, become the past tense. Another place he'd stepped through on the way to whatever he was becoming.
But first: a proper shower.
Then food.
Then the hardest part of all—waiting for tomorrow to arrive.
Steam still clung to the bathroom mirrors as Wyatt emerged from the shower, a hotel towel wrapped around his waist. The hot water had worked out the last of the gym tension, leaving him feeling refreshed but oddly restless. Tomorrow loomed large, and sitting still felt impossible.
He knelt beside his open suitcase, rummaging through the carefully folded clothes his mother had packed with military precision. Buried beneath spare training gear and the formal outfit for media appearances, his fingers found the familiar dimpled surface of worn leather.
The football.
He lifted it out reverently, turning it over in his hands. The leather was scuffed from countless hours on concrete pitches and in narrow backyards, the white panels faded to cream. But there, in Marcus's unmistakable scrawl across one of the hexagons, were the words that made his chest tighten:
*"Good luck in Germany mate. Show them what proper defending looks like. - M"*
Wyatt smiled, remembering Marcus sneaking this into his bag during the chaos of packing. Typical Marcus - too proud to make a big deal of it in person, but thoughtful enough to make sure his best friend had a piece of home with him.
He stood up, bouncing the ball gently on his knee, then his foot, finding the rhythm that had been second nature since childhood. Left foot, right foot, thigh, chest, back to the feet. The familiar pattern was meditation in motion.
*Thump.* The ball hit the hotel room wall and bounced back perfectly. *Thump.* Again, this time with his weaker left foot. *Thump.* The sound echoed off the pristine walls like a heartbeat.
For a few minutes, in a sterile German hotel room, Wyatt Lincoln was just a boy playing football with his best friend's good luck charm, preparing for the biggest challenge of his life.
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
The sharp rapping on the door cut through Wyatt's rhythm like a referee's whistle. He froze mid-juggle, the ball dropping to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
"Entschuldigung! Excuse me!" came a voice from the hallway - heavily accented English mixed with frustrated German. "Ze noise! You are disturbing other guests!"
Wyatt's face flushed red as he realized how the constant thumping must have sounded to whoever was in the room next door or below. He quickly scooped up Marcus's football and padded to the door in his bare feet, still wearing only his towel.
"I'm so sorry," he called through the door, not opening it. "Really sorry. I didn't realize..."
"Bitte, please keep ze noise down. Some guests are trying to rest."
"Of course, absolutely. Won't happen again."
The footsteps retreated down the hallway, leaving Wyatt standing there feeling like a proper idiot. Here he was, supposedly a professional footballer representing his new club, and he was getting noise complaints for kicking a ball around his hotel room like some amateur tourist.
The embarrassment settled over him like a heavy blanket. He placed Marcus's football carefully on the desk, the good luck message facing up, and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed except for his towel.
Lincoln lay back on the hotel bed, tension still humming through his limbs like the last vibrations of a struck chord, a towel draped across his chest, eyes heavy. The blackout curtains muted the outside world, and for the first time since landing in Germany, the edges of sleep finally felt close.
Then—
Buzz.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand.
He blinked once, twice, then reached for it with a slow hand, thumb smudging the screen.
> Weber: Get ready, kid. Tomorrow's training.
No emojis. No fluff. Just those five words—sharp, deliberate, heavy with meaning.
Wyatt stared at the message for a few seconds longer than he needed to. His heart, calm just moments before, stirred back to life beneath his ribs. It wasn't fear. It wasn't excitement either. It was something harder to name. The kind of feeling that comes when years of dreaming meet the edge of reality.
He locked the phone, rolled onto his side, and let out a slow exhale.
The combination of the morning gym session, the emotional weight of tomorrow's training, and now this awkward encounter had drained him completely. His eyelids felt heavy as lead.
*Just a quick nap,* he told himself, pulling the covers up to his chin. *Need to be fresh for tomorrow.*
Within minutes, the boy who would soon face his first Bundesliga training session was fast asleep, Marcus's football watching over him like a guardian from home.
*Next chapter:- Training begins*