Three weeks before the Arsenal first leg.
The Bundesliga season had two matches remaining and both were formalities in the specific way that late-season matches became formalities when the important questions had been answered.
Second place confirmed. Bayern champions — clinically, inevitably, seventeen points clear with two matches remaining. Dortmund's second place finish was the best league result the club had produced in four years and Schmidt acknowledged it on Friday with the measured satisfaction of a man who understood its value without overstating it.
The Champions League was different.
The Champions League was where the season lived now — where it had been living since the Madrid second leg, since the night the Yellow Wall produced something the city was still carrying two months later. The Bundesliga had been fought and won. Europe was still open.
Semifinal. Two legs. Arsenal. Then — if everything went correctly — a final.
That was why.
Richard sat at the kitchen table on a Tuesday morning with his coffee and the document Evan had sent through — a seasonal summary, clean and factual, the numbers laid out without commentary because the numbers spoke clearly enough.
Richard Blake — 2025-26 Season:
Bundesliga:
Appearances: 17
Goals: 14
Assists: 14
Final position: 2nd
Champions League:
Appearances: 4
Goals: 8
Assists: 1
Stage: Semifinal
Total:
Goals: 22
Assists: 15
He read it twice.
Not with pride exactly — with the specific feeling of a player who had been inside every one of those matches and knew what each number had cost. The fourteen Bundesliga goals included the tap-in against Mainz that required no particular quality and the driven finish at the Allianz that required everything. The eight Champions League goals included the one at the Bernabéu that kept the tie alive and the hat trick that made it historic and the two against Bayern that brought them here.
Each number had a match inside it. A moment. A decision made in a fraction of a second that had gone the right way.
He put the phone down.
Made more coffee.
Amara's financial review arrived the same morning — seven forty-two, which meant she had been working before eight, which did not surprise him.
Four pages. Clean, annotated, her notes in the margins the way they always were — specific, direct, occasionally dry.
The summary on the first page laid out the income streams, the performance bonuses triggered by the Bundesliga finish, the Champions League progression bonuses — each knockout round advancing the figure substantially — the Adidas deal structured correctly, the Nigerian telecoms campaign second phase confirmed.
In the margin beside the income total she had written:
You are building something real. Don't touch the investment accounts.
He smiled at the note.
Called her.
She answered on the second ring.
"Good morning," she said, before he could speak.
"The investment accounts," he said.
"Are fine. Leave them." A pause. "Everything is in good shape. The Champions League progression money is significant at this stage. Each round advances the performance bonus substantially. Reaching the final triggers the maximum clause."
"And winning it," Richard said.
A pause longer than the professional one.
"Then we have a different conversation entirely," she said. "The market changes around you completely. Everything we've built becomes the foundation rather than the structure." A beat. "But first the semifinal."
"First the semifinal," he agreed.
"Arsenal are very good," she said.
"I know."
"Ødegaard specifically." A pause. "I've been watching their matches."
Richard held the phone. "You've been watching Arsenal matches."
"I watch anything that affects my client's trajectory." Precise. Then four seconds later: "Also their football is genuinely good. Arteta has built something worth watching."
A pause that was different to the professional ones.
"Amara."
"Yes."
"Thank you. For this season."
A pause.
"You did the work," she said. "I made sure the numbers reflected it." A beat. "Go prepare for Arsenal."
She hung up.
He sat at the kitchen table for a moment.
Then picked up his tactical notebook.
Opened it to a fresh page.
Wrote one word.
Arsenal.
The reason the Champions League had consumed everything was simple.
The Bundesliga was complete. Second place confirmed. Bayern champions. The domestic season done in everything except two fixtures that would play out without consequence.
Europe was still alive.
And this Europe — this specific campaign — had produced something nobody inside the Dortmund squad or city was willing to let end before it went as far as it could possibly go.
Real Madrid. Four-one down. Three goals. The hat trick. The knee on the grass.
Bayern Munich. Away draw. Home win. Kane's handshake in the tunnel.
And now Arsenal. Saka and Martinelli and Ødegaard and Arteta's system — the most sophisticated pressing structure remaining in the competition, the team that had eliminated Atletico Madrid in the quarterfinals with a performance the continental press called a masterclass.
Two legs. Signal Iduna Park first. The Emirates second.
A final in Munich — the Allianz Arena, which carried its own particular irony — waiting at the end if both legs went correctly.
This was why.
This was the whole reason.
Schmidt said it directly on the Thursday before the final Bundesliga matches. Full squad meeting. Ten in the morning. Not tactical, not film — just the room and the people in it.
"Two Bundesliga matches remain," he said. "We play them properly. Every player. Full commitment. That is what this club requires and what we give." He paused. "Then the season becomes what it has been becoming since January." He looked around the room. "Arsenal first leg is in eighteen days. Everything between now and then serves one purpose."
He held the room.
"We have come too far to stop here," he said. "Madrid. Bayern. The league position. All of it building toward something." He looked at Richard briefly — not pointedly, just as part of looking around the room, but the look landed. "We finish it."
He left.
The room was quiet.
Then Can said: "Eighteen days."
Guirassy nodded.
Jobe looked at the floor.
Lukas looked at Richard.
Richard looked at the tactics board.
Eighteen days.
Arsenal.
The reason was simple.
They were still in it.
And being still in it — after everything, after Madrid and Bayern and the Bundesliga climb and the nights that had produced things nobody had adequate language for — being still in it was the only reason required.
That evening Chidi drove him home through a Dortmund that was warm and green and carrying May on its streets with the ease of a city that had decided the season belonged to it.
"The final is in Munich," Chidi said.
"I know."
"The Allianz Arena." A pause. "Where you scored twice in the quarterfinal."
"Where we drew two-two," Richard said.
"Where you scored twice," Chidi repeated firmly. "Against Neuer. In the Champions League quarterfinal. And now the final might be there."
Richard looked out the window.
"First the semifinal," he said.
"First the semifinal," Chidi agreed.
Then: "But just imagine."
Richard did not say anything.
But he did not say anything in a way that meant he was imagining it.
Chidi smiled and drove.
The city moved past — yellow and black and alive and eighteen days from something that could become everything.
Richard looked at it.
Felt it.
Filed it where the important things were kept.
And went home.