At the Heinrich guesthouse, the atmosphere was electric.
"Jin! Is it true? You're in the squad for the league match?" Maria Heinrich's face was flushed with excitement, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand as if she'd forgotten she'd been stirring dinner.
Jin Hayes nodded cautiously. "The coach said I'd be included. Nothing's guaranteed, but—"
"That's wonderful! Our first home game with you on the bench!" Maria whirled around, grabbing her husband Hans by the arm. "We need to organize something. A proper welcome. When he comes on, the whole Sudtribune should know his name!"
Hans, a man not given to displays of emotion, was already nodding vigorously, a rare grin splitting his face. "Exactly! We'll make a banner. Something big. The boys in the Unity will help. We should have done it for the cup match, but this time—this time we'll be ready!"
Their eldest son, Frank, the team doctor, joined in. "I'll spread the word in the medical team. Everyone's been talking about your performance against Magdeburg. You'll have plenty of support."
Jin Hayes watched the Heinrich family's impromptu celebration, a warm feeling spreading through his chest despite his attempts to stay grounded. He wanted to warn them, to say that being on the squad list didn't mean playing, that coaches changed their minds, that nothing was certain until his name was called. But seeing their genuine joy, their pride in his small achievement, he couldn't bring himself to dampen their spirits.
When he'd arrived in Dortmund, alone and uncertain, he'd expected to drift through his loan spell in isolation. Instead, he'd found a second family in this chaotic, football-obsessed household.
Only Anna, the youngest daughter, remained aloof, her thumbs flying across the keypad of her pink Motorola V3, a small smile playing on her lips as she texted someone. She glanced up at her family's antics and rolled her eyes.
"So immature," she muttered, and returned to her conversation.
The next morning, the dressing room at the Brackel training ground was buzzing.
"Jin! You're on the list again!"
Nuri Şahin's voice cut through the pre-training chatter, and suddenly every player in the room was crowding around the bulletin board where the squad for tomorrow's match against Werder Bremen was posted.
Jin Hayes, already lacing his boots, didn't need to look. He knew his name was there. Thomas Doll had confirmed it after training the day before. Not in the starting eleven, but among the substitutes. It was a start.
Şahin dropped onto the bench beside him, a strange mix of excitement and something else in his eyes. "You know Marco, right? From the youth team?"
Jin Hayes nodded. Marco Reus. A blond-haired attacking midfielder, talented, quick, but so slight he looked like a strong wind might knock him over. They'd exchanged a few words during a joint training session. A quiet kid, but there was something in his eyes, a hunger that Jin Hayes recognized.
"What about him?" Jin Hayes asked.
Şahin lowered his voice, though the dressing room was loud enough to drown out most conversations. "Word is the club might sell him. He's been waiting two years for a first-team chance. Two years."
He shook his head, a flicker of something like guilt crossing his face. "And you're three years younger, been here two months, and you're already on the bench for a league match. You see why I'm jealous, right? Your ridiculous talent."
Jin Hayes said nothing. He understood. Şahin and Reus had come up through the youth system together, had been friends, had shared the dream of breaking into the first team as a pair. Now Şahin was established, and Reus was still waiting, watching younger, thinner players like Jin Hayes leapfrog him.
It wasn't fair. But football never was.
"At least I'm not starting," Jin Hayes offered, trying to lighten the mood.
Şahin's eyes widened. "You—!" He sputtered, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Do you know how old I was when I first made a league squad? Seventeen! I broke the Bundesliga record for youngest appearance! And you're sitting there complaining about not starting?"
From across the room, Captain Sebastian Kehl's voice boomed. "Both of you, enough!"
He strode over, arms crossed, but there was no real anger in his expression. "Nuri, you're seventeen, you're a first-team regular, and you're complaining about a fifteen-year-old. Jin, you're on the bench for a match against the second-best team in Germany, and you're complaining about not starting. Do you have any idea how the rest of us feel?"
The entire dressing room, as if on cue, turned to glare at them both. A few players muttered in agreement. The atmosphere, for a moment, was pure comedy.
Jin Hayes looked around at the hostile faces, then back at Şahin. "I still think it's a shame I'm not starting," he said, deadpan.
A pillow flew across the room, followed by another. Within seconds, the dressing room had dissolved into chaos, laughter mixing with mock outrage.
Kehl watched the chaos, shaking his head. But he was smiling.
Tomorrow, a fifteen-year-old would sit on the bench for one of the most important matches of the season.
>>>>>
Match day.
Signal Iduna Park.
Eighty-one thousand, two hundred and sixty-four seats, filled to capacity. The famous Yellow Wall, the Südtribune, was a cascading waterfall of black and yellow scarves, flags, and unbridled passion. Despite Dortmund's dismal league position, despite the debt and the despair, the fans had shown up. They always did.
On the pitch, the teams warmed up. On one side, the visitors from Werder Bremen, second in the table, oozing confidence. On the other, Dortmund, fractured and fragile, going through the motions.
Mesut Özil, Bremen's young playmaker, paused his stretching and stared at the opposite end of the pitch. The noise was incredible, a constant, throbbing roar that seemed to vibrate through the grass itself.
"This place is insane," he murmured to his teammate, Diego, the Brazilian who pulled the strings in Bremen's midfield.
Diego nodded, his expression serious. "It's why they call it the Devil's Home. Even when they're struggling, this place makes things difficult."
Özil's gaze drifted across the half, scanning the Dortmund players. Then he stopped. A figure in yellow, slight, young, with Asian features, was juggling a ball with an almost casual elegance. He was doing things with the ball that seemed more suited to a street football video than a professional warm-up. Trick after trick, the ball seemingly glued to his feet.
"Who's that?" Özil asked, nodding towards the figure.
Rosenberg, the Swedish striker, followed his gaze. "Korean, probably. They've got that defender, Lee Young-pyo."
Özil shook his head. "No. Younger. Much younger."
Per Mertesacker, Bremen's towering centre-back, used his height to get a better view. "There is someone. Looks about fifteen. Skinny."
Borowski, the experienced midfielder, joined the conversation. "That's the Chinese kid. Came on in their cup match last week. Two assists. They say his technique is something else."
The Bremen players watched for another moment. Jin Hayes, oblivious to the scrutiny, continued his routine. He juggled, he flicked, he spun. Then, as if to provide the perfect punchline, he volleyed the ball towards goal. It soared high and wide, landing somewhere in the empty seats behind the goal.
A ripple of laughter ran through the Bremen players.
"Two assists, you said?" Rosenberg grinned.
"Pure circus act," another player muttered. "Dortmund really are desperate."
They turned away, dismissing the spectacle. But Özil lingered for a moment longer, watching the young Asian retrieve another ball and start again. Something in his gut told him not to laugh. Something felt… off.
The first half was a disaster.
Dortmund were sleepwalking. Bremen, sharp and clinical, took full advantage. In the 23rd minute, Diego carved the home defence open with a perfectly weighted through ball, and Rosenberg finished calmly. 1-0.
Twelve minutes later, it got worse. A corner, a header that cannoned off the crossbar, a panicked clearance from Robert Kovač that fell straight to Torsten Frings on the edge of the box. His first-time shot rocketed into the net. 2-0.
The Yellow Wall, for once, fell silent.
In the commentary gantry, German television's lead pundit, a former international with a sharp tongue, was in full flow.
"Dortmund look like they've just woken from a coma. The club is in financial ruins, and the players are playing like they're worried about their next pay cheque. Thomas Doll on the touchline – a wonderful player, I might add, with great vision and tactical intelligence in his day – now looks utterly clueless. There is no plan. No structure. Nothing."
He paused for effect, then delivered the killer line. "They've even got a fifteen-year-old Chinese kid on loan sitting on the bench. Probably getting a good view of the action, at least. That's the only positive from his afternoon so far."
In the away end, Özil sat among the substitutes, bored. He'd expected a challenge. Instead, he was watching a funeral. Even if he came on, it would be garbage time. No pressure. No test. His earlier premonition about that young Asian seemed pointless now. The game was over.
In the home dressing room, the silence was suffocating.
Players sat with towels over their heads, staring at the floor. No one spoke. No one dared.
Thomas Doll stood in the centre of the room, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came. He was a tactician, not a motivator. He could draw diagrams, explain systems, but he couldn't ignite a fire in a room full of dying embers.
His eyes swept the room, searching for something, anything. And then they stopped.
In the corner, away from the despondent huddle, sat Jin Hayes. He wasn't staring at the floor. He wasn't hiding under a towel. His eyes were fixed on the tactical board, burning with an intensity that cut through the gloom. He looked like he was the only person in the room who still believed the game could be won.
Doll made a decision.
"Jin."
Jin Hayes looked up.
"Get warmed up. You're going on at half-time." Doll paused, his voice low but clear. "You wanted a chance to prove it. Here it is."
Jin Hayes didn't hesitate. He ripped off his training top, revealing the black and yellow jersey beneath. The number 24 on his back seemed to glow under the harsh dressing room lights.
He'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.