"I'm starting! I'm actually starting!"
Nuri Şahin's voice echoed through the dressing room, bouncing off the walls with an enthusiasm that bordered on comical. He was holding the team sheet as if it were a winning lottery ticket, his eyes wide, his grin threatening to split his face.
Jin Hayes, lacing his boots on the bench opposite, raised an eyebrow. "You've started seven matches already this season. Why is this one special?"
"This one is different! The last few times, I was filling in. This time, I'm selected. The coach believes in me again!"
Jin Hayes shook his head, but he was smiling. Şahin's energy was infectious. And privately, he understood. Being trusted by your coach – truly trusted – was a feeling like no other.
The team sheet for the away match against Wolfsburg had been pinned to the board an hour ago. For the first time in weeks, Şahin's name appeared in the starting eleven, alongside Kehl in central midfield. And Jin Hayes? His name was on the bench. Again.
He'd seen it coming. Thomas Doll had been clear.
"Your dribbling is exceptional," the coach had said, pulling him aside after training. "When you come on against tired legs, you're devastating. But starting requires more. Stamina. Defensive awareness. Experience you don't have yet."
Jin Hayes had wanted to argue. We've won every match I've played in. The team looks better with me on the pitch. But he'd held his tongue. Doll was the coach. Arguing would only create tension.
Instead, he'd nodded. "I understand. I'll keep working."
Doll had looked relieved, maybe a little surprised. "Good. Your time will come."
Now, sitting in the dressing room, watching his teammates prepare, Jin Hayes felt the familiar mix of frustration and determination. He'd prove himself again. Every minute he played, he'd make it impossible to leave him out.
His phone buzzed. A text from home.
>>>
Later that evening, after training and an extra hour of passing practice with Şahin, Jin Hayes sat alone in the dressing room, his kit bag at his feet, his phone pressed to his ear.
"We've been watching all your matches," his mother's voice came through, distant but warm. "Your father stays up every Saturday night. He doesn't move from in front of the television."
Jin Hayes smiled. "It must be late there. You should be sleeping."
"We just finished watching Football World. You were on again. Three weeks in a row now. Your father has been telling everyone at his office. They're all very proud."
"Tell Dad not to show off too much."
"Too late for that." There was a pause, then his mother's voice shifted, taking on the familiar tone of maternal concern. "Is the coach treating you well? Do you need to... you know... give him something? A gift? To stay on his good side?"
Jin Hayes laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty room. "Mum, that's not how it works here. Coaches don't accept gifts from players. It would be... inappropriate."
"Oh. Well, I don't know how these things work over there. I just want to make sure they're taking care of you."
"They are. I'm fine."
"And the food? Are you eating properly? Do you have enough money? I can send more—"
"Mum." He cut her off gently. "I have enough. I'm earning now. Did you get the things I sent last week?"
A long pause. When she spoke again, her voice was thick. "We did. The supplements, the skincare... you shouldn't spend your money on us. You need it for yourself."
"I have plenty. When I run out, I'll buy more. Don't worry."
The truth was, his apprentice contract paid only £100 a week. But Borussia Dortmund paid appearance fees, win bonuses, assist bonuses. After three matches with crucial contributions, he'd banked several thousand euros. His rent at the Heinrichs' was minimal. Food was included. He had no commute. For the first time in his life, he had money to spare.
"When are you coming home?" His mother's voice was smaller now. "For Chinese New Year?"
Jin Hayes's chest tightened. He'd known this question was coming. "I can't. The season doesn't stop. Training, matches... I won't be able to come back until the summer."
Silence. Then, softly: "We'll miss you."
"I know. I'll miss you too." He took a breath. "But when I'm a real star, I'll buy a big house here. A proper one. And you and Dad can come stay for as long as you want."
His mother laughed, the sadness lifting slightly. "A big house. Listen to you, dreaming already."
"It's not a dream. It's a plan."
They talked for a few more minutes – about his father's golf game, about the neighbour's new car, about the weather in Guangzhou. Normal things. Home things.
Before hanging up, his mother's voice turned serious one last time. "Jin Hayes. We've been reading the news. Some people say wonderful things about you. Others... not so much. Don't let any of it change who you are. Just play your game. We'll always be proud of you, no matter what."
He swallowed hard. "I know, Mum. I love you."
"Love you too. Now go rest. You have a match tomorrow."
>>>
The Volkswagen Arena, Wolfsburg. Bundesliga Round 15.
Nuri Şahin's first start in weeks had brought positive energy to the team. In the first half, his clever pass had unlocked the defence, allowing striker Klimowicz to head home from close range. 1-0 to the visitors.
But football is never simple.
Wolfsburg's new signing, Edin Dzeko, had other ideas. The tall Bosnian, quiet since his summer move from Teplice, was finally finding his feet. Five goals in six games. And before half-time, he'd added another, rising above a static defence to power a header past Weidenfeller. 1-1.
The second half was a battle. Dortmund, content with a point away from home, sat deep. Wolfsburg pushed, but couldn't break through. Şahin, growing frustrated, saw opportunities to attack but no one making the runs. His teammates were too cautious, too focused on defending the draw.
"If only he was on the pitch," Şahin muttered under his breath, glancing at the bench.
Eighty-eighth minute. Dortmund had one substitution left. Thomas Doll finally turned.
"Jin. Get ready. I want you up front. Hold the ball, waste time. Run the clock down."
Jin Hayes blinked. "And attack?"
Doll shook his head. "Priority is securing the point. Don't take risks."
Jin Hayes nodded, but his eyes told a different story.
Five minutes remained, including stoppage time. Five minutes was plenty.
>>>
The substitution was made. Jin Hayes jogged on, taking up position as a lone striker. The commentator for ZDF, Scholl, was bemused.
"A striker? The fifteen-year-old? Doll must be hoping he can hold the ball in the corner and run down the clock."
Beside him, legendary goalkeeper Toni Schumacher nodded. "Standard tactic. Use his technique to waste time near the flag. They'll settle for the draw."
Wolfsburg's defenders thought the same. Whenever Dortmund won possession, they launched it long towards Jin Hayes, expecting him to shield it, to slow the game, to invite a foul. The defenders crowded him, confident that without the ball, he was harmless.
Minutes ticked. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two.
Dzeko, still searching for a winner, headed goalwards. Weidenfeller caught it cleanly.
Şahin was already moving, his arm raised. "Here! Here!"
Weidenfeller rolled the ball out. Şahin controlled it, looked up. Jin Hayes was sprinting, not towards the corner flag, but straight through the middle, exploiting the space Wolfsburg had left as they pushed forward.
He understands, Şahin thought. Of course he does.
Instead of launching a hopeful long ball, Şahin played a perfectly weighted through pass, splitting the centre circle, finding Jin Hayes on the run.
The Volkswagen Arena held its breath.
Wolfsburg's midfielder, Dejagah, reacted first, sliding in to block the path. Jin Hayes, without breaking stride, hooked the ball back with his left foot, checked his run, and accelerated past the prone defender.
"FUCK!" The shout from the Wolfsburg bench was audible.
Two more midfielders converged – Felipe Santana and Josué, closing like pincers. In the commentary box, Toni Schumacher was already writing off the attack. "Reckless. He should have held it up, gone to the corner. This will be intercepted and—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Jin Hayes, in the space of two seconds, nutmegged Santana with a delicate touch, then, as Josué lunged, executed a perfect roulette, spinning away from the challenge and emerging with the ball still glued to his feet.
"HOLY SHIT!" Scholl's professional composure evaporated.
Through the midfield. Now the defence. Left-back Schäfer slid in desperately. Jin Hayes flicked the ball over his outstretched leg and kept running. Centre-backs Naldo and Barzagli, both internationals, both experienced, moved to block. Jin Hayes feinted left, then right, then – a sudden, sharp Marseille turn – left both grasping at air.
Six players. He had beaten six players.
Now only the goalkeeper remained. Diego Benaglio, the Swiss international, advanced to the edge of his box, spreading himself, making himself big.
The stadium was silent. Eighty thousand people, holding their breath.
The clock showed 92:46. This was the last attack of the match.
Jin Hayes, fifteen years old, alone against the goalkeeper, with the weight of the game on his shoulders, felt no fear. Only certainty.
Beat him.