The familiar suffocation returned.
Jin Hayes's ribs creaked under the force of Aunt Maria's embrace. In just a few weeks, her arm strength seemed to have doubled. If she ever took up arm wrestling, the Bundesliga would have a new champion.
"How was England? Did they feed you properly? You look thinner!"
"You definitely weren't eating enough. I'll make you a proper German meal tonight—"
"Can you let him put his bags down first?" Frank intervened, shaking his head. "He just walked through the door."
Jin extracted himself from Maria's grip, gasping gratefully. As he carried his luggage inside, he spotted Anna.
Same spot. Corner of the sofa. Feet tucked under her, a book open in her lap. She glanced up, nodded once, and returned to reading.
That was it.
Jin felt a flicker of something—disappointment? Confusion? On Christmas Eve, her message had lodged itself in his brain. Me too. He'd replayed it a dozen times, wondering what it meant. Wondering if it meant anything at all.
Then training had consumed him. Then the final project for German class. Then the flight back. And now here she was, acting like nothing had happened.
Good, he told himself. I was overthinking it.
She had modelling work now, balancing school with castings and photoshoots. He had football, and a starting spot to fight for. Neither of them had time for distractions.
He carried his bag upstairs.
In the living room, Frank watched his sister over the rim of his beer can. "Did you two have a fight?"
Anna startled. "What? No."
"Then why are you acting strange? You were staring out the window for twenty minutes before he arrived. Were you waiting for him?"
Anna's pale complexion flushed deep red, starting at her neck and spreading upward. Without a word, she clutched her book and fled upstairs.
Frank took a long pull of his beer and shook his head.
Maria appeared in the doorway. "What was that about?"
"Nothing." Frank smiled. "Anna's just growing up."
Maria blinked. "Huh?"
>>>
The first training session back at Dortmund was a wake-up call.
Thomas Doll stood on the pitch, arms crossed, frowning at his squad. "Some of you look like you spent the winter break at an all-you-can-eat buffet. This is professional football, not a holiday camp."
A few players shifted uncomfortably. Others stared back, unmoved. Doll's authority had always been shaky. A mid-table team managed by a coach who couldn't quite command respect.
Jin, however, drew a different reaction.
Doll's eyes lingered on him longer than the others. The body fat test had come back at 8%—elite level. And the muscle definition was visibly improved. Shoulders broader. Frame stronger.
He actually used the break to train, Doll thought. While the rest of them were eating lebkuchen and watching reruns.
Assistant coach Dick Fuhren stood beside him, equally impressed. "He looks different. Stronger. More aggressive in the drills. It's like he's evolved."
"Mm."
"We should consider giving him more minutes. Maybe even start him."
Doll didn't respond immediately. He watched Jin execute a turn in the small-sided game, shielding the ball from two defenders, emerging with possession intact.
"I'll think about it."
Fuhren opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd been saying the same thing for weeks. Doll kept thinking. Kept hesitating. Kept starting veterans who delivered mediocrity while a fifteen-year-old changed games from the bench.
The tactics hadn't evolved since Röber's era. Wing play. Crosses. Hope. It was basic, predictable, and increasingly ineffective. Only Jin's individual brilliance had dragged them to sixth place.
And everyone knew it.
Fuhren had heard the rumours. Watzke, the club CEO, had been seen meeting with other candidates. Mainz's coach, a young firebrand named Jürgen Klopp, had been photographed leaving the offices more than once.
If this keeps up, Fuhren thought, Doll won't last the season.
>>>
The stadium buzzed with anticipation.
"Welcome back to the Bundesliga!" commentator Scholl's voice rang out across the broadcast. "The winter break is over, and the second half of the season begins!"
The top five had all won their opening matches. Bayern. Wolfsburg. Leverkusen. Schalke. Werder. All three points. All business as usual.
Now it was Dortmund's turn. Sixth place, hosting Duisburg—bottom of the table, destined for relegation. A formality. Three points guaranteed.
"Especially after that incredible comeback against Bayern before the break!" Scholl continued. "Jin Hayes announcing himself to the league in spectacular fashion! The fans are hungry for more!"
Then the teams were announced.
Scholl's enthusiasm dimmed. "Dortmund's midfield today: Kehl and Tinga. Nuri Şahin and Jin Hayes both on the bench."
He tried to find a positive angle. "Perhaps Doll wants experience. Stability. Duisburg will fight desperately—they're battling to stay up. Veterans can manage the game, keep possession, avoid mistakes."
It was half-true. In the first half, Dortmund dominated. Seventy-four percent possession. Two goals. Tinga, the Brazilian veteran, dictated the tempo, kept the ball moving. It looked comfortable.
Then came the mistake.
Tinga dwelled on the ball, just a second too long. A Duisburg forward pressed aggressively, nicked it away, and suddenly the counter-attack was on.
"Oh no—Tinga! He's been caught in possession!"
The ball reached the box. A finish. 2-1.
Doll waved it off from the sideline. "Still winning. Stay calm."
But the second half unravelled completely.
Another interception. Another counter. Another goal.
"Oh oh oh! Manasseh Ishiaku! One-on-one with the keeper! Duisburg have equalised!"
Tinga was at fault again—a lazy pass, easily read, easily stolen. The winter break rust was showing. The whole team looked sluggish, disorganised, like the early-season version of themselves that had flirted with relegation.
Then the third.
"UNBELIEVABLE! MANASSEH ISHIAKU!"
The Nigerian striker completed his hat-trick, tapping in after a defensive collapse. Duisburg, bottom of the league, losing 2-0 at half-time, now led 3-2.
The stadium fell silent.
Then the noise began. Not cheering. Questioning. The Süd tribune, usually a wall of unwavering support, began to murmur. Then to chant.
"JIN! JIN! JIN! JIN!"
It started small, spread, grew into a roar. Eighty thousand voices, united in confusion and frustration.
Why isn't he playing?