The post-match press conference was a disaster before it even began.
Thomas Doll sat behind the microphone, eyes fixed on the ceiling, utterly absent. Reporters shuffled in their seats, cameras rolling, notebooks ready. The silence stretched.
"Thomas." Dick Fuhren leaned in, voice low. "Thomas!"
Doll blinked. "What?"
Fuhren wanted to shake him. Eighty thousand fans just watched us lose to the bottom-placed team. The press are waiting. Focus.
"The question," Fuhren said through gritted teeth. "Answer the question."
Doll looked at the reporter who'd been speaking, as if noticing her for the first time. "Sorry. Repeat that."
The blonde journalist from Rheinische Post didn't bother hiding her eye roll. "When the score was level, why did you bring on a defensive midfielder instead of Jin Hayes? Your team needed a goal. He's your most creative player."
There it was. Jin Hayes. Again.
Every headline. Every discussion. Every fan's chant. All Jin Hayes. Doll was tired of it. Seven unbeaten before the break—his unbeaten run. Climbing from thirteenth to sixth—his achievement. And all anyone talked about was a fifteen-year-old loanee.
"We were away from home," Doll said, forcing calm. "A point was a reasonable target. Duisburg were dangerous on the counter. Bringing on another attacking player would have left us exposed."
"But Jin Hayes scores goals," the reporter pressed. "He wins matches."
Doll's composure cracked. "He's been effective, yes. But he can't save us every single game! At that moment, stability was the priority. Our wingers were performing adequately. I made the decision I believed was right for the team."
His voice rose. "I am the head coach. I know this squad better than anyone in this room. I understand tactics better than anyone in this room. I don't need a fifteen-year-old to do my job for me!"
Fuhren grabbed his arm, pulling him back from the edge. The room was silent, cameras still rolling, every word recorded.
Doll seemed to realise what he'd done. He took a breath, straightened his tie. "I apologise. I'm not myself today. This press conference is over."
He stood and walked out, leaving Fuhren and the press officer to exchange helpless looks.
More questions followed him out.
"Mr. Doll! Have you and Jin Hayes clashed?"
"Are there problems in the dressing room?"
No answers. Just the echo of footsteps down the corridor.
>>>
In the dressing room, the mood was flat.
Nuri Şahin sat with his kit still on, staring at the floor. "I don't get it. We used to get minutes. Today, nothing. Not even one."
Jin said nothing. He'd learned not to complain. It changed nothing.
Nuri had reason to be frustrated. He'd been at Dortmund since childhood—a true product, a fan who happened to be good enough to play. Last season, he'd made twenty-nine appearances. Mostly late cameos, cup ties, minutes when the result was already decided. He was a fringe player on a relegation-threatened team.
His agent had arranged a loan to Feyenoord. The Eredivisie, regular football, a chance to develop. Dortmund had agreed. Nuri was packed, ready to go.
Then Doll had called him in for a meeting.
Next season, Doll had said, you'll have opportunities. Real opportunities. I see you in my plans.
Nuri believed him. He cancelled the loan. Stayed. Fought.
And for a while, it worked. He started. He played alongside Jin. They clicked—two young players who understood each other's movement, who didn't need words to combine. Before the winter break, it had felt like something was building.
Then the break ended. And Nuri was back on the bench.
"Jin. What do we do?"
Jin shrugged. "What can we do?"
He'd thought about it a lot. Doll wasn't malicious. He wasn't a bad man. He was just... rigid. Stubborn. A coach who trusted systems over individuals, structure over chaos.
Last season, that rigidity had kept them up. Defend first, stay organised, grind out results. It worked when survival was the only goal.
But this season was different. They had players who could create—Jin, Nuri, even Frei when he was given service. But Doll's tactics hadn't evolved. Wing play. Crosses. Hope. It was the same plan Röber had used, and it wasn't working anymore.
The wins before the break—the comeback against Bayern—those weren't tactical victories. They were individual moments. Jin dribbling through packed defences, Frei arriving at the far post, Nuri breaking up play and starting counters. Doll didn't know why they'd won. He couldn't replicate it because he didn't understand it.
So when the system faltered, he didn't adjust. He doubled down. More defence. More control. More of the same.
And today, it had cost them.
"If the coach won't play us," Nuri said quietly, "what's the point?"
>>>
The team bus pulled into the training ground late that night. Players dispersed in silence, heads down, no one speaking. Losing to Duisburg—bottom of the table, already doomed for relegation—was bad enough. Losing after being two goals up was worse.
They'd been sixth before the match. Europa League contention, a real possibility. Now they were seventh, with Hannover breathing down their necks in eighth.
Jin walked home alone.
The Heinrich house usually glowed warm at this hour, lights on in every window. Tonight, it was dark. Empty.
Out, Anna's text said when he asked. Let yourself in.
Probably visiting relatives with Fritz. Frank hadn't travelled with the team, so they'd all be together.
Jin found the spare key under the flowerpot—the spot Maria always used—and let himself in. The house was silent. Dark. He didn't bother turning on the lights, just stood in the hallway for a moment, letting the quiet settle.
He missed home. The real one. The one eight thousand kilometres away.
He found his way to the living room by memory, reaching for the light switch—
BANG.
Jin's body reacted before his brain caught up. He dropped, shoulders tensed, ready to move—
The lights came on.
"SURPRISE!"
Frank stood there with a party popper in each hand, streamers floating down around him. Behind him, the entire Heinrich family beamed.
Hans and Maria wore matching red coats—festive, if slightly absurd. Frank held up a piece of paper with obvious pride, revealing crooked black brushstrokes that vaguely resembled Chinese characters.
"Look! I wrote these myself! Authentic!"
Jin squinted at the characters. The calligraphy was... optimistic. But the meaning was clear enough: When the wind comes, the sail fills; when spring arrives, blessings enter the home.
He gave Frank a genuine thumbs-up. His friend's face lit up.
"What is all this?" Jin asked, still processing.
"Chinese New Year!" Hans declared, cracking open a beer. "Next week is your New Year, yes? We wanted to celebrate with you."
Maria nodded, already emotional. "You spent Christmas alone in London. We couldn't let you spend your own New Year alone too. That's not right."
Jin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Thirty seconds ago, he'd been standing in the dark, feeling sorry for himself, missing home. Now this.
The table was covered in food—not Maria's cooking, but takeout from the local Chinese restaurant. She'd ordered enough for ten people.
"Sit, sit!" Maria waved him towards the table. "Eat! You're too thin!"
>>>
For the next hour, Jin ate and laughed and let the Heinrichs' chaotic warmth wash over him. They asked about Chinese New Year traditions. He explained as best he could. They tried to use chopsticks. It was a disaster. Frank almost took out an eye.
By the time dinner ended, the match felt further away. Not forgotten, but... manageable.
Jin stepped onto the porch afterwards, wanting to call his parents. Then he remembered the time difference—four in the morning in China. He'd wait.
The night was clear. Stars visible above the quiet street.
"You should forgive them."
Anna appeared beside him, leaning against the railing, looking anywhere but at him.
"They tried hard. They don't really understand Chinese New Year."
"It was perfect." Jin meant it. "Really."
"Good."
Silence. Then, softer: "Thomas Doll is an idiot. Don't let him get to you."
Jin turned to look at her. "You've been paying attention?"
"The fans chant your name every match. Hard to miss."
"That's... nice of you to say."
Anna's cheeks coloured. "I'm not—it's not—"
She straightened, flustered. "Go to sleep. You have training tomorrow."
She was gone before he could reply, the door closing behind her.
Jin smiled at the stars.
>>>
Round 19: Borussia Dortmund vs. Rostock
Another home match. Another chance to bounce back.
Another loss.
1-2. Rostock, another team fighting relegation, walked away with three points. Dortmund, the team that had beaten Bayern before Christmas, looked unrecognisable. Slow. Predictable. Defeated before the final whistle.
On the bench, Jin and Nuri Şahin sat for ninety minutes. Not a single minute of playing time.
The Süd tribune chanted Jin's name for the first twenty minutes of the second half. Doll ignored them.
>>>
Round 20: Cottbus vs. Borussia Dortmund
Away. Bottom half of the table. Winnable.
1-0 to Cottbus.
This time, Jin wasn't even in the matchday squad. He watched from the Heinrichs' living room, Maria muttering curses at the television in German, Hans shaking his head, Frank texting him updates from the stadium even though he was right there on the couch.
Three consecutive losses.
The team that had climbed to sixth before Christmas now sat in eighth, with Hannover closing fast.
>>>
The next morning, Bild didn't hold back.
"DOLL'S DISASTER: Three losses in a row, and the coach still refuses to learn."
The article was brutal.
Thomas Doll seems to have forgotten who actually won those matches before the winter break. The veterans he trusts—Tinga in particular—have been responsible for multiple defensive lapses leading directly to goals. Yet they start every game. Meanwhile, the two young players who transformed the team's fortunes—Jin Hayes and Nuri Şahin—can't get a single minute between them.
Yes, young players are inconsistent. Yes, there's risk. But they are also Borussia Dortmund's future. Right now, they're watching from the bench while the present crumbles.
The next match is the Revierderby. Schalke. Local pride. Everything.
If Doll sticks to his stubborn ways, he might not survive the week.