After yesterday's dinner gathering, the players returned to their intense training today. With less than forty hours until the next away League match against Frankfurt, a familiar, tense yet excited atmosphere permeated the Hoffenheim base, like an arrow poised to leave the bow.
Oliver had just finished a high-intensity on-field tactical drill, his sweat-soaked training uniform clinging to his still somewhat slender back. He was unscrewing the cap of his sports drink bottle, his rapid heartbeat not yet fully settled, when Assistant Coach Kramer walked over: "Oliver, the boss wants you in his office."
A hint of confusion flashed through Oliver's mind. Summoned by the head coach immediately after training? In such situations, it rarely boded well; he had been dismissed by Paris Saint-Germain after a training session. He pulled the towel from his neck to wipe away sweat, not daring to delay, and strode towards the head coach's office upstairs. The plastic flooring under his feet seemed more elastic than usual, but for some reason, these few steps today felt particularly tense.
Pushing open the heavy office door, the cool air rushed out, raising a layer of goosebumps on his sweating skin. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting alternating patterns of light and shadow on the desk, falling upon neatly stacked tactical documents and analysis reports. His mentor wasn't sitting behind the desk but stood before a large screen, intently watching clips of Frankfurt's recent matches, with dense magnetic markers on the white tactical board beside him.
"Coach, you wanted to see me?" Oliver stopped at the doorway.
Nagelsmann turned at the sound, still holding a few marker stickers. His gaze fell on Oliver, lacking the usual sharpness seen on the training ground, replaced by a look of scrutiny and consideration.
"You're here? Have a seat first." He gestured to the sofa nearby.
Oliver sat down as instructed, his body habitually straightening; he could feel the coach's gaze sweeping over his slightly heaving chest and sweat-soaked shoulder lines.
"Just finished training today, how do you feel?" Nagelsmann approached, casually picking up a report from the desk.
Before Oliver could answer, Nagelsmann continued.
"Your overall condition looks good, and the data feedback is also excellent." Nagelsmann was referring to the various physical indicators collected during training, including heart rate, running distance, and sprint count. The data was indeed impressive.
Oliver nodded: "Training went well, Coach. I even scored several goals in the scrimmage today."
Nagelsmann's brow furrowed slightly, his finger unconsciously tapping the report's flyleaf, his gaze re-locking onto Oliver's face, his expression like a surgeon evaluating a precise component. The air in the office hung still for a few seconds.
"It's like this, Oliver, in two days, the away match against Frankfurt," Nagelsmann finally began, his voice not loud, but every word clear,
"This match... the intensity is not low, and with these consecutive matches recently, especially playing the full ninety minutes again last game..." He paused, weighing his words, considering how to phrase it so his beloved disciple would accept his suggestion.
"Your on-field performance is impeccable, truly great. Your ball handling skills surpass most people your age, and even many experienced players. Your ability to read the game, that's your bread and butter, I'm very confident in that, but..."
He looked into Oliver's eyes again and said.
"But you're only seventeen." This sentence fell like a heavy stone.
"Oliver, seventeen-year-old bones, seventeen-year-old tendons, seventeen-year-old heart—they need time to recover from the high-frequency, high-intensity confrontations on a professional pitch. As the saying goes, even the best steel, if continuously hammered without proper tempering, will develop cracks."
The atmosphere in the office quieted. Nagelsmann took a breath, as if having made up his mind,
"So, for this away League match against Frankfurt, my decision is, you will rest, and not be on the squad list."
[Rest]
That word clearly echoed in Oliver's ears. For a very brief moment, almost an instinctive reaction from Oliver, a tiny sense of disappointment and unwillingness surged forth. He was a player, and players yearned to play, to fight, especially in such an important away match. Recently, he had been in excellent form, and the feeling of controlling the rhythm and creating scoring opportunities on the field was intoxicating. But just as this tiny emotion emerged, it was suppressed by a powerful rationality. Actually, it wasn't the first time the coach had suggested he rest; the System had already told him two days ago.
Before falling asleep last night, the automatically generated [Injury Warning] clearly appeared, the large text stating plainly:
[Host Oliver, residual fatigue in right knee joint complex tissue: 61%, moderately high, (estimated recovery time 24 to 48 hours)]
He himself had felt it—an occasional tightness in his knee, and a subtle but persistent soreness, especially when pushing off the ground or changing direction. This physical report and the coach's decision at this moment perfectly aligned in Oliver's mind. He didn't pause, nor did he let that momentary instinctive disappointment linger for too long; his face had already returned to its usual calm and focus:
"I understand, Coach. I will follow your arrangements."
Oliver's voice was clear and steady, without a hint of reluctance or grievance, his gaze meeting his mentor's scrutinizing eyes with frankness. Nagelsmann seemed not to have expected his beloved disciple to agree so readily and "transparently"; he had even prepared a speech to persuade Oliver to rest well. Well, it seemed the prepared speech wouldn't be needed. Nagelsmann's eyes lingered on Oliver's face for two seconds, finally nodding with satisfaction.
"Very good, it's good that you understand." His tone noticeably softened,
"This isn't a punishment; this is protection for you, an added safeguard for 'Hoffenheim's future.'" He continued.
"I know you have a habit of documenting matches." He glanced at the somewhat worn but thick notebook Oliver was holding.
Oliver unconsciously touched the black leather cover of the notebook.
"So, your new task has arrived." Nagelsmann leaned forward, "This time you don't need to travel with the team to Frankfurt, but you have to do your homework off the field. After the team departs, you'll do recovery training with the physiotherapist. I'll communicate the intensity with them; it's mainly for recovery, maintaining your condition, and then..."
His finger tapped on the desktop, making a distinct knocking sound.
"You need to watch this match, watch it carefully, just like your usual habit. You need to observe Frankfurt's midfield strangulation, how their two wing-backs make runs under high pressure, the coordination of their defense during overall pressing and quick retreats... Especially,"
He emphasized, "What specific strategies and details did they use to target a technical midfielder like Amiri? And the issues when our offense is blocked."
For a moment, Nagelsmann truly felt like he was assigning a task to an assistant coach.
"Write down everything you see and think in your notebook, use your mind to break it down, just like you dissect an opponent's formation. Just like last time when you watched Liverpool's match, you weren't just a player, but a pure analyst." Nagelsmann's lips curved into a smile,
"When we return, I'll check your notes, just like a teacher checking homework. I'll also ask you questions, so don't disappoint me, Oliver."
As his words fell, there was a brief silence. Nagelsmann waited for his beloved disciple's potential disappointment or a hint of unwillingness, after all, he was at an age where he was in fiery form and eager to make achievements.
"Understood, Coach." Oliver spoke, his voice clear and steady, without any disappointment or frustration, only pure acceptance and seriousness, "Your consideration is very thoughtful, I have no objections. I know my body needs to recover, and whether it's recovery or analyzing the match, I will complete it diligently."
He spoke concisely, but his focus and understanding greatly pleased Nagelsmann.
"Very good," Nagelsmann relaxed considerably. He stood up, walked over, and patted Oliver's shoulder firmly, saying,
"Good boy, go relax well, and also 'work with your mind' well. This round of rest isn't stopping, but running in another way."
Nagelsmann looked at the seventeen-year-old boy before him, whose thinking far surpassed his age, and the thought in his mind became even clearer: This was not just a golden winger who could activate the front field, but a raw jade of tactical thinking that had not yet fully revealed its brilliance. Stopping him now was for him to run further and think deeper in the future.
Nagelsmann indeed knew how to manage young players.
"Alright, nothing else. Go recover well." Nagelsmann waved his hand, then turned his gaze back to the Frankfurt formation on the tactical board.
Oliver stood up, nodded solemnly, and turned to leave the office. The cool air in the corridor remained, but Oliver felt that the slight emptiness in his chest, initially brought by the news of his rest, had long been filled with a weighty sense of mission and trust. This feeling was truly wonderful for a player. Thus, as the rest of the team began to prepare more intensely for the away battle, Oliver's pace suddenly slowed down. He didn't immediately tell his teammates about his arrangement, but simply continued to complete his stretching and ice baths as required by the team doctor.
In the training base's physiotherapy room, the masseur's gentle yet firm fingers precisely massaged his thigh and calf muscle groups, loosening deep fascia. When the fingers pressed near his right patellar tendon, the faint threads of soreness clearly told Oliver: the coach's decision was correct, and the System's prompt was even more correct. He closed his eyes, feeling the discomfort gradually dissipate under the professional technique, his heart calm.
The team doctor also came over to re-examine, and the results were highly consistent with Nagelsmann's assessment and the System's prompt:
[No structural issues, just soft tissue fatigue from high-intensity matches, require rest.]
Teammates gradually learned the news.
Gnabry was somewhat surprised and ran over to ask: "No way?! Oliver, you're not going for the next game? Without you, our offense loses a sharp edge!"
Gnabry's tone was sincere; Oliver was indeed one of the team's sharpest attacking players now. Uth said to Gnabry: "Hey! Serge, Oliver is only 17, he really needs to rest!"
Vogt, as captain, was more practical and concerned for his teammate: "The coach's decision is right, Oliver. You're too young; playing at such high intensity continuously can lead to problems. It's good to slow down and recuperate. We'll still need to hear your post-match analysis when we get back."
He clearly knew Oliver's habits as well. Amiri said nothing, just gave Oliver an "I get it, buddy" look and an encouraging fist bump. Everyone's concern warmed Ollie's heart even more; he now just wanted to recover as quickly as possible.
...
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