Chapter 9.

Lukasz POV

The bus is eerie silent as I make my way in. Everyone is doing their own thing as I walk through the hallway. Most of my teammates are already here — almost everyone, except for Marco and Mario.

Mats is all the way in the back, where we usually sit. I recognize the top of Schmelzer's head on the seat facing Mats. Schmelle is out cold, softly snoring with his earphones on. He doesn't even notice as I flop next to him. I stretch my legs, resting my feet on top of the seat next to Mats.

I feel good, the meds have taken effect and I feel no pain. I stretch my hand to Mats, who shakes it absentmindedly. The dark shadows under his eyes tell me he did not sleep.

"You okay?" I ask.

He nods absentmindedly at me, before returning his attention to the window. Just as he does, I can see Marco's Range Rover making its way into the parking lot. A swarm of reporters yell, flash their cameras, and shove their mics forward, toward the oncoming vehicle, begging for a statement. Security seems to be working overtime today at trying to keep them out.

When Mario comes out of the passenger seat, he's hiding under an oversized baseball cap and a hood on top, but not even that fools the fans outside of the gates who boo and scream all sorts of insults at him.

Marco makes his way out of the car and around to Mario, who's frozen in place looking at the fans. With an arm around his shoulder, Marco steers Mario on the direction of the bus.

Mats huffs in front of me, extricating his phone from his pocket and with a touch of a finger, his music is blaring so loud I can hear it out of his headphones.

I lower my feet to the floor and scoot closer, hitting his knee with my hand.

"What?!" He says a little louder than the confines of the bus would require.

"Keep your head in the game."

He rolls his eyes, waving a hand at me dismissively, and setting his headphones back into place.

I sit back, and rest my head, staring at the ceiling of the bus as we start moving. I won't do this. I won't think about Mario or about what will happen next season. There's only today, this game, it's all I'll think about. I've studied Ronaldo, who I will be marking today, and have him to a T — I know his ways, his moves. He won't get pass me tonight; I won't allow it.

Everyone is quiet as we enter the locker rooms and start getting ready. I think no one has really had time to react or think about what's happening with Mario and the implications of his decision.

An eerie vibe surrounds us as we link arms in a circle while Klopp, our head coach, addresses us.

"The issues regarding next season will be discussed when time pertain..." he starts.

At this, Mario lowers his head. I see him in front of me, with Reus at his side, tightening his grip around Mario's neck. I'm glad he has him — whatever prompted him to agree a move to Bayern, I am sure it wasn't an easy decision. It's important to have a friend's support in a moment like this.

"Today, this is our game, our chance," Klopp continues. "We go big or we go home. Everything that happened last night was aimed at us losing our focus for today, an ill-advised distraction. But I won't let that happen. We won't let it happen. Is that clear?"

As our coach continues his speech, his trademark, charismatic, encouraging words get us pumped for the game. I search around at my teammates' faces, and all I see is power, determination, focus.

The look on Lewandowski, our striker, is one I've never seen before. He will eat Real Madrid's defenders for dinner tonight. Schmelzer cracks his neck next to Lewy, exuding dire confidence — no one will get past him tonight.

I realize there's a theme on my friends', my brothers' faces: revenge. If releasing that headline last night was supposed to hurt us, it backfired. Instead, it fueled us. We all want this now more than ever.

I'm feeling pretty confident that we will try our hardest to get the best result out of this game, until my eyes find Mats, whose arms are linked with Klopp himself. Mats is the only one, besides Götze, whose head is down.

Madrid's team is filled with talent, but their attack, especially, is deadly. We can't afford having Mats out of focus tonight. We must not concede any away goals.

I'm standing behind him in the tunnel; both hands on his shoulders, gripping him tightly. "I bet Higuain is shitting his pants right now," I joke, but I get no response from Mats, nothing but a deep breath. He shrugs my hands off as we start moving out of the tunnel.

I try to push my worries about Mats to the back of my head as we make our way out. The vibe, the emotion, the energy our stadium transmits is something I've never been able to put into words. It's simply indescribable.

My body is vibrating with the chants of our deafening crowd.

As soon as we're out I see him — Ronaldo. He looks self-assured as usual, head held up high, eyebrows raised; he knows all eyes are on him.

As we stand in line, my whole body is overflowing with energy, adrenaline. I find it almost impossible to remain still.

When the game starts, I become Ronaldo's shadow. I feel light as a feather, fast, as if I have an extra pair of lungs and legs. I keep up with him easily, and as time advances, it turns out he's having trouble keeping up with me.

We manage to score early. Lewy sneaks behind Pepe and brings down Mario's cross easily into the net. We dominate the first half in almost its entirety — Madrid never knew what hit them. Except for a few of Mats' misplaced passes, we are flawless, every single one of us.

After the 40th minute, they get a corner kick.

I stand next to Ronaldo, who's bent over, hands on knees, panting. I feel a thousand feet tall at his side. I've given this half everything, and we've guarded our one goal advantage with our lives.

I think I've ran more in these 40 minutes of play than in some full 90 minutes Bundesliga games, but I don't care. I may not be able to feel my legs, and I could struggling to restrict my breathing to my nose only, but I'm standing tall next to him.

We never stop attacking and we keep our lines up. Madrid has had absolutely no chance of creating anything, and it feels like in no time, we will score again. However, in a moment of chaos, we get denied a clear penalty and to make matters worse, Madrid gets a foul called right after.

Everyone is unsettled, but I try to remain focused as Madrid is quick to take counterattack from their free kick. Mats is in a good position and handles the ball with his head, and as I see he will back pass it to our keeper, I start moving forward again.

Unexpectedly, Mats miscalculates his pass to Weidenfeller, and it comes short. Out of nowhere, Higuaín has got the ball, and he's one on one against our goalkeeper.

To make matters worse, Ronaldo has a good twenty meters advantage on me, and is already running back. Since it was a back pass from Mats, he is not even offside. My legs are moving under me, without me even noticing, but they're not nearly fast enough.

I stare down at my feet as I speed up.

Move…

Faster…

I don't even bother breathing, in an effort to catch up with him. As I do, I attempt to intercept the pass to him from Higuain, but it grazes the tip of my boot.

I already know what's coming but still I have to try something. I slide to block his shot, but it slips under my legs, and into the net.

They've equalized. They've gotten an away goal.

I gasp for air into the turf, trying to catch my breath, urging myself to just keep going. There's a lot of time left, we must do better than this. As I manage to get up, I see Mats, both hands on his head, staring at his shoes, completely devastated.

This is, by far, there worst mistake I've ever witnessed him making on the pitch.

Roman moves closer to Mats, patting his back, and says something to him before returning to the goal.

I can't hear his words of encouragement over the tireless chants of our fans who urge us to get back in the game.

I approach Mats quickly as well. "Forget it happened," I try to get him to hear me, but I can see it in his eyes which refuse to make contact with mine — he's gone.

There's only a couple minutes left before the end of the first half. We can't fall apart now, it would be deadly. We all move back, and defend tightly, just to try to make it to halftime without any more mistakes.

Thankfully we do.

I drop next to Mats on the bench in our locker room. I haven't been able to get through him all day; I don't expect to get through to him now. I just sit next to him, mostly for support.

Schmelle sinks beside me, getting rid of his soaked shirt. We've both put a great effort into the flanks, to keep our attack going without neglecting the defense.

"We've dominated the game the whole time," Klopp starts as he comes in. "They've had no chance. None! We're just going to have to step it up, and score a few in the next forty five."

He pats Lewy's back before he walks to us, stopping in front of Schmelle and me. "You both have been stellar!" He smacks one hand on each of our sides, making us bump shoulders in the middle.

Mats holds his head in his hand as Klopp makes his way to sit next to him. If there's anyone who can get through to Mats — at least someone who's in the room right now — it's our coach.

"Mats..." He starts. As he gets no response, he puts a hand on Mats' head. "Listen, this game might not be fun for you anymore, but we still need you out there."

Mats takes a breath and sits back up.

"We need your balls," Klopp continues through a laugh.

Mats cracks a smile, a fake one maybe, but under his current mood, I'll take it.

Coach really can work magic with his words.

"It will be difficult, but you must put this behind you. We can't do this without you." He's back to all seriousness now, and Mats nods at him before Coach goes on to talk to a few of the other players.

We remain side by side, each minding our own thing. I can feel Mats regaining focus, mentally preparing for the second half. I mostly use the time to breathe.

Before we know it, we are being called to head out, and we are back in business.

As the second half starts, we go full throttle again,

I don't let Ronaldo even catch his breath, or touch the ball for that matter.

It takes Lewy five minutes to score again. Like I said, he's on fire, and everything is working smoothly. Five minutes later, he scores again, we're winning 3-1 and Madrid seems to be struggling to even get back in the game.

We never stop pressing, never lower our intensity and in the next few minutes, we could have easily scored a couple more. We're physically prepared for our high pace game, it's what we train for every day.

What I've asked of my body tonight, however, ends up being too much.

I'm running back, from a corner kick on our side of the pitch, following Madrid's counterattack on the other side. When I block a shot from Ronaldo with my right foot, I feel a pull, from above my knee all the way up my inner thigh to my groin.

The pain makes me limp around a couple steps, hitching my leg up and out to the side as I make pressure with my hand. I've pulled a muscle, I can feel it. I eye the clock to realize we're almost on the 60th minute... there are thirty more minutes to play, plus added time.

We're winning 3-1, which is comfortable, but conceding another away goal could be deadly. I can't step out now. My team needs me. I try a few deeps breaths as they get ready for their corner.

Schmelzer is next to me with a hand on my shoulder and his eyebrows scrunched in preoccupation. "You okay?"

I nod at him, pointing at one Madrid player who is unmarked. Schmelle gets back to work, and I focus on my breathing again.

I manage to push the pain to the back of my mind and continue to play at max intensity for the next few minutes.

On the 66th minute, Reus is brought down in the box and the referee points to the penalty spot. As Lewy steps up to take the penalty, I approach Klopp quickly. I don't want to be stupid and jeopardize our lead by playing injured, so I let him know I'm hurt. However, I also let him know I feel I can play through the pain for a while longer, but that if he sees me lower my intensity or my quality, he should sub me off.

He looks me in the eyes. He knows I don't mess around. I don't take risks. I'm in control of my body. I know what I can do. He stares at me, my body is buzzing... or maybe I'm just shaking, but I want to keep going. He nods, so I get back to my position.

Lewy converts the PK beautifully, and we're winning 4-1.

A fairytale.

Even then, we don't stop pressing. It's not our style. We keep attacking which makes it hard for me to take it a bit easy in the back. Every time the ball stops, I try to stretch my leg, keeping pressure with my hand on my inner thigh. It helps a bit.

I make it to the 80th minute, but it's a stretch. I know it. Klopp knows it. I won't be able to finish this game, not up on two legs at least. One look at my coach from across the field, and he gets the change ready, and at the 83th minute, I'm being subbed off.

We're still winning 4-1, there's 7+ minutes left, but we have been in complete control. As the weight of the game is lifted off my shoulders, the pain in my leg becomes more pronounced, and I have trouble even making it out of the pitch. How is it possible that after running over 12 K, the actual trotting off the pitch seems to be the hardest one yet?

Everything hurts.

I even cringe away from Schmelle's pat on my back.

I shake Klopp's hand as I step off the field and he pulls me for a hug. "I'm sorry I couldn't finish," I say through my teeth, a sense of nonachievement filling me. There's nothing I would have liked more than to be able to finish this game.

"You've done more than enough, son." He pats my back.

I collapse on our bench with a huff. I'm drained, done. I wince as my fingers press on the inside of my thigh. The medic is on me soon enough, spraying numbing medication and wrapping ice packs around my leg.

I lack the energy to really focus on the remainder of the game, and I am a bit out of it and don't notice much except the fact that we don't concede.

After the final whistle, the stadium explodes with joy. We're not in the finals yet, but we have a pretty good chance now. I limp onto the pitch and join my teammates in celebrations. I stand back when they start jumping and dancing. Mats greets the roaring fans calmly as well, and after a few minutes we all go into the locker rooms.

The celebrations continue in the locker rooms as well. Marco plays music and they're all singing and dancing. Beers are flowing too. Even though Mats was able to pull himself together during the second half, he's still clearly not enjoying himself.

I'm not too worried, though. He's probably exhausted and frustrated with himself. I sit next to him as he takes his gear off, when Götze comes closer, a beer bottle in each hand. Reus appears behind him, his eyes wary and on me. His entire body is tense and in defensive mode as Mario's hand stretches out, offering the beer to me.

I grab the beer from Mario, who seems nervous and apologetic. I smile at him, and we clink bottles — I hold no grudges against the kid. Reus releases a breath, as he senses no threat, and is next to me in the next instant, throwing an arm around my shoulder.

Mario still holds the other bottle in front of Mats, who's bent over unlacing his boots. When Mats looks up, his face flashing with emotions — from indifference to anger, hurt, disappointment. He stiffens up next to me, and Mario takes a careful step back, lowering the offensive drink.

Mats gets up then, towering over Mario. In reflex, Marco shoots up from next to me as well and stands protectively next to Götze. Mats' eyes flicker, from Mario to Marco and back, before he just turns around and heads to the showers.

Marco goes after him. "Mats, you're not being fair."

"Fair?!" When Mats turns around, Reus has to take a step back as well. "Since when are you the devil's advocate?" he seethes, leaving Reus speechless, and heading back in again.

Mario sighs in front of me, setting the bottle down on the bench. "Just give him some time," I say encouragingly, but the kid just shrugs and walks away from me.

I fish in my bag for my things so I can go shower as well. When my eyes land on my phone in my bag, only one thought crosses my mind: Cecilia.

I finally allow myself to think about her.

When I saw her name flashing on my screen last night, I almost couldn't believe it. She had called me, reached out to me. I've struggled with staying away for over two weeks. Not hearing from her, not knowing if she was okay, was unbearable. I almost gave in and called her a couple times, but I didn't. I know how strong she is, and that she'd be dealing well with the situation. I mostly just wanted to hear her voice… I still do.

She said she'd be watching today, and I really hope she did. I'm sure she would be proud of us. I would love to call her, share this with her, but when I think about the day Mats is having, I desist and head for the showers instead.

I also need to see the medic staff, the drugs are well worn out now and the pain on my thigh is nothing compared to the one on my hip. I'll need some stretching, some icing, and probably some massage therapy if I have any intention of walking out of here tonight.

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