Alexis reached him first.
Areola felt it—the pull to collapse, to let his legs give out right there on the grass. But if he did, the team would see it. The fans would see it. And they'd know something was wrong. So he gritted his teeth, dragged what was left of his strength up from his bones, and limped toward Alexis.
Alexis caught him in a hug, lifting him clean off the ground for a second before setting him back on his feet.
A point on the board. One.
Eight games in, and that was all they had.
Twentieth place. Dead last.
It didn't matter how it felt in the moment—numbers didn't lie.
Alexis grinned, his English rougher than usual but clear enough.
"We're so going back to the second division," he said, and laughed like it was a joke he'd been telling himself for weeks.
Areola laughed too, though it sounded hollow. He made it to the bench and sat down hard, like if he didn't, his legs would betray him.
Half a match. Not even a full half. And he'd nearly collapsed.
He couldn't shake the thought: if he'd been at 100%, he could've done more. Should've done more.
The coach was there before he could think it through.
"Do you think," the coach asked, voice low and sharp, "with this mentality, we avoid relegation?"
Areola blinked. Surprised. He hadn't even been celebrating. But the question landed on him anyway.
He'd helped secure the draw. He knew that. He also knew it wasn't enough. Not even close.
The coach held his gaze.
"You can give more," he said. "So give more. Or you're out."
And just like that, he turned and walked off.
In that moment, Areola felt it settle cold in his chest: he hadn't convinced him. Not yet.
He woke up at 5:25.
A few minutes before the alarm even had the chance to fail him.
The apartment wasn't special. Just four walls, a bed, and the bare minimum that came with the contract. But it was his, and relative to what he was getting paid, it felt like more than enough. That was enough to make him happy.
He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, scraped the sleep out with a toothbrush. Hoodie on, door locked, out into the morning.
Cold hit him immediately.
The kind of cold that settled into your chest and made you remember you didn't belong here yet. He'd never gotten used to it. Never would, probably.
It reminded him of home. Of his mom, up before dawn, moving around the kitchen while he buried himself deeper under the blankets, complaining about the morning chill and begging for five more minutes.
That memory hit harder than the air.
It fueled him.
Planten un Blomen lay quiet this early, just a short walk from the St. Pauli stadium. He made it to the pond and stopped, hands on his knees, trying to steady himself. Breathe in. Breathe out. He ran laps around the water, over and over, trying to force his lungs and legs into agreement.
He didn't make it far.
Each time, his body gave in before his head wanted it to.
His phone buzzed.
A link from the coach.
German classes. The club insisted on it—foreign players had to learn the language, no exceptions. He clicked. A locator pinged, showing a school not far from here.
Training was tomorrow.
He could start today.
And if he was serious about staying, he'd need a schedule to make it stick.
He was back by 8.
A few more laps had wrung what was left out of him, but he'd made it home before the city fully woke up. He called the language school on the walk back, and by the time he hung up, they'd sorted him for a class today—right after registration at 10:00.
On the way, a man stopped him.
"Areola," the man said, but it came out thick with a German accent, rough around the edges. He said something else in German, fast and unfamiliar. Areola didn't catch a word of it.
The man pulled out his phone, pointed to himself, then to Areola.
"St. Pauli, eh?"
Areola blinked. He'd played one game. One.
Yet here was a stranger on a cold morning, recognizing him.
The man stepped closer, said "Danke" carefully, nodded once, and walked off.
Areola stood there for a second, still warm from it.
Fans. Already.
Maybe too soon for someone who'd barely earned the shirt.
He took a cab to the language school.
It didn't look like the pictures anymore. The building was smaller, quieter. Only a handful of staff moving around. For someone who only spoke one language, it would've been a problem. But it was the only place in his price range, so he swallowed it and went through with registration.
The classroom was empty when he walked in.
Just him.
He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable in the quiet.
They must be struggling, he thought.
Then the door opened.
She walked in.
His teacher.
For a second he thought his breathing had gone irregular again, but no—it was his heart. It hit the ground running. She said something, but the words passed right through him. He was too busy trying to process the sudden, stupid scramble in his head.
She repeated it, slower this time.
"Guten Morgen," she said in German. Then in English: "Good morning. Let's start from there."
Areola repeated it back.
Botched it. Barely heard it the first time.
She smiled anyway, small and patient, and sat down.
The words started sticking faster than they had any right to.
It wasn't instinct. It wasn't talent.
It was her.
Something about her presence put him on, sharpened him, made him want to keep up.
Then her phone rang.
Time was up.
She stood, smiled at him—easy, professional—and said she had to go. Hoped he'd be back.
Something surged in his chest. He couldn't let it end there.
"I play for a football club here in Hamburg," he said before he could think better of it.
She paused at the door, turned back.
"Oh, that's nice," she said.
Her English was perfect. Too perfect. The words landed flat, almost condescending, like she was filing him away under _hobbyist_ and moving on.
Undeterred, Areola pushed.
"St. Pauli," he said. "You should come see us play. If you want, I can get you a ticket."
She laughed, soft and genuine.
"I like football," she said. "Not that much, though. I'd go watch it at a stadium, sure."
She smiled again, polite but final.
"You should excuse me."
Her words left him standing there with a frown pulling at his mouth.
Then he caught himself.
A laugh escaped, quiet and a little self-conscious.
"Well," he muttered to himself as she left, "at least she didn't say she hated football."
Bright side.