"I cannot believe I turned down a casting call to watch this," Anna muttered, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline.
Her mother's glare could have melted steel. Anna sighed and shoved the phone back into her pocket.
Early November in Dortmund meant cold air and grey skies, but inside the Westfalenstadion, the temperature was anything but low. The famous Yellow Wall was a seething mass of bare-chested fans, scarves waving, voices raised in songs that had been echoing around this ground for decades. They never stopped. Not when the team was winning, and not now, when they were losing.
In the family's block of seats, not far from the Südtribune, the atmosphere was more subdued. Ordinary fans, not the hardcore ultras, sat in a state of grim resignation, their faces mirroring the club's hopeless league position.
Hans Heinrich returned from his half-time mission, a tray laden with steaming hot dogs and plastic cups of beer balanced precariously in his hands.
"Food's here!"
Anna wrinkled her nose at the offered sausage. "No thanks. Watching this is killing my appetite."
Hans was about to retort when his wife grabbed his arm, her grip like iron.
"Hans! Look!"
She was pointing at the pitch, where the Dortmund players were emerging from the tunnel for the second half. Among them, jogging alongside the substitutes, was a familiar figure. Small, slight, unmistakable.
"Oh my God! He's on the bench for the second half! He might actually play!"
Hans's face split into a huge grin. "I told you! Jin will save us!"
Around them, his fellow members of The Unity fan club exchanged amused glances. They'd heard Hans's relentless praise of his young lodger for two months. Now they'd finally get to see if the hype was real.
A dissenting voice cut through the chatter. A bearded man in glasses, Robert, shook his head dismissively. "This is pointless. What the team needs now isn't a circus act. It's simple, efficient football. Not a teenager with fancy tricks."
Hans's good humour evaporated. "Robert, you don't know what you're talking about."
"I've seen the cup highlights. Skill means nothing in the Bundesliga. This loan move is a publicity stunt, nothing more."
Hans took a menacing step forward, his bulk suddenly intimidating. "Say that again."
Robert stepped back instinctively but held his ground. "I'm just stating facts."
Other members of the fan club intervened, placing calming hands on shoulders. "Enough, both of you. We support every player who wears the shirt, regardless."
Hans wasn't finished. "I'll make you a bet. Right now. Jin will make a decisive contribution today. If he does, you owe me a hundred euros."
Robert's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Fine. And if he doesn't lead us to at least a draw, you owe me two hundred."
"Done."
Hans's hand was seized and shaken. Robert was already smiling, mentally spending his winnings.
Maria tugged at her husband's sleeve, her face pale. "Two hundred euros? Hans, that's—"
"Relax," Hans said, though his voice was tighter than before. "I believe in him."
Maria closed her eyes and murmured a silent prayer, directed at the young figure now standing on the touchline, waiting for the whistle.
Anna watched the scene unfold with detached curiosity. Her father, betting two hundred euros on a Chinese teenager he'd known for two months? It was absurd. And yet, she found her gaze drifting to the pitch, following Jin Hayes as he stretched, jogged, prepared.
He does move well, she admitted to herself. And he's not bad looking, either. Tall, lean, with that sharp jawline and those intense eyes. If the football thing didn't work out, he could probably model.
She caught herself and looked away, annoyed at the direction of her thoughts.
On the pitch, the second half was about to begin. The Dortmund players, heads held a little higher now, formed a tight circle near the centre circle. Captain Kehl stood in the middle, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd.
"Listen to me! Two goals means nothing! I believe in every single one of you!"
He looked around the circle, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.
"This is Westfalen! Eighty thousand people are watching us! Are we going to let them down?"
A chorus of voices roared back. "NO!"
"Then what are we going to do?"
"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
"Second half! Victory!"
Jin Hayes shouted with the rest, his voice lost in the collective roar, but his heart pounding with a fierce, undeniable certainty.
Two goals down. Forty-five minutes to play. Time to get them back.
>>>>>
"Oh? We're seeing a substitution from Borussia Dortmund," the commentator's voice cut through the stadium noise. "The fifteen-year-old Chinese prospect, Jin Hayes, comes on to replace Jakub Błaszczykowski on the right wing. This means… yes, this means Jin Hayes has broken the record for the youngest player ever to appear in the Bundesliga!"
A pause, the rustle of papers.
"The previous record was held by his own teammate, Nuri Şahin, at seventeen years and eighty-two days. Jin Hayes's debut age is… fifteen years and one hundred and thirty-two days. Unbelievable. Is Thomas Doll out of his mind?"
The question hung in the air, echoing the thoughts of thousands in the stadium and millions watching at home. A cup tie against a third-tier side was one thing. But a league match, against the second-best team in Germany, with the team two goals down and desperate for points? Throwing a fifteen-year-old into that cauldron was either genius or madness. If he failed, the media would eviscerate him, and the boy's confidence could be shattered forever.
"Since Thomas Doll is willing to make such a bold gamble," the commentator continued, "let's see what magic this number twenty-four possesses."
The second half resumed. Werder Bremen, comfortable in their lead, continued to control possession. Their diamond midfield, with Diego pulling the strings and Frings, Borowski, and Alberto providing steel and movement, passed the ball around Dortmund's disjointed press with ease. Diego, with his quick feet and sharper vision, repeatedly slipped through balls to Almeida and Rosenberg, who tested the home defence.
Dortmund chased shadows.
Then, in the 49th minute, Jin Hayes touched the ball for the first time.
It started simply. Goalkeeper Weidenfeller rolled the ball to Metze, who passed to Kehl in central midfield. Kehl, sensing pressure, shifted it wide to full-back Patrick Owomoyela. Patrick looked up, saw Jin Hayes calling for it on the wing, and passed without hesitation.
He wasn't worried. None of the Dortmund players were worried. They'd seen what Jin Hayes could do in training. As long as he didn't shoot, no one could take the ball from him.
Werder Bremen's left-back, Sebastian Boenisch, had other ideas. He closed quickly, his eyes fixed on the slight figure in yellow. A fifteen-year-old. Skinny. Asian. Easy prey.
Welcome to the Bundesliga, kid.
Boenisch leaned in, using his upper body strength to bump Jin Hayes, while simultaneously reaching for the ball with his foot. Physical confrontation. The classic way to bully a youngster. He'd forgotten the scouting report, the warnings about the boy's footwork.
Didn't matter. Strength beats skill, every time.
In the stands, Dortmund fans winced. They'd seen this before. Young talents swallowed whole by the league's physicality.
On the Bremen bench, Mesut Özil's eyes widened. No. Don't.
It was too late to shout a warning.
Jin Hayes, seemingly oblivious to the impending collision, received the ball with his back to goal. As Boenisch's weight committed forward, Jin Hayes's heel flicked the ball gently backward, perfectly between the defender's legs. At the same moment, he pivoted on his left foot, spinning away from the challenge. The ball emerged on the other side of Boenisch, and Jin Hayes was already past him, collecting it in stride.
Nutmeg. Turn. Acceleration.
One defender, vanished.
The stadium gasped.
Boenisch, left grabbing air, stumbled and turned, but Jin Hayes was already gone, sprinting into the open space ahead. The away fans fell silent. The home fans, who had been resigned to defeat, stirred.
What just happened?
Werder Bremen's defence scrambled. Per Mertesacker, the giant centre-back, abandoned his position and moved to close down the runaway winger. He lowered his centre of gravity, prepared to jockey, to delay, to force the boy wide.
Jin Hayes bore down on him, feinting with his right foot, then his left, then his right again. Mertesacker, experienced and disciplined, held his ground, watching for the tell, the moment of commitment.
Jin Hayes dropped his right shoulder, as if to go outside. Mertesacker shifted. Then, in a blur of motion, Jin Hayes dragged the ball back with the sole of his foot, spun 180 degrees – a perfect roulette – and emerged on the other side of the bewildered defender.
As they crossed paths, Mertesacker caught a glimpse of the boy's face. Calm. Focused. Utterly terrifying.
"OHHHHH! WHAT DID WE JUST SEE?! JIN HAYES IS THROUGH! HE'S BEATEN TWO MEN AND HE'S IN THE PENALTY AREA!"
The Westfalenstadion erupted. Eighty thousand voices, previously silent, roared as one. The Yellow Wall was a seething mass of black and yellow, scarves spinning, fists punching the air.
Jin Hayes was in the box, the goalkeeper, Tim Wiese, advancing, narrowing the angle. The entire stadium held its breath, waiting for the shot.
On the Dortmund bench, every coach and player was on their feet, shouting the same thing.
Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Pass it! Anyone but him!
Jin Hayes shot.
His right foot swung, his body shape screamed "far post curler." Wiese launched himself, diving full length, anticipating the ball arcing into the top corner.
The ball never arrived.
Jin Hayes's standing foot slipped slightly on the damp turf, and his swinging foot sliced under the ball. Instead of a clean strike, it bobbled off his standing foot, skewing sideways across the face of goal, a complete mis-hit that somehow, impossibly, arrowed directly towards the penalty spot.
Where Alexander Frei was waiting.
The Swiss striker, who had ghosted into the space vacated by Mertesacker's desperate charge, found himself completely unmarked, the ball arriving at his feet as if delivered by divine intervention. He didn't even need to break stride. A simple, side-footed finish, and the ball was in the back of the net.
"ALEXANDER FREI!"
A moment of stunned silence, then an explosion of sound that shook the stadium to its foundations.
"WHAT A PASS! WHAT VISION! THE FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD, FIVE MINUTES ON THE PITCH, AND HE'S TEARED BREMEN'S DEFENCE APART! AN ASSIST OF ABSOLUTE GENIUS!"
On the pitch, Frei was mobbed by his teammates. Jin Hayes stood apart for a moment, staring at his feet, then at the ball in the net, a faint, bewildered smile on his face.
I meant to shoot, he thought. I really did.
But no one needed to know that.
The score was 2-1. Twenty minutes remained. And the impossible suddenly felt inevitable.