The classroom at Scholl Brothers Comprehensive School was warm, almost drowsy. Herr Svein, the German teacher, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, was explaining Goethe's Dichtung und Wahrheit with the quiet passion of someone who loved the subject and suspected his students did not.
He was right.
A soft snore drifted from the back of the room. Svein paused, adjusted his glasses, and peered towards the source. A dark head rested on folded arms, completely oblivious.
"Jin," Svein said gently.
No response.
"Jin!"
The head shot up. Jin Hayes's eyes were wild, his cheek creased from the fabric of his sleeve. "I'm coming! I'm late! The boss is going to—"
He stopped. The classroom erupted in laughter. Fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, normally half-asleep themselves, were suddenly wide awake and delighted by their classmate's humiliation.
A tissue appeared at his elbow. He turned. Anna Heinrich, his deskmate, was looking straight ahead, her expression carefully neutral, but the tissue was definitely in his space.
"Thanks," he mumbled, taking it.
She didn't respond. But her cheeks were slightly pink.
Jin Hayes wiped his face, the last remnants of the nightmare fading. He'd dreamed he wasn't a footballer. That the talent, the contract, the matches – none of it was real. He'd dreamed of exams, university, job interviews, a soul-crushing office job with a boss who demanded overtime at midnight via WeChat. The anxiety had been suffocating.
Waking up in a warm classroom in Dortmund, fifteen years old, a professional footballer, was the best feeling in the world.
Herr Svein, to his credit, was forgiving. "Your performance at the weekend was excellent, Jin. But please try to stay awake during class. Football and school must coexist."
"Yes, Herr Svein. Sorry."
The teacher returned to Goethe. The class settled. But at break, Jin Hayes was surrounded.
"Jin! That pass – how did you even see the gap?"
"It was insane! You didn't even look!"
"Can you play in our class match next week? Please?"
"You're an idiot," another student interrupted. "He's a professional. He can't play school games."
The questions came fast, excited, admiring. Jin Hayes handled them with patient smiles, but he was relieved when a cool voice cut through the chaos.
"Break is almost over. Everyone should sit down."
Anna's tone was flat, but effective. The other students melted away, returning to their seats. Jin Hayes glanced at her, curious.
"They're scared of you."
"They're not scared. They just know I don't like crowds."
"Right."
They'd been deskmates for two months now, ever since the Heinrichs – with some discreet string-pulling – had arranged for Jin Hayes to attend the same school as their daughter. At first, Anna had been horrified. A stranger in her house, in her class, potentially revealing their "living together" situation to the entire school. She'd kept as much distance as possible.
Then Jin Hayes had become famous. His debut, his assists, his picture in every newspaper. The secret was out anyway. And slowly, almost reluctantly, Anna had stopped running.
"Tonight's homework," she said now, not looking at him. "Do you need help?"
Jin Hayes blinked. "You'd do that?"
"You clearly won't do it yourself. And your German handwriting is terrible."
"That's... actually very kind of you."
"It's not kind. It's practical. If you fail, you'll be even more annoying."
He grinned. "Fair enough. I have training tonight, so... yes, please. Thank you."
She gathered her books, stood, then paused. "My mother is making sausages tonight. Do you want me to save you some?"
"Just a little. I have to watch my intake."
"Obviously." She took a step, then another pause, her voice quieter. "And... don't be too late. Training, I mean. Come back at a reasonable hour."
Before he could respond, she was gone, hurrying down the corridor, her heart pounding for reasons she refused to examine.
>>>
Jin Hayes didn't notice Anna's parting words. His mind was already elsewhere, lost in the tactical diagrams spread across his desk, replaying every moment of the Frankfurt match.
The evidence was clear now. His talent had evolved.
From the moment he'd entered in the 85th minute, he'd completed five successful dribbles. And on the fifth, that familiar warmth had flooded his right foot. The resulting pass – a blind back-heel flick, delivered with his back to goal, finding Frei in a crowded penalty area – should have been impossible. The success rate for such a pass was less than one percent. Yet it had worked perfectly.
German Sport1 had named it the Goal of the Week for Bundesliga Round 13. Hans Heinrich had watched the replay at least twenty times that morning, laughing with delight each time.
Jin Hayes understood now. Five dribbles. That was the trigger. Each successful takeaway built towards something, a reservoir of energy that could be released in a single, perfect moment. A pass of impossible precision.
He needed to test it further. Understand its limits. Could he control when to release it? Did it work for shots as well as passes? Could he store multiple charges?
The only way to find out was to keep playing. Keep dribbling. Keep pushing.
>>>
At the Heinrich guesthouse, the evening was quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Heinrich, creatures of habit, had retired early after dinner. The living room was dark except for a single floor lamp, casting a warm glow over the sofa.
Anna Heinrich was asleep there, curled up, a book open on her chest.
Jin Hayes let himself in quietly, his training bag heavy on his shoulder. He'd spent two hours in the gym, then another two on the practice pitch, working on his shooting. Futile, perhaps, but necessary. If he couldn't finish chances himself, he needed to be ready when the perfect pass wasn't an option.
He stopped in the doorway, struck by the scene.
Anna, asleep, looked peaceful. Her long lashes rested on her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell gently. Golden hair spilled across the cushion, catching the lamplight. For a moment, she looked like something from a painting.
Like a wife waiting up for her husband, he thought, then immediately pushed the thought away. Don't be ridiculous.
She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she seemed disoriented. Then she saw him, and something in her expression shifted – relief, maybe, or something softer.
"You're back," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "It's late."
"Training ran long."
She sat up slowly, pushing the book aside. "There's sausage on the table. And some caviar. Mum saved them for you. Don't eat too much this close to bed."
"Thank you."
She nodded, stood, and padded towards the stairs in her slippers. At the first step, she paused.
"Jin."
"Yes?"
"Good night."
He smiled, a real smile, not the polite one he used with reporters. "Good night, Anna."