"Frank! Is he in good shape today?"
"You have to look after Jin out there! Those Bayern players are ruthless!"
"We're counting on you, Frank!"
Frank Heinrich, team doctor for Borussia Dortmund, stood in the kitJin of his family home, enduring the morning ritual. His parents, Hans and Maria, surrounded him like anxious hens, their concerns directed entirely at their lodger.
"I'm going to work," Frank said flatly. "Jin is a professional. He knows how to protect himself."
"But those Bayern players—"
"I'll take care of him. He's like a brother to me." Frank grabbed his bag and headed for the door. "The car's waiting. I have to go."
Maria called after him. "We'll be cheering for you too!"
Frank smiled despite himself. At least she remembered he existed.
At the door, a quiet voice stopped him.
"Frank."
He turned. Anna stood in the hallway, her cheeks pink, her hands behind her back.
"What is it?"
She stepped forward and pressed a small cloth bag into his hands. "Can you... give this to Jin for me?"
Frank blinked. "What?"
"Please. Just give it to him."
Before he could respond, she retreated, disappearing into the living room. A moment later, her voice floated back: "Thank you!"
Frank stared at the bag, then at the empty hallway, then at the bag again. He squeezed it gently – something soft, maybe a scarf or gloves. A faint smile crossed his face.
His sister, the ice queen, the one who claimed to hate football and everything related to it, was making gifts for the Chinese lodger.
Interesting.
>>>
An hour later, at the team hotel near Westfalenstadion, Frank found Jin Hayes in the breakfast room. The young player sat with Şahin and Hummels, picking at a plate of scrambled eggs.
Frank tossed the cloth bag onto the table. "A token of love from my sister."
Jin Hayes choked on his eggs. Şahin's eyes went wide. Hummels let out a whoop of laughter.
"I'm joking," Frank said quickly, though his grin suggested otherwise. "No idea what it is. Open it yourself. And my family sends their best."
He walked away, leaving chaos behind.
Şahin leaned in. "Open it! Open it!"
Hummels crowded closer. "What is it? What is it?"
Jin Hayes, his face slightly flushed, untied the bag and pulled out a pair of black knitted gloves. They were simple, handmade – the kind you might buy at a Christmas market. But on the back of the left hand, someone had embroidered two Chinese characters in uneven stitches: 好运.
Good luck.
Below them, in neat German script: Viel Glück!
"OHHHH—" Şahin's voice rose. "She made these for you! By hand!"
"Personalised and everything!"
"Frank's sister? The tall blonde?"
"She's gorgeous, Jin. How did you—"
"Get lost, all of you." Jin Hayes shoved the gloves back into the bag,But his ears were burning. "We're friends. Friends give each other gifts. It's normal."
The knowing looks from his teammates said otherwise. Jin Hayes attacked his salad with unnecessary violence, determined to ignore them.
But his heart beat a little faster, and he couldn't stop glancing at the small cloth bag beside his plate.
>>>
Two hours before kick-off, the Bayern Munich team bus rolled into the Westfalenstadion parking lot. The red behemoth, emblazoned with the club crest, exuded an aura of inevitable dominance. This was the Bundesliga's eternal king, arriving to collect another victory.
Franck Ribéry stepped off first, headphones on, hands in his pockets. He surveyed the stadium with a casual glance, then followed his teammates inside for warm-ups.
The mood was relaxed. The winter championship was already secured. Today was a formality, a final tune-up before the break. Even the disappointing draw against Duisburg couldn't dampen spirits.
Ribéry juggled a ball alone, finding his rhythm, when something on the opposite side of the pitch caught his eye.
"Merde!"
Luca Toni, the Italian giant, looked up. "What?"
Ribéry pointed. Across the field, the Dortmund players were playing a casual rondo. In the middle, Mats Hummels chased the ball while his teammates passed around him. And one player – a slight Asian teenager – was making a fool of him.
The ball came to the boy. Instead of passing, he flicked it onto the back of his neck, let it roll down his spine, then kicked it up with his heel as Hummels lunged. Another flick, another evasion. Hummels, laughing now, tried to wrap his arms around the boy's waist. The boy dropped into a breakdance spin, hands on the turf, feet in the air, the ball somehow still under control. He held the position for three seconds, then flicked the ball backwards to a teammate.
The Dortmund players erupted in cheers and laughter.
Toni's mouth hung open. "Mamma mia."
Ribéry sniffed. "Circus tricks. Means nothing in a match."
But a minute later, Toni noticed Ribéry had drifted to the sideline, attempting to replicate the moves. His attempts were stiff, awkward, nothing like the fluid grace of the Dortmund teenager.
"Merde!" Ribéry blasted a ball towards goal, startling the young goalkeeper Michael Rensing.
Rensing's expression was bewildered. What did I do to him?