The taxi pulled up outside the RheinEnergieStadion, and Wyatt's breath caught in his throat. The stadium rose before him like a fortress of red and white, its modern facade gleaming in the crisp German morning sun. This wasn't the cramped, rain-soaked grounds of League Two - this was proper football, the kind he'd only seen on television.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Tony said, paying the driver in euros that still felt foreign in his hands.
Wyatt stepped onto the pavement, his legs unsteady after the overnight flight and restless sleep in a Cologne hotel. Everything felt sharper here - the air cleaner, the architecture more precise, even the way people walked seemed more purposeful.
"Mr. Lincoln?"
A man in his fifties approached them, extending his hand with Germanic efficiency. Tall, lean, with silver hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like central casting's idea of a German football coach.
"I am Stefan Weber, assistant manager. Welcome to FC Köln." His English was heavily accented but perfectly clear. "How was your journey?"
"Long," Wyatt admitted, shaking the offered hand. Weber's grip was firm, confident.
"Good. Means you are eager to begin, yes?" Weber smiled, gesturing toward the stadium entrance. "Hans Mueller wanted to be here personally, but he is in meetings with the sporting committee at the moment. I hope an old assistant coach will suffice for your first day."
They walked toward the main entrance, Weber's footsteps echoing with the rhythm of someone who'd walked these paths thousands of times.
"You look younger than I expected," Weber observed, studying Wyatt as they walked. "Nineteen years old, but you carry yourself like you have seen many battles already."
Wyatt glanced back at the taxi disappearing around the corner - his last connection to the world he knew.
"Feels that way sometimes," he said quietly.
Weber nodded knowingly. "Good. In Germany, we believe football chooses its warriors early. Come - let me show you your new home."
"First things first," Weber said, stopping at a door marked 'Medizinische Abteilung.' "Our medical team is the best in the Bundesliga. They will make sure you are ready for German football."
The medical center looked like something from a science fiction film compared to the cramped treatment room at Wyatt's old club. Dr. Elisabeth Hoffmann, the head physician, greeted them with professional warmth, her English crisp and clinical.
"Mr. Lincoln, please change into these." She handed him athletic shorts and a club shirt. "We begin with basic measurements, then cardiovascular testing, flexibility, strength assessments."
The next three hours passed in a blur of treadmills and blood pressure cuffs, urine samples and flexibility tests. Wyatt's body was measured, analyzed, and documented with German precision. Every muscle fiber seemed to be catalogued, every heartbeat monitored.
"Excellent cardiovascular fitness," Dr. Hoffmann noted, reviewing his stress test results. "Your lung capacity is impressive for someone your age. The physical style of English football has prepared you well."
The drug test was routine - a small vial disappearing into a sterile container while Weber waited patiently outside. Wyatt had never taken anything stronger than paracetamol, but still felt oddly nervous as the sample was labeled and sealed.
"Clean as expected," Dr. Hoffmann announced thirty minutes later. "Your body is a temple, Mr. Lincoln. Keep it that way in Germany."
Weber smiled as they left the medical wing. "Congratulations. You are officially fit to be a FC Köln player"
"Tony, you go handle the business," Weber said, patting the agent on the shoulder. "Young Wyatt and I will explore his new workplace, yes?"
Tony nodded, following a club official toward the executive offices while Weber turned to Wyatt with the enthusiasm of a proud father showing off his home.
"Come. Let me show you what FC Köln is really about."
They started with the trophy room - a gleaming shrine to the club's history. Weber paused at a particular display case, his voice taking on a reverent tone.
"1978. Our greatest triumph. We won the Bundesliga that year, the only time in our history." He tapped the glass gently. "These players, they are legends here. But you know what made them special? They understood that individual talent means nothing without the collective spirit."
The training facilities were next - pristine pitches that looked like green carpets, each blade of grass perfectly manicured. The gym was a cathedral of modern equipment, everything gleaming chrome and digital displays.
"Our academy players train here alongside first team," Weber explained, watching Wyatt's wide-eyed reaction. "In Germany, we do not separate development from excellence. They are the same thing."
The dressing room took Wyatt's breath away. Individual lockers with digital displays, a tactical analysis room with wall-mounted screens, a recovery pool that sparkled under LED lighting. Everything was red and white, the FC Köln crest embedded into every surface.
"This will be your locker," Weber said, stopping at a pristine cubby with 'LINCOLN 23' already displayed above it. "Number 23. The same number worn by our last great English defender in the 1980s."
Wyatt ran his fingers over the nameplate, still hardly believing this was real.
"The pressure, it will be immense," Weber continued quietly. "German fans are passionate, demanding. But they respect players who give everything for the shirt. Show them your heart, young man, and they will give you theirs."
"Every player who wears this shirt becomes part of something larger. We are not Bayern, not Dortmund, but Köln has soul. Tradition."
They passed a mural painted across the corridor—scenes from dramatic derbies, fans waving scarves, a historic goal frozen in time. Wyatt couldn't help but pause at one scene: a bloodied defender rising to win a header amidst chaos in the box.
Weber noticed. "That was Holger Görtz. Broken nose, concussion, still finished the match. That is what we value here—grit. Intelligence. Fight. Not just pretty football."
Finally, they stepped into the tunnel—that sacred passage every footballer dreams of walking. The walls were lined with motivational quotes in multiple languages, team photos from successful seasons, and the distant echo of their footsteps seemed to whisper of matches yet to come.
As they emerged from the tunnel's shadows, the light ahead grew brighter, and then—
The RheinEnergieStadion opened up before Wyatt like a cathedral of football.
Row upon row of steep red stands stretched toward the sky, 50,000 empty seats that would soon thunder with voices. The pitch below was a perfect emerald rectangle, so pristine it looked like it belonged in a painting rather than hosting the brutal battles of professional football.
Weber stood beside him, allowing the moment to breathe.
This is where boys separate from men," he said quietly. "We don't care about transfer fees, social media followers, or newspaper headlines. We care about one thing—will you stand tall when we are losing 2-1 in the 88th minute and desperately need someone to organize the defense?"
Wyatt felt the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders like a familiar jacket. The pressure was real now, tangible as the German air filling his lungs. But so was the opportunity—the chance to prove that one magical tackle wasn't a fluke.
"Can you be that player?" Weber asked. "Can you be the foundation we build upon?"
Wyatt turned to face him, his voice steady despite everything churning inside.
"I didn't come here to hide in anyone's shadow," he said. "I came here to prove I belong at this level."
Weber's weathered face cracked into the first genuine smile Wyatt had seen from him.
"Gut. Very good."
"Welcome to FC Köln, Lincoln
Tony's footsteps echoed down the corridor as he hurried to catch up, his face flushed with excitement and relief.
"Wyatt! Everything's sorted, lad. Contract's perfect - exactly what we discussed, plus some performance bonuses they threw in last minute." He was slightly out of breath, clutching a folder of documents. "Hans Mueller sends his apologies again, but the board signed off on everything. You're officially a Köln player."
Weber smiled, checking his watch. "Perfect timing. The media team is ready for you."
They walked toward the press conference room, passing staff members who nodded respectfully at Weber and stared curiously at Wyatt. Through glass doors, he could see photographers setting up equipment, journalists checking their phones, club officials in sharp suits preparing for the announcement.
"Remember," Weber said quietly as they approached, "smile, be respectful, show them you're hungry to learn. German media appreciates honesty over flashiness."
The doors opened and camera flashes erupted like lightning. Wyatt blinked, momentarily stunned by the intensity. A long table sat at the front of the room, the FC Köln crest backdrop behind it, microphones arranged precisely across its surface.
Hans Mueller stood waiting, immaculate in his club blazer, holding a pristine red and white jersey. "Ah, Mr. Lincoln! Welcome to your new home."
The contract signing was a blur of fountain pens and flashbulbs. Wyatt's signature looked small and uncertain next to the official club stamps, but it was done. Legal. Real.
Then came the moment he'd dreamed of - Mueller lifted the jersey with both hands, '23 LINCOLN' displayed proudly across the back. The handshake was firm, professional, captured by dozens of cameras as Mueller placed the shirt in Wyatt's hands.
"Welcome to FC Köln, young man. Now let's see what English defending looks like in the Bundesliga."
The boy from a League Two was officially a German footballer.
The social media explosion was immediate and overwhelming. Wyatt's phone buzzed non-stop as the official announcements cascaded across every platform:
*@☑️fckoeln_en: Welcome to Cologne, Wyatt Lincoln! 🔴⚪ The 19-year-old English defender joins us from England. #EffZeh #WelcomeLincoln*
*@☑️FabrizioRomano: OFFICIAL: Wyatt Lincoln signs for FC Köln until 2028. €1.1m deal completed as reported. Here we go confirmed! 🇩🇪🔴*
*@☑️SkySports: BREAKING: Teenage sensation Wyatt Lincoln completes move to Bundesliga side FC Köln...*
@Kölnfan: Welcome Lincoln 🔴⚪ #WelcomeLincoln*
In the back of the taxi heading to his hotel, Wyatt pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.
**Messages**
**Wyatt:** It's done mate. I'm officially German 😅
**Marcus:** Saw it everywhere. Twitter's going mental. How does it feel?
**Wyatt:** Surreal. Scared. Excited. Everything at once
**Marcus:** You've got this bro. Show them what proper English defending looks like
**Wyatt:** Miss you already
**Marcus:** Don't go soft on me now Lincoln 😂
He switched to his mum's contact, staring at her name for a moment before typing.
**Wyatt:** Signed the contract Mum. It's official ❤️
**Mum:** My son the German footballer! Dad's crying. I'm crying. Mrs Patterson from next door is crying. We're so proud
**Wyatt:** Love you Mum. Call you tonight
"Training begins Thursday," Weber said from the front seat, watching Wyatt in the rearview mirror. "Three days to settle in, find your feet, maybe learn some basic German phrases. The boys will be excited to meet you."
Tony was grinning like a Cheshire cat, constantly refreshing social media. "Look at these numbers, Wyatt! Your follower count's gone through the roof. This is massive for your profile."
As they pulled up to the hotel, Tony gathered his things and shook Wyatt's hand one final time.
"I'm proud of you, son. Really proud. You've made the right choice." He paused at the taxi door. "Now go show them what that tackle was just the beginning of."
The agent disappeared into the evening crowd, leaving Wyatt alone with his new reality and a hotel room in a foreign country.
The hotel lobby was all sleek marble and modern lighting, a far cry from the budget chains Wyatt's family used for their rare holidays. He wheeled his suitcase across the polished floor, still clutching the folder of documents from his contract signing.
At the reception desk, a young woman with blonde hair tied in a neat bun looked up from her computer screen. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him, a flicker of recognition crossing her face.
"Guten Abend... I mean, good evening," she said, her English careful and deliberate, each word shaped by her German accent. "You are... checking in, yes?"
"Yeah, Lincoln. Wyatt Lincoln."
Her face lit up with a genuine smile. "Ah! You are ze new football player! For FC Köln!" She clasped her hands together excitedly. "I saw on ze Instagram just now. Very exciting!"
Wyatt felt his cheeks warm. Even here, in a random hotel, people already knew who he was.
"Zank you for choosing our hotel," she continued, typing rapidly on her keyboard. "My fazzer, he is very big FC Köln supporter. He vill be so jealous I meet you!" She giggled softly. "I am Greta, by ze way."
She handed him a key card with both hands, like it was a ceremonial gesture.
"Room 412, fourth floor. Ze elevator is zere," she pointed with a proud smile. "And... viel Glück! Good luck vith your new team. Ve are all hoping you vill be very successful here in Köln."
"Danke," Wyatt said, using one of the few German words he'd learned on the plane.
Greta's smile grew even brighter. "You are learning German already! Very good!"
As he walked toward the elevator, Wyatt realized this was his life now - being recognized, congratulated, welcomed by strangers who knew his name before he knew theirs.
The elevator doors closed, and he was alone with his reflection and his new reality.
The hotel room was pristine and impersonal - white walls, beige furniture, the kind of place designed for business travelers and temporary stays. Wyatt dropped his suitcase by the door and collapsed onto the king-sized bed, still fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling.
The events of the day played back in his mind like scenes from someone else's life. The medical tests, the contract signing, the camera flashes, Weber's tour of facilities that looked like they belonged to a different sport entirely from the muddy pitches of League Two.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the notifications - hundreds of them. Instagram followers jumping by the thousands. Messages from teammates he hadn't spoken to in months. Local newspapers back home running headlines about "Lincoln's German Dream."
*Is this actually happening?*
The thought hit him like a cold wave. Three months ago he was stacking shelves at Sports Direct. Six months ago he was an unknown academy graduate hoping for a few minutes off the bench. Now he was lying in a German hotel room, officially a Bundesliga player.
He sat up and looked out the window at Cologne's skyline - unfamiliar buildings with unfamiliar architecture under unfamiliar stars. Everything felt surreal, like he was floating above his own life, watching it happen to someone else.
*Am I ready for this?*
The question gnawed at him. Ready for the language barrier? Ready for the tactical sophistication Weber had hinted at? Ready to face defenders who'd been playing professional football since before he'd hit puberty? Ready to justify a million-euro transfer fee?
His phone buzzed with another notification, but he didn't look. Instead, he closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted by the weight of his new reality.
*What if I'm not good enough? What if that tackle was just a fluke?*
The thoughts swirled as sleep pulled him under, still wearing his clothes, still clutching his phone, still wondering if he'd wake up back in his childhood bedroom to find this had all been an impossible dream.
But the unfamiliar ceiling was the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him, and somewhere in his unconscious mind, the boy who'd made one perfect tackle began preparing for the biggest test of his life.