Wyatt's eyes cracked open to unfamiliar sunlight streaming through hotel curtains he didn't remember closing. His neck ached terribly - he'd fallen asleep with his head hanging off the edge of the bed, one leg still tangled in yesterday's jeans, his arm twisted beneath him at an angle that had left it completely numb.
*RING RING RING*
The phone's shrill cry cut through his grogginess like a fire alarm. He fumbled blindly across the rumpled bedsheets, his dead arm flopping uselessly as he tried to locate the source of the noise.
"What time is it?" he mumbled to the empty room, finally grasping his phone with his good hand.
The screen made him bolt upright despite his twisted spine.
**53 Missed Calls**
**Mum (41)**
**Dad (5)**
**Tony (4)**
**Marcus (2)**
**Unknown German Number (1)**
The timestamp showed 11:47 AM. He'd slept for nearly fourteen hours.
Before he could process this properly, the phone rang again. 'Mum' flashed across the screen with a photo of her in her nurse's uniform, looking worried even in the picture.
"Mum?" His voice came out as a croak.
"LINCOLN! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?" Her voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "I've been calling you since six this morning! I thought you'd been kidnapped! Or worse! Do you know what it's like trying to call German hospitals when you don't speak German?!"
"I was sleeping, Mum. I—"
"SLEEPING? For fourteen hours? Without answering your phone? I've been going mental! Your father's been looking up international emergency numbers! Mrs. Patterson's been googling 'missing persons Germany' on her iPad!"
Wyatt rubbed his face, trying to orient himself in this strange room in a strange country with his mother's panic echoing in his ears.
"I'm sorry, Mum. I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed, I suppose."
The relief in her voice was immediate and heartbreaking. "Oh, love. You scared me to death."
"Sorry, Mum... and I am alright, I promise you," Wyatt said, his voice still thick with sleep as he tried to untangle himself from the twisted bedsheets. "Give my regards to Dad."
He could hear her exhale deeply through the phone, that familiar sound she made when the worry finally started to ebb away.
"He's been pacing around the kitchen since seven this morning, muttering about 'should have gone with him' and checking flight prices to Germany every ten minutes." Her voice softened now, the maternal panic giving way to concern laced with love. "We just... we've never had you so far away, love. And with all this contract business and new country and... we don't know how to help you if something goes wrong."
Wyatt sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his reflection in the hotel room's mirror - hair sticking up at impossible angles, yesterday's shirt wrinkled beyond recognition, looking nothing like the composed young footballer who'd signed autographs yesterday.
"I know, Mum. I'm still figuring it all out myself. Everything's just... bigger here. More professional. It's a bit mental, honestly."
"Are you eating proper meals? That hotel food won't keep your strength up. And have you called that Tony fellow back? He sounded frantic when he rang here looking for you."
Wyatt glanced at his missed calls list again, feeling guilt creep up his spine. In his overwhelmed state, he'd forgotten that people back home would be worrying, waiting, wondering if their boy was managing in this new world.
"I'll call him now, Mum. And yes, I'm eating. German breakfast is... interesting."
"Right then. But Wyatt?"
"Yeah?"
"Call us every day. Even if it's just for two minutes. We need to know you're alright, love."
The homesickness hit him like a physical blow.
"I will, Mum. Every day, I prom—"
*Knock knock knock*
Wyatt froze mid-sentence, staring at the hotel room door. He'd barely gotten his bearings and already someone was looking for him.
"What was that?" his mother asked, her protective instincts immediately sharpening again.
"Someone's at the door," Wyatt whispered, as if speaking quietly would make whoever it was go away.
*Knock knock knock*
"Room service!" came a cheerful voice from the corridor, muffled but distinctly German-accented. "Breakfast for Mr. Lincoln!"
"Oh," Wyatt exhaled, feeling slightly ridiculous. "It's just breakfast, Mum."
"Breakfast? But it's nearly noon!"
"I know, I know. Hold on." He stumbled toward the door, still wearing yesterday's clothes, his hair resembling a bird's nest. Through the peephole, he could see a young hotel worker in a crisp uniform holding a silver tray.
"Guten Morgen, Mr. Lincoln!" the server said brightly as Wyatt opened the door. "Complimentary breakfast from ze hotel management. Ve are very honored to have you staying with us."
The tray was laden with fresh pastries, coffee that smelled like heaven, orange juice, and what appeared to be traditional German cold cuts and cheeses. Far more elaborate than anything he'd expected.
"Danke," Wyatt managed, taking the tray with his free hand while keeping the phone pressed to his ear.
"What's happening?" his mother's voice crackled through the speaker.
"They've brought me breakfast, Mum. Proper fancy stuff. I think being a footballer here comes with perks I wasn't expecting."
The server lingered for a moment, clearly hoping for a photo or autograph, but Wyatt's disheveled appearance and phone conversation seemed to discourage him.
"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Lincoln. Good luck!"
"Yeah, Mum, I'll call you later—"
"Don't you dare touch that food without brushing your teeth, Wyatt Lincoln!"
Her voice cut through the phone line with that razor-sharp maternal authority that could stop him dead in his tracks from a thousand miles away. Even at nineteen, even as a professional footballer in a foreign country, he was still her boy who needed reminding about basic hygiene.
Wyatt paused, the aromatic breakfast tray balanced in his hands, suddenly aware of the stale taste in his mouth and the fact that he'd slept in yesterday's clothes.
"Mum, I'm not twelve anymore—"
"I don't care if you're the King of Germany, you brush your teeth before you eat. That's how you were raised, and that's not changing just because you're wearing a fancy football shirt now."
Despite everything - the homesickness, the overwhelming newness, the pressure of his new life - Wyatt found himself smiling. Some things never changed. His mother would probably be giving him hygiene lectures when he was thirty and married with kids of his own.
"Yes, Mum," he said, setting the tray down on the small hotel table. "Teeth first, then breakfast."
"Good boy. And call me tonight, proper time, not when I'm having heart palpitations thinking you've been trafficked."
"I will. Love you, Mum."
"Love you too, sweetheart. Now go brush those teeth."
The line went dead, leaving Wyatt alone with his fancy German breakfast and his mother's voice echoing in his head, making even this pristine hotel room feel a little bit like home.
Twenty minutes later, Wyatt emerged from the bathroom feeling human again. The hot shower had washed away the fog of fourteen hours' sleep and the anxiety of yesterday's whirlwind. His teeth were properly brushed - his mother would be proud - and he'd managed to tame his unruly hair into something resembling respectability.
The German breakfast was a revelation. Fresh breads he couldn't name, cold meats that put English supermarket ham to shame, cheese that actually had flavor, and coffee that made him understand why Europeans looked down on instant. Each bite felt like a small adventure, a tiny glimpse into his new life.
He pulled on fresh jeans and a plain hoodie - nothing with club logos or anything that screamed "footballer" - and checked himself in the mirror. Just a nineteen-year-old lad ready to explore a new city.
Grabbing his wallet, phone, and the hotel key card, Wyatt headed for the door. Training didn't start until Thursday, which gave him today and tomorrow to actually see Cologne beyond taxi windows and club facilities.
The hotel corridor felt different now - less intimidating, more like the beginning of an adventure. At the elevator, he pressed the button for the ground floor and watched the numbers count down.
When the doors opened onto the lobby, Greta the receptionist looked up and smiled. "Guten Tag, Mr. Lincoln! You look much better today. Going to explore our beautiful city?"
"That's the plan," Wyatt said, surprising himself with how confident he sounded. "Any recommendations?"
"Ze Old Town is very beautiful. And ze cathedral - you must see ze cathedral. Very famous."
As he stepped out onto the German street, the autumn air crisp and clean, Wyatt Lincoln took his first real breath as a resident of Cologne.
Time to see what his new home had to offer.
The streets of Cologne bustled with purpose around him as Wyatt wandered in what he hoped was the right direction. The cathedral was supposed to be massive and impossible to miss, but after twenty minutes of walking, he was starting to doubt his sense of direction.
He spotted an elderly man in a long coat walking a small dog and approached with what he hoped was a friendly smile.
"Excuse me, do you know where the cathedral is?"
The man looked up, his weathered face creasing in confusion. "Bitte?"
"Cathedral? Big... church?" Wyatt gestured vaguely upward with his hands, trying to mime something tall and religious.
"Ah... nein, Englisch..." The man shook his head apologetically and shuffled away, his dog looking back at Wyatt with what seemed like pity.
*Right. Germans speak German. Obviously.*
Wyatt pulled out his phone and attempted to use Google Translate, approaching a woman pushing a pram.
"Entschuldigung," he read carefully from his screen, butchering the pronunciation. "Wo ist der... Dom?"
The woman stopped and tilted her head, clearly trying to decipher his mangled German. She responded in rapid German that sounded like machine-gun fire to Wyatt's ears.
"Sorry, I don't... ich spreche nicht..." he fumbled with his phone, trying to translate her response, but she was already walking away, shaking her head.
A group of teenagers outside a coffee shop seemed more promising. Surely young people would know some English?
"Hi, guys. Cathedral? Cologne Cathedral?" He pointed in random directions, hoping one of them would look familiar.
They stared at him like he was speaking Martian. One of them said something to the others and they all laughed - not maliciously, but the kind of laughter that made Wyatt's cheeks burn.
"Englisch?" one finally asked.
"Yes! English! Cathedral?"
"Ahhhh, Dom!" The teenager pointed dramatically down the street. "Dort! Dort!"
Wyatt followed his finger and finally saw it in the distance - two massive Gothic spires piercing the sky like ancient rockets.
"Danke!" he called out, waving gratefully as he hurried toward the towering landmark, wondering how on earth he was going to survive team meetings if he couldn't even ask for directions.
"That was awkward," Wyatt muttered to himself as he walked toward the imposing spires, his cheeks still warm from the encounter with the teenagers. Their laughter echoed in his head - not mean-spirited, but enough to make him realize just how far he was from home.
He shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, dodging pedestrians who moved with the efficient purpose of people who actually knew where they were going. A tram clanged past, its bell adding to the symphony of urban sounds that were distinctly un-English.
The cathedral grew larger with each step, its Gothic towers reaching impossibly high into the gray German sky. Wyatt had seen it in pictures, of course, but standing before it now made him feel microscopic. The intricate stonework, the flying buttresses, the sheer scale of the thing - it was like something from a fantasy film.
*Six hundred years to build this,* he thought, remembering something from a documentary he'd half-watched. *And I can't even ask for directions without making a fool of myself.*
Tourist groups clustered around the entrance, guides speaking in multiple languages - German, English, Japanese, French. The sound of his native tongue from a passing tour group made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
He pulled out his phone to take a photo, partly for his mum, partly to prove to himself that this was real. As he angled the shot, he caught his reflection in the phone screen - a young English lad standing alone in front of one of Europe's most famous landmarks, looking slightly lost and completely out of his depth.
*Welcome to Germany, Wyatt,* he thought. *Population: everyone who speaks better German than you.*
By evening, Wyatt's feet ached from wandering through Cologne's winding streets. He'd managed to find the Rhine River, gotten lost in the Old Town twice, and had three more painfully awkward conversations involving wild hand gestures and Google Translate. His phone battery was dying from constant use as a translation device.
The sound of voices and the unmistakable thud of boot meeting ball drew him toward a small local football pitch tucked between apartment buildings. It wasn't much - cracked concrete, faded line markings, goalposts that had seen better decades - but it felt familiar in a way that nothing else had all day.
A group of young men, probably university age, were having a kickabout. Nothing serious, just friends keeping the ball moving, laughing and shouting to each other in rapid German. Their technique was decent - better than most Sunday league players back home, with that European touch and awareness he'd heard coaches talk about.
Wyatt found an empty bench on the sideline and settled down to watch, grateful for something that needed no translation. Football was universal. A good first touch was a good first touch in any language.
One of the lads, tall with dark hair, nutmegged his mate and celebrated with arms raised dramatically. His friends jeered good-naturedly, the same sounds young footballers made everywhere - pride, embarrassment, camaraderie wrapped up in competitive banter.
Wyatt pulled out his phone to check the time. Almost 7 PM. His mum would be expecting that promised call soon. But for now, he was content to sit in the gathering dusk, watching football and feeling, for the first time since landing in Germany, like he might actually belong somewhere in this strange new country.
Even if that somewhere was just on a bench, watching other people play the game that had brought him here.
The streetlights were beginning to flicker on as the last natural light faded from the German sky. The lads on the pitch were packing up too, their voices echoing off the surrounding apartment buildings as they said their goodbyes and headed home.
Wyatt stood up from the bench, his legs stiff from sitting and a full day of walking. The familiar ache in his feet reminded him just how much ground he'd covered trying to make sense of his new city. His phone showed 19:30 - half past seven - and the battery icon was flashing red.
The walk back to the hotel felt longer in the dark. Street names that had seemed merely foreign in daylight now looked completely alien under the orange glow of the streetlamps. He pulled up Google Maps, hoping the dying battery would last long enough to guide him home.
Twenty minutes later, he pushed through the revolving door of the hotel lobby, grateful for the familiar marble floors and modern lighting. Greta had been replaced by a night shift colleague - a middle-aged man who nodded politely but didn't seem to recognize him.
"Room 412," Wyatt said, holding up his key card.
"Ja, guten Abend," the receptionist replied with professional courtesy.
The elevator felt like a sanctuary as it carried him up to the fourth floor. In the hallway, he fumbled with the key card, his tired hands making the simple task more difficult than it should have been.
Finally, the door clicked open and he stepped into his temporary home - still impersonal, still foreign, but at least quiet and private.
He plugged his phone into the charger and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed again. One day down in Germany. Countless more to go.
His mum would be waiting for that call.
Wyatt opened his laptop on the small hotel desk and logged into WhatsApp Web, his phone still tethered to the charger like a patient on life support.
**Messages**
**Wyatt:** First day exploring Cologne. Spent most of it looking like a lost tourist who can't speak German (because I am one)
**Marcus:** 😂 How's the culture shock treating you?
**Wyatt:** Asked for directions to the cathedral. Took me 3 attempts and a lot of awkward hand gestures. These people speak German, who knew?
**Marcus:** Revolutionary stuff mate. Learning the local language might help
**Wyatt:** Cheers for the advice, Einstein. Training starts tomorrow. Proper nervous
**Marcus:** You'll be fine.
He switched to his agent's contact.
**Wyatt:** Tony, sorry about not answering earlier. Overslept massively. All good here, just adjusting to German life
**Tony:** No worries lad! Saw some photos on social media of you at the cathedral. Looking like a proper tourist 😄 Remember, first impressions with the team tomorrow. Be yourself, work hard, listen more than you speak
**Wyatt:** Roger that
His laptop chimed with an incoming Skype call - 'Mum & Dad' flashing on the screen. Wyatt quickly angled the laptop so they couldn't see the unmade bed behind him and clicked accept.
His mother's face filled the screen, his father's head appearing over her shoulder in their cramped kitchen back home.
"There he is!" Margaret Lincoln beamed. "You look tired, love. And pale. Are you eating properly?"
"Hello, Mum. Hi, Dad," Wyatt waved at the screen. "I'm fine, just been walking around all day. Cologne's massive."
His father leaned closer to the camera. "How's the hotel, son? Treating you well?"
"Yeah, it's proper fancy. Free breakfast and everything. Had some German sausages this morning - different, but not bad."
*Knock knock knock*
"Room service! Dinner for Mr. Lincoln!"
"Oh, that's dinner," Wyatt said, glancing toward the door. "They're bringing meals to my room now. Proper VIP treatment."
"Look at you, living like a king," his father chuckled. "Make sure you're eating your vegetables."
"I'll be right back," Wyatt said, getting up from the desk chair. "Don't go anywhere."
He opened the door to find the same cheerful server from this morning, now holding an elegant covered tray that looked like something from a high-end restaurant.
"Guten Abend, Mr. Lincoln! Ze chef prepared a special meal for you - grilled salmon with quinoa and steamed vegetables. Perfect nutrition for an athlete, ja?"
The aroma wafting from beneath the silver dome made Wyatt's stomach growl audibly. This was leagues above anything he'd expected from hotel room service.
"This looks incredible, thank you."
"Ze club nutritionist sent recommendations to our kitchen. Ve vant to make sure you are in perfect condition for training tomorrow!"
Wyatt accepted the tray, amazed at the level of coordination between his new club and the hotel. Even his meals were being managed professionally.
"Danke," he said, earning another approving smile from the server.
As he set the tray down and returned to his laptop, his parents were peering curiously at the screen.
"What was all that about?" his mother asked.
"They've brought me dinner - proper athlete food. Salmon, quinoa, vegetables. The club's even coordinating with the hotel about my nutrition."
His father whistled low. "That's professional football for you, son. Every detail matters at that level."
Wyatt angled the tray toward the laptop camera with a grin, showing off the gourmet meal like a proud chef on a cooking show.
"Look at that," he said, lifting the dome to reveal the perfectly grilled salmon, fluffy quinoa, and neatly arranged steamed vegetables. "Not bad for room service, yeah?"
His mother let out a low whistle. "Blimey, that looks miles better than what you used to get at the academy canteen."
"Don't get too used to it," his dad chuckled. "They'll be running you into the ground tomorrow to earn every bite of that."
Wyatt smirked. "Worth it. Alright, I'm gonna eat and stretch a bit, then hit the sack. Got to be sharp tomorrow."
His mother smiled softly. "We're so proud of you, love. Sleep well."
"Goodnight, champ," his dad added.
"Night, you two," Wyatt said, waving at the screen before closing the laptop.
He sat on the edge of the bed, eating slowly, savoring every bite. The salmon melted in his mouth, perfectly seasoned and just flaky enough. The quinoa had a subtle nutty crunch, and the vegetables were fresh and lightly buttered—comfort and performance in one plate.
Once finished, he cleaned up, set the tray outside the door, and rolled out the yoga mat from his bag. With quiet focus, he worked through his stretching routine—hamstrings, hip flexors, calves, shoulders—each movement helping loosen the tightness of travel and calm his racing thoughts. He added a few breathwork exercises, grounding himself in the quiet of the room.
After his final stretch, he collapsed gently onto the mattress, picked up his phone, and started scrolling.
Instagram.
His feed was buzzing. Photos of him at the airport, the club's official welcome post in both German and English, fans commenting with fire emojis, hearts, and hype messages.
Wyatt set his phone down, the glow of pride in his chest battling with nerves. He lay back against the pillows, exhaling slowly.
The room went quiet. Just the gentle hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of his breathing. Then, sleep.