The next afternoon, the team returned to the Weserstadion for their traditional pre-match walkthrough.
The stadium was completely empty.
And somehow, that made it feel even larger.
Without forty thousand voices filling the stands, he could hear everything.
The soft scrape of his sneakers against the edge of the pitch.
The distant sound of staff members preparing equipment.
The occasional echo of a conversation travelling through the empty corridors.
The seats stretched endlessly around him, rows of green and white waiting for tomorrow’s noise.
Waiting for the moment when every mistake would be noticed.
Every pass judged.
Every decision remembered.
He walked slowly along the edge of the penalty area, looking toward the section of the pitch where he would likely spend most of the match.
The right half-space.
The area between the wing-back and centre-back.
The small pocket of space that existed only for a few seconds before disappearing.
Kohfeldt’s instructions replayed in his mind.
Don’t stand and ask for the ball.
Move when the pass is played.
Make the defender choose.
Create the space.
He stopped near the position marked by the training staff earlier that day.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
No crowd.
No pressure.
No opponent.
Just the pitch.
He had learned over time that football was not only played physically.
A lot of it happened before the first whistle.
The small habits.
The preparation.
The understanding of what might happen before it actually did.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Not imagining a goal.
Not imagining the celebration.
Not imagining the headlines.
Just the movement.
A pass from deep.
The defender stepping forward.
The touch.
The turn.
The next decision.
The chaos of the match becoming something familiar.
After a few seconds, he opened his eyes again.
Tomorrow would still be unpredictable.
Hoffenheim would still press.
The game would still be difficult.
But at least now, the spaces did not feel unknown.
That evening, Bremen became quieter as the rain returned.
The apartment windows collected tiny drops of water, turning the city lights outside into blurry reflections.
He sat on the couch wearing a simple black sweatshirt and grey joggers, a bowl of homemade chicken curry and rice resting on the coffee table in front of him.
The television played quietly in the background.
It was not football.
It was one of his favourite slice-of-life anime series.
Something light.
Something that required no analysis.
No tactical thinking.
No decisions.
Just a few episodes to switch his brain off.
During dinner, his phone rested beside him, occasionally lighting up with messages.
The Werder group chat was active.
Lukas had sent a picture of a badly edited motivational poster featuring his face on a superhero body.
The caption: “Tomorrow’s secret weapon.” A few seconds later, another message arrived.
Lukas: “Actually, ignore this.
I made it during class and Hannah said it looked terrible.” He smiled.
He replied: “She was correct.” Almost immediately: Lukas: “Unbelievable.
No support from teammates.” He shook his head, laughing quietly.
These small things mattered.
The jokes.
The normal conversations.
The moments where football was not the centre of everything.
After finishing dinner, he moved to the kitchen and washed the dishes before preparing his match boots.
It was a routine he had developed years ago.
Not because anyone told him to.
Not because it made him special.
He simply liked knowing everything was ready.
The boots sat on a towel near the table.
He carefully cleaned the surface with a soft cloth, removing the small pieces of mud collected during training.
Each stud was checked.
Each lace adjusted.
Nothing dramatic.
Just preparation.
While cleaning, his phone played music quietly.
A mix of Indian songs filled the apartment.
Some newer Indian pop tracks.
A few Bengali songs he remembered from childhood.
A couple of Bollywood songs that his friends in Germany still couldn’t understand why he enjoyed.
To him, they were not symbols.
They were simply songs he liked.
Songs that reminded him of long afternoons back home, family gatherings, road trips, and ordinary moments.
The same way someone else might listen to an old playlist from their childhood.
A video call notification appeared.
Dadi calling.
He immediately smiled.
He wiped his hands and answered.
The screen flickered before showing the familiar living room of his grandparents’ house.
The lighting was warmer.
The walls looked exactly the same as he remembered.
His grandmother appeared first.
“Agastya beta.” “Hi Dadi.” “Have you eaten?” He laughed softly.
“Yes.” “Proper food?” “Yes.” “Not just protein shakes?” “No, Dadi.” His grandfather appeared behind her, adjusting his glasses.
“Your grandmother asks the same question every time.” “Because he never listens,” she replied.
He smiled.
Some things never changed.
“So,” his grandfather said, sitting down, “tomorrow is Hoffenheim.” “Yes.” “I read about them.” He raised an eyebrow.
“You read German football news now?” His grandfather looked slightly offended.
“I have Google.” That made him laugh.
“It translates badly sometimes.” “It translates enough.” His grandfather leaned closer to the screen.
“They are a tactical team.” “I know.” “Young coach.
Very aggressive ideas.” He nodded.
“Nagelsmann.” “Yes.” A small pause followed.
Then his grandfather spoke more seriously.
“But remember something.” He listened.
“Do not try to prove you belong.” The words were simple.
But they carried weight.
“You are already there.
You earned the shirt.” He looked down briefly.
“Just play the game.” His grandmother smiled.
“And sleep properly.” The sudden change in tone made him laugh.
“Dadu gives football advice.
Dadi gives sleeping advice.” “Both are important,” his grandmother replied immediately.
They talked for another twenty minutes.
About ordinary things.
His cousin Arjun’s latest college stories.
His childhood friends Sourav, Rajesh, Aniket, and Bikram arguing about football back home.
His grandmother complaining that Bremen weather sounded too cold.
His grandfather asking if he was eating enough vegetables.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just family.
After the call ended, he placed his phone on the table.
The apartment became quiet again.
He looked toward the gear bag near the door.
The green and white Werder Bremen kit was already packed.
Number 11.
Ready.
Before sleeping, he played one last game on his console.
A football game, naturally.
Jonas had challenged him earlier in the week and refused to accept that he was better.
The match ended with Jonas losing by one goal.
A message immediately appeared.
Jonas: “The game is unrealistic.” He replied: “You picked the team.” Jonas: “Exactly.
The game should have helped me.” He smiled before putting the controller down.
At eleven thirty, the apartment finally went silent.
The television was off.
The dishes were cleaned.
The boots were prepared.
The alarms were set.
He stood near the bedroom window for a moment, looking at Bremen’s quiet streets.
Tomorrow would be different.
The Weserstadion would be full.
The lights would be brighter.
The noise would be louder.
Hoffenheim would come with their tactics, their pressure, and their plans to stop him.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Tonight, he was not the young Bundesliga player everyone was beginning to notice.
Not the teenager from India.
Not the academy prospect.
Not number 11.
Just himself.
A boy preparing for another football match.
He turned off the lights.
Placed his phone on the bedside table.
And finally allowed himself to sleep.
Tomorrow, the cup battle would begin.