King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

After the shower, Julian changed back into his tracksuit and followed Loïc through another corridor.

The air inside the HSV Campus carried a faint chill—sterile, clinical, alive with quiet precision.

Every door they passed revealed another piece of the process—rooms where athletes were measured, tested, studied.

The faint beeps of machines, the low hum of filtered air, the clipped voices of technicians—it all blended into a rhythm that felt less like a building and more like a living organism.

This was science meeting ambition. And today, Julian was the subject.

The next few hours unfolded in a steady rhythm.

MRI and ultrasound scans mapped every fiber of his body.

Joint mobility assessments tested flexibility and range.

A dental check confirmed nothing hidden could become a problem.

Psychological evaluations probed not just intelligence but mindset, resilience, emotional control.

He sat across from a quiet-eyed specialist who asked about pressure, fear, failure. Julian answered without bravado—measured, honest. His failures had already tempered him.

Nutrition consultations followed, outlining his body's needs. Charts and tables projected fuel requirements for a warrior stepping into a new league.

Macronutrients, hydration balance, supplementation—all tailored not to the average athlete but to him specifically.

At one point, the nutritionist placed a hand on the thick binder of data. "Your metabolism runs hot. You'll need more fuel than most, especially on double-session days. If you under-eat, you'll burn out fast." Julian nodded, committing the warning to memory.

He had always trained harder than others—now he would need to eat like it too.

Each test peeled back another layer, revealing not flaws, but readiness.

He felt as though he was being dismantled and rebuilt in real time—every scan, every evaluation a hammer strike against the raw metal of who he was.

HSV wasn't looking for cracks; they were searching for steel. And to his surprise, they seemed to be finding it.

By the time the final clipboard snapped shut, the sun had already begun to dip behind the stadium's curve.

Loïc stood by the door, tablet in hand, satisfaction written across his face.

"That's it for the medical, Julian. Everything looks clean. Strong."

Julian exhaled, shoulders easing. "So… I passed?"

Loïc smiled faintly. "More than passed. You've set a standard. Now comes the real part."

He turned, gesturing toward another room.

"Let's get to the signing. After this, it's official. Tomorrow, we'll have press—photos, interviews, and a short appearance with the head coach."

Julian followed in silence, the echo of his footsteps steady.

One day—one long, grueling day—and yet it felt like crossing a lifetime.

The corridor seemed longer now, every step stretching toward something inevitable. His chest tightened, not from nerves, but from the weight of what waited ahead.

Contracts were paper, yes—but paper that could change the course of years.

They entered a small conference room lined with glass and light wood.

A wide table stretched across the center, documents stacked neatly at one end.

Julian, Crest, and David took their seats opposite Loïc.

On the tabletop, a folder lay open—a single contract resting inside. Next to it, a glossy pamphlet map of the HSV facilities, labeled with training fields, recovery rooms, and dormitories.

Loïc slid the map across to Crest. "You can review it first."

She scanned it quickly, eyes flicking over each section with professional precision.

Meanwhile, Loïc's voice filled the room—calm, measured, official.

"You already know most of this. Julian will be signing a one-year contract with Hamburger SV. For now, he'll be registered under HSV II—the developmental squad."

He met Julian's eyes.

"But this isn't a demotion. It's a foundation. If you meet the performance criteria we've set—particularly by August—you'll be promoted to the first team. With guaranteed training sessions, and promised match minutes."

Julian nodded slowly, the words settling like weight and fire both.

One year. One chance.

A new climb—one measured not by potential, but by proof.

Crest closed the map, sliding it aside. "Understood."

David leaned forward, expression professional but edged with pride. "We're ready."

Loïc turned the document toward Julian, pen resting beside it.

"All that's left now—sign, and it's official."

Julian stared at the page.

His name already printed in neat black ink.

His future waiting in the blank space beside it.

He took the pen, fingers steady.

And with one firm stroke—

He wrote his name.

Julian Ashford.

With the signing done, the pen clinked softly against the table.

Loïc stood, hand outstretched, a genuine smile cutting through his usual professionalism.

"Welcome aboard, Julian. This time—it's official. I'll be waiting for you in the first team. Climb fast, alright?"

Julian rose, meeting his grip firmly. "Thank you, sir. You'll see me soon."

A short laugh escaped Loïc, bright and approving. "That's the confidence I like to hear."

The contract was sealed. The path was set.

From here on—no more talk. Only proof.

…

By the time they stepped outside, dusk had settled over Hamburg.

The sky hung low and silver-gray, the last edge of daylight fading behind the Volksparkstadion.

Julian tilted his head back, watching the clouds catch the faintest glow. It felt fitting—the day that began with tests ended beneath a sky shifting toward night.

A full day.

A full start.

"Let's head back to the hotel," Julian murmured, rolling his shoulders.

David nodded beside him, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah. We all need rest after this one."

Crest was already ahead, keys in hand. She opened the sleek car door and slid behind the wheel with her usual composure.

Julian climbed into the backseat, sinking into the leather with a sigh that came from deep in his chest.

The hum of the engine filled the quiet.

Then—

"Food?" Crest asked, glancing at him through the mirror.

Julian perked up slightly. "How about… junk food?"

David turned from the passenger seat, narrowing his eyes. "Junk food? After today's medical? Really?"

Julian raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Come on. One cheat day. We've been perfect for weeks. Today deserves fries."

Crest's exhale was soft, controlled—the sound of a general giving in.

"Fine," she said, turning onto the main road. "But only tonight."

Julian's grin widened. "Deal."

The city lights flickered past the window, streaks of gold and blue dancing across his reflection.

Outside, Hamburg moved—steady, alive, indifferent.

Inside, Julian felt something warmer stir in his chest.

A contract signed. A promise made.

Tomorrow would bring cameras, questions, pressure.

But tonight—

Tonight, he'd let himself breathe.