NOVEL NEXT Chapter 155: The Face of a Professional
Morning came fast.
Too fast.
The first light slipped across the lake, pale gold through the hotel window. Julian was already awake—no alarm needed.
By 05:00 AM, he was in the gym.
A short, focused session—stretching, core work, light cardio. Just enough to stir the blood, not enough to exhaust the body.
This wasn't a day for breaking limits.
This was a day for standing ready.
By the time he finished, the city outside had begun to stir—trams clattering, footsteps echoing faintly in the distance.
The official schedule had been set.
Signing presentation: 09:00 AM.
Arrival at HSV Campus: 08:00 AM.
Julian checked his watch.
07:00 AM.
Time to prepare.
He returned to his room, the hum of the city following him faintly through the glass.
On the bed lay the package delivered last night—a clean, folded set of everything that came with his new title.
His name now belonged to Hamburger SV.
He opened it carefully.
Inside, each layer of fabric told its own story.
The home kit—a white jersey trimmed with subtle blue, the HSV diamond gleaming proudly on the chest beside the sponsor's mark.
The away kit, sleek and sharp—navy base, white stripes, a thin red accent at the collar.
The third kit, bold in crimson red with black sleeves, carrying a quiet fire.
He brushed his hand across the material. Smooth. Cool. Real.
Next came the rest—
A pre-match top designed for warmups,
Two training kits for daily grind,
An anthem jacket for home fixtures—blue and white,
An away version, darker, trimmed with navy,
A track jacket,
And finally—
A full travel set, all in the club's signature blue.
Each piece carried the crest.
Each piece, a promise.
Then his gaze landed on the back of the home kit—
77.
He blinked, a faint smile forming.
Double sevens.
"They don't hand single digits to newcomers," he murmured under his breath. "Fair enough."
Still, something about it felt right.
Seventy-seven—like wings in motion, a number that spoke of new roads, new climbs.
Julian folded the kits neatly, setting aside the home uniform for the day.
White with blue. Bright, sharp, pure.
He held it once more, feeling the weight of cloth and meaning both.
This isn't just fabric. This is identity.
For a brief moment, he imagined the jersey years from now, hanging in some fan's room, or spotted in the crowd on match day.
The thought sent a small shiver down his spine. He wasn't just dressing himself—he was stepping into thousands of expectations.
He glanced at the mirror, his reflection calm and steady.
Today wasn't about battle.
It was about arrival.
His first appearance.
His first photo.
His name tied to a club that carried history.
Julian Ashford, #77 of Hamburger SV.
…
By the time the car pulled into Volksparkstadion, the morning sky had settled into a calm, silvery blue.
The stadium rose like a fortress of glass and steel—massive, proud, alive with echoes of decades past.
Every step closer, the weight of history pressed deeper.
This was no school pitch.
No friendly field.
This was where legends were made—or forgotten.
As Julian stepped out, the cold air bit lightly at his skin.
Ahead, near the main entrance, two men waited.
David was already moving toward them, hand extended, voice bright with familiarity.
Julian followed, eyes narrowing slightly as recognition struck.
He'd seen them before—on highlight reels, press conferences, tactical breakdowns.
Merlin Polzin, head coach of HSV's first team.
And beside him, Soner Uysal, head coach of HSV II.
Julian froze for half a heartbeat.
They were both here.
For him.
A small jolt of disbelief ran through his chest.
Why…? I'm just a rookie. One year of high school football. No trophies. Nothing proven yet.
Then another thought slipped through—quieter, sharper.
Is it… because of my name?
The Ashford name carried weight in more than one world.
A connection, perhaps.
A story.
A chance to pull new eyes from America.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Either way, he'd earn their attention the right way—through his feet.
Julian squared his shoulders, forcing the unease down. Names might open doors, but they didn't keep them open.
Only performance did. And performance was something he could control.
"Ah—hello!"
Merlin stepped forward first, hand firm, smile warm but assessing.
Julian returned it with both hands. "Hello, sir."
Soner followed, his grip solid, eyes scanning Julian up and down—sharp, coach's eyes, measuring everything without a word.
Crest greeted them both with her usual composure—steady, professional—while David slipped seamlessly into conversation with the coaches, trading words in German and English with easy rhythm.
Meanwhile, a group of media staff approached, clipboards in hand, earpieces blinking.
One of them offered a polite nod. "Julian, this way please. We'll brief you before the shoot."
Julian followed, pulse steady, expression calm.
They led him into a small staging area near the edge of the pitch.
A large backdrop stretched across the space—club crest, sponsor logos, gleaming under bright lights.
Cameras lined the floor like a silent army, lenses pointed squarely at him.
One staff member adjusted his collar; another handed him a ball.
"Stand here. Smile—not too wide. Relax your shoulders. Look toward that light."
Julian nodded quietly, letting them move him like a piece on a board.
Every instruction, he followed.
Every camera click, he absorbed.
Behind the lights, he caught a glimpse of the coaches watching—arms crossed, faint smiles hidden behind focus.
David chatted with Soner; Merlin stood still, observing, as though already judging more than just posture.
It feels like they're welcoming a key player, Julian thought. Someone meant to lift HSV back to the Bundesliga.
The idea felt… strange.
Heavy.
But it also stirred something warm in his chest.
Even if they saw more than what he was—
He'd grow into it.
"Alright!" one of the crew called out. "We'll start in one minute. Be ready."
Julian inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders back.
Lights brightened.
The hum of cameras filled the air.
This was it—
his first face as a professional.