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Beep!
Beep!
Beeeeep—
Two short whistles followed by one long blast.
Every footballer in the world knew that sound.
It was etched into their instincts.
Thomas Müller stood frozen for a moment.
His mind hadn't fully processed what had happened.
Out of habit, he still tried to move, searching for space and looking for the ball despite knowing the match was already over.
The final whistle was like an alarm clock dragging someone from a dream.
Stop dreaming.
Wake up.
Get back to reality.
Or perhaps it was like the bell ending a long day of classes.
No matter how exhausting those lessons had been, the bell meant freedom.
At least for a little while.
Thomas Müller let out a long breath.
More accurately, he wanted to sigh.
He didn't know it, but the image of him standing motionless with his hands on his hips and his head lowered carried a faint resemblance to another iconic football figure from the past.
The scoreboard remained cold and merciless.
Germany 0–1 Belgium
32' — Lance
"This kid..."
Müller shook his head helplessly.
Since making his debut for Germany in 2010, he had experienced the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, Euro 2012, the 2014 World Cup in Brazil, and now Euro 2016.
Four major tournaments.
Countless international matches.
The inexperienced youngster from years ago had become one of Germany's veterans.
And he was only twenty-six.
Perhaps the 2018 World Cup and 2022 World Cup would be the final chapters of his international career.
Sometimes Müller felt as though he had witnessed Germany's peak and decline in the same breath.
The rise.
The glory.
And now the beginning of the fall.
If Germany had lost to anyone else, perhaps he would have felt angry.
But losing to Lance?
He had no complaints.
Not after what he had just witnessed.
At the center of the stadium, Lance was being hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates.
Like a newly crowned king, he was carried around the pitch as Belgium's supporters celebrated their place in the semifinals.
The celebration had become something of a tradition ever since his Atlético Madrid days.
Now Belgium had adopted it as their own.
The goal he scored in the 32nd minute was simply unforgettable.
A first-time volley from a difficult angle.
The kind of strike that deserved to decide a match.
"Guys..."
Müller wanted to say something to his teammates.
Anything.
But when he turned around, he saw Kimmich, Rüdiger, Khedira, Neuer, Schürrle, Kroos, and the others scattered across the pitch.
Some sat motionless.
Some stared blankly into space.
Some buried their faces in their hands.
At one point Germany's possession had approached eighty percent.
For much of the second half, Belgium had barely left their own half.
Germany had dominated the ball.
But what had they actually done with it?
They had controlled possession for nearly ninety minutes and still struggled to create genuine danger.
Even in stoppage time they had continued circulating the ball around the edge of the box.
Meanwhile, Mario Gómez never left the bench.
Müller still couldn't understand Löw's decision.
Then again...
It didn't matter anymore.
He shook his head.
Taking one last glance at the celebrating Lance, he began helping his teammates to their feet.
"We'll be back."
At least that was what he hoped.
Two years later, Germany would have another chance.
"Champione! Champione!"
"Ole! Ole! Ole!"
Belgium's players were already singing at the top of their lungs.
Lance couldn't help but laugh.
"Put me down already!"
"And save the celebrations for later!"
"This is only the semifinal."
There were still bigger challenges ahead.
Croatia.
France.
Portugal.
Every remaining team was stronger than the versions of Germany and Spain that Belgium had just eliminated.
Assuming there were no surprises, Belgium's next opponent would most likely be the tournament hosts and overwhelming favorites.
France.
Ever since Belgium unexpectedly finished first in their group, the tournament bracket had shifted dramatically.
The butterfly effect created by Lance's presence had altered the timeline completely.
Now Belgium would have to challenge the strongest team in the world.
And if tradition held true, a certain message would soon arrive.
Sure enough.
After completing his post-match responsibilities—celebrating with the supporters, thanking the crowd, and handling television interviews—Lance finally returned to the locker room.
His teammates had already turned the dressing room into a madhouse.
Several players had stripped off their shirts and were dancing around the room.
Ignoring the chaos, Lance opened his locker and pulled out his phone.
Instantly, notifications flooded the screen.
Messages from his parents.
Messages from club teammates.
Messages from friends.
And one particular message that immediately caught his attention.
Chloe.
Naturally, he replied to hers first.
Chloe: [That match was incredible! Lance, you're my hero!]
Lance: [Aren't you supposed to be supporting Germany?]
Several moments passed before a reply appeared.
On the other side of the screen, Chloe was blushing furiously.
Chloe: [I know Germany lost, so I should probably be upset...]
Chloe: [But seeing you score makes me happy.]
Lance: [So you're secretly betraying your own team?]
Chloe: [I am not!!]
Lance could practically picture her pouting.
Enough teasing.
Lance: [Thanks. Your support means a lot to me. As long as you're cheering for me, I'll keep winning.]
"What's with that grin?"
De Bruyne suddenly appeared beside him.
"Who are you texting?"
"Just a friend."
Lance casually locked his phone.
"By the way, do you smell something sweet?"
"Sweet?"
De Bruyne frowned.
He sniffed the air.
The locker room smelled like sweat, wet socks, and exhausted athletes.
Nothing else.
"You're imagining things."
Lance simply smiled.
It didn't matter whether anyone else could smell it.
As long as he could.
Maybe after winning the Euros...
He paused.
No, maybe after the World Cup.
Would that be too late?
Before he could think any further, another wave of notifications appeared.
News alerts.
Social media updates.
Football apps.
The entire football world was talking about Belgium's victory.
Lance Leads Belgium Past Germany and Into the Semifinals!
Goal of the Tournament Candidate! Lance's Stunning Volley Decides the Match!
Belgium's Golden Generation Continues Its March!
Germany 0–1 Belgium! Lance Sends Belgium Into the Semifinals!
Lance didn't bother opening them.
Years ago, when he first broke through at Bayer Leverkusen, he would have spent hours reading every article and every comment.
Those days were long gone.
One notification mattered far more than the rest.
A message from Griezmann.
Griezmann: [Unbelievable. You actually made it to the semifinals. This is where your run ends.]
A grin appeared on Lance's face.
The familiar trash talk felt almost comforting.
Back at Atlético Madrid, the two had spent years exchanging insults disguised as friendship.
Lance: [Save those words for yourself. Start planning your vacation.]
A few seconds later:
Griezmann: [Go to hell.]
Lance: [See you soon.]
At a five-star hotel near the Stade de France, the French squad had watched the entire match together.
The atmosphere in the room was noticeably heavier now.
Belgium had just eliminated Germany.
And next, they were coming for France.
Griezmann lowered his phone and looked around the room.
Every player understood what awaited them.
This wouldn't just be another match.
It would be the toughest challenge of the tournament so far.
Griezmann forced out a smile.
"Looks like the real test is about to begin."
Then he looked down at Lance's final message.
Lance: [Start planning your vacation.]
Griezmann's eye twitched.
For perhaps the first time all tournament, he couldn't find anything funny about it.