3 kilocalories

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Securing the approval of the supporters was the most crucial task. It was like a battle between factions for tickets—you simply couldn’t afford to lose your own joyful home ground. Karl’s first call was to Müller.

Their stances aligned perfectly about ninety percent of the time. For the remaining ten percent, usually minor matters, Karl deferred to Müller—for example, where to dine in the evening—while Müller took Karl’s lead on major decisions, like the one at hand.

In all matters big and small within the locker room, Müller had always stood unwaveringly by his side without exception.

It took only a sentence or two to persuade or inform Müller of the situation; the rest of the effort was Müller’s alone, quietly grumbling with a hint of worry.

“Oh my God, how do you keep getting caught up in things that make you enemies? Is this really an issue that can’t be avoided? With you sticking your nose in, Frank is bound to explode. This was originally a standoff between him and the chairman. He didn’t tell you, didn’t want you to take the lead, precisely because he knew you wouldn’t help and didn’t want you caught in the middle. But now, you’re stuck anyway... If he gets angry and goes straight to the media, it’ll be a disaster. The match will be a mess and embarrassing. Then you’ll get criticized from both sides—how unfair that would be!

And Joshua—he’s originally quite passionate about charity, but if you go into the locker room to do ideological work, he’s bound to oppose you. You shouldn’t have taken André’s call. If IKEA put him in the kitchenware section, he could dominate the global non-stick pan market... Wait, Karl, are you still listening?”

Karl had been staring blankly at the steering wheel, lost in thought, but he snapped back and assured Müller he was there, trying to wrap up the topic:

“Weren’t you supposed to take care of the little one today? What about Linda?”

“You haven’t been to my place in ages, Karli. The little one’s already grown up; there’s no new baby yet,” Müller sighed softly, his voice warming a bit. “Never mind, I know you’re busy, but you’ve got a few more days to sort this out—don’t overwork yourself...”

The fact that the little one had grown up caught Karl off guard. He relaxed while talking to Müller, who he didn’t need to be on edge with. Though he had been somewhat distracted during the call, thinking about what needed to be done next, the vague memory of the little foal gently nudging his palm with its head snapped him out of his work mode and back to reality, where he smelled the faint scent of leather on the steering wheel. Just as Müller said, he hadn’t been to his place in a long time, and they clearly hadn’t talked about the little one in ages.

“Sorry, it always seems like I’m busy... That’s my fault. Next time I have a break, save some time for me and give Linda a heads-up so she’s not always startled,” Karl rubbed his temples and tried to make his voice sound upbeat. “Don’t worry too much; things are just a bit troublesome, not impossible. I don’t get tired easily. See you tomorrow.”

Müller brightened up immediately, not caring about tomorrow or not, his heart seeming to fly into the holiday that had arrived in some temporal fold: “Promise me! No more last-minute cancellations this time!”

Finally hanging up, Karl felt both warmth and a special kind of exhaustion. Although Müller didn’t hold it against him, Karl often felt he wasn’t being a good friend now. Guilt and self-reproach lingered. Fortunately, the next supporter didn’t require Karl to be on full alert—he dialed Neuer.

After Lahm left, Neuer had risen to the position of second captain. Though he joked daily about Karl handing over the first captaincy to him, Neuer never contradicted Karl on locker room management, thanks to his sound political sense and a bond forged through years of shared hardship, acting as a father figure and last line of defense for the team, rescuing a group of unruly players from despair.

Karl knew this call would be simple, though it might involve a bit more banter.

Unexpectedly, after the first ring, the call was cut off within seconds. It was a rest day, no work—was he still sleeping? Why wasn’t the phone on silent? Not wanting to disturb him, Karl immediately sent a text:

“Sorry, something came up. Go back to sleep, call me when you can.”

Just as he was about to move on, Neuer called back.

“Good thing I was quick, or you’d have been on another call already.” The goalkeeper’s voice was a little congested and hoarse, nasal but not like a cold. Karl heard him gulp water. “What’s up? If it weren’t urgent, you wouldn’t call me.”

Karl imagined Neuer just waking up, standing with his arms crossed, wearing a pale sleeveless undershirt and cotton-linen pants. When Karl first started muscle-building, he thought he could become like Neuer, but soon realized that broad chest and arms required talent—he’d never reach Neuer’s width.

The tall goalkeeper showed no restraint in his sarcastic tone, almost grumbling. Perhaps because it was a rest day, no one was in work mode; all the teammates chatted as friends, complaining a little about him, which made Karl hesitate before gathering his thoughts to explain the situation and clarify his request:

“Vote yes tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Neuer laughed and immediately added, “Then beg me.”

There it was—the banter part.

Karl felt a slight headache because his requests weren’t limited to that: “If I get subbed off during the match, give the captain’s armband to Joshua.”

“?” Neuer’s confused voice seemed to send a giant question mark via the line: “Are you firing me on the spot, Karl? For some brat who dislikes you, disrespects you, and is always scheming to usurp power? Really, Karl?”

“Just for this match. No, half a match, half an hour, it’s a charity game. Let him wear it for a bit—when we were kids, we all got coaxed like this,” Karl sighed in frustration. “Help me out, Manu, help me.”

“I told you to beg me—you pretended not to hear. But you’re willing to humble yourself for him. Don’t give me that Bayern child-raising nonsense. I wasn’t here when you were a kid; I wore Schalke’s badge,” Neuer snorted coldly. “No way.”

“Wearing the armband isn’t child’s play. It’s not necessarily to make him show off but to teach a lesson. You know that, Manu. You always know what I’m thinking. Don’t be moody, okay?”

“Do I? Do you really think I understand you?”

“Of course.” Karl started rambling, “You’re my talisman, and I’m yours. Who else would guard your goal if not me? Come on, give your talisman the armband.”

“Who else would put up with you? When Philipp was around, why didn’t you let him hand it over to others?” Neuer clicked his tongue. “I’ve got things to do. Not over yet, dinner’s on you tomorrow. Bye—ah…”

If Lahm dared, others wouldn’t dare to take the role. Two different matters.

Karl wasn’t bothered by Neuer’s abrupt hang-up; the next person’s attitude would certainly be worse.

But like Neuer, his consent was within reach.

His relationship with Hummels had returned to the awkward state of their youth. They had become the team’s central defensive duo again, lockers side by side, spending countless hours together daily but completely silent outside official matters. As kids, their lives outside the pitch didn’t entangle; as adults, the ninety minutes of a match were the calmest moments, while off the field, endless complicated relationships unfolded, impossible to untangle or shed.

Calling was out of the question. Karl sent Hummels a text, which was quickly read. Though Hummels didn’t reply, Karl knew this meant consent.

It was as if he sat opposite him, brown hair and lashes hanging low, frowning silently. Whatever Karl said didn’t matter; he would never respond but would obey unconditionally.

Karl didn’t let him linger too long in his mind and continued drafting messages. With three solid yes votes secured, it was time to clear out the silent but numerically significant minority to prevent any surprises.

He started with the “head-down ostrich” type—young players who had just joined the team this winter or last year. Philipp Götze, Mario Götze’s brother, was a typical member. He had benefitted from his illustrious brother’s spotlight during youth training when everyone believed Mario would be a superstar. Unexpectedly, the storyline shocked many: now an adult, his brother had left over a year ago. Perhaps due to some hidden agreement when Harnes was recruiting, despite average talent, Philipp had already joined the first team shortly after turning pro.

In other words, a relative by connection had entered the unit on an old contract, but his greatest supporter had long fallen.

Awkwardness was inevitable.

He shrunk daily, smaller than a quail’s egg, dreading three questions: First, “Philipps? How do you compare to Lahm?” Second, “You’re a Götze? Mario’s brother? How do you compare to him?” Third, “Ah, what’s your name again?”

Each time he heard these, Philipp looked as if he wanted to faint on the spot. Karl thought, luckily Lahm had just retired, or this kid might have changed his name overnight to avoid the big brother’s shadow.

These young players were easy to handle. Karl sent a group message to intimidate them, roughly saying: “We heard rumors you’re against the charity match? Any concerns? Don’t worry, speak up. I’ll report to Chairman Harnes. If it’s serious, he’ll talk to you and grant leave.”

Within half an hour, the five young players sent a flood of explanations, swearing they never complained and had no idea who was spreading lies. They fully supported the charity match and wouldn’t say a word against it.

Their statements sounded rehearsed, as if they’d just panicked, grouped up, screamed, cried, and called their parents before crafting these adult-sounding replies.

Karl hated scaring the vulnerable but, sadly, was well practiced in it.

“Controlling” the locker room was far more complex than child’s play; most people were untrustworthy. Those who seemed pitiful one day might stir trouble the next with a new face. Some players respected power over virtue; some responded to softness, not strength. Newcomers changed yearly. Except in major difficulties or rare talents who stayed, Karl found it increasingly difficult to watch, understand, and nurture them. Sometimes, he deliberately kept distance to manage more effectively, as he was doing now.

He knew Lahm had done more of this before. The team trusted Karl more and feared Lahm. Karl-Heinz Rummenigge shared his name with Karl when he joined, often teasing him as Little Karl, but now Karl was the real Karl; Rummenigge wasn’t the first association anymore. Having a Little Karl and a Little Harnes wasn’t bad. Lahm’s tough style resembled Harnes, but exactly because of that similarity, he never wanted to work with him.

Lahm wasn’t afraid to tear faces apart; Karl could sew them back up. People joked behind their backs that they were the polished versions of Harnes and Rummenigge. The two chairmen themselves liked to joke that in the future, Karl and Lahm would take their places, implying they still planned to work another twenty years.

Their captain duo was indeed perfect, except for the age difference: Lahm had retired, but Karl still had to go on. He told himself not to dwell on Lahm and got back to work, finishing the easiest batch in less than an hour, including his own nine votes.

This season, the first team had 27 registered players, three still playing in the second team to gain experience. Twenty-four were present; not even half agreeing was far from enough.

His next target was the chaotic, malicious middle faction. Though centrist, they were either bold and ruthless or simply not bright and hard to communicate with. The former included defender Alaba and two others; the latter was just one—James Rodríguez, the South American star Bayern had loaned from Real Madrid this season, playing midfield.

Marketing staff told them many Chinese fans wrote to say Alaba resembled the male lead in their favorite youth dramas, making him very endearing. The whole Bayern team was shocked because Alaba was usually a clever trickster who loved provoking animals and ran away laughing at serious moments.

Such a troublemaker looking like a teen idol? Did that kind of appearance have special appeal in the East?

James was handsome but not very smart. Having joined the team for training about forty days ago, he still didn’t understand a word of German and sat there every day with a confused smile.

Three days after joining, he was so intimidated by Ulreich that Ulreich exploded, shouting, “What’re you staring at? You’ve got big eyes, that’s it!” James mistakenly thought Ulreich was offering the towel, grabbed it, and enthusiastically replied with a string of “danke” using his only German word.

Ulreich nearly collapsed on the spot.

Since then, James became the locker room’s invincible sweetheart, even Ulreich didn’t bother snarling at him.

Karl excluded Alaba and the other two from the 24 because they would never truly take sides; they didn’t want to offend either Karl or Ulreich. They just loved watching others fight but cherished their feathers.

As for James, considering the language barrier, Karl counted him as a no vote, preparing for the worst. Still, he messaged James’s translator to ask if James had any opinions on the charity match to relay.

The translator replied quickly: “James asked, ‘What charity match? What date? Can he come? Why didn’t anyone tell him?’”

Karl: ...

Could it be that you are that person?

With the yes and neutral factions accounted for, Karl went home, eating some boiled shrimp and spinach, placed some boxes on the passenger seat, and called Boateng.

Boateng was always smart, well-positioned, and tough. The moment Karl’s call came through, he seemed to anticipate the reason for this odd rest-day call and said:

“Hi Karl, happy Sunday. I’m home with the missus and kids. What’s up?”

“Just came to see your daughter,” Karl said softly. “I missed her one-month birthday and haven’t seen her yet. I brought a gift.”

“Oh,” Boateng was caught off guard, guilt and emotion softening his tone. “I’m coming down right now.”

“Karl, I thought you were calling about that joint letter,” he hugged Karl tightly, complaining, “Where did you go on vacation? Nobody told us. You came back, and it’s preseason. We don’t even know where you were this summer. No time to hang out.”

Karl smiled, opening the big box to show him: “Nowhere special, just took some time off. Look, Basel pearls.”

A necklace, bracelet, earrings, belt—with the daughter’s name engraved on the pearls at the bottom. Extra pearls beside it, evidently so she could restring it when she grew up.

“A gift like this can’t be rushed. Why didn’t you give it to me when you got back? If I didn’t know you had a reason, I’d be mad,” Boateng said. “But now I’m not mad. I’m really touched. Even if you wanted to chat about that letter, I’d listen. Come inside; the baby’s awake, and you haven’t held her yet.”

Why delay giving the gift? Karl didn’t know.

Birthday gifts given late seldom earn gratitude, so why delay once prepared?

Maybe he always felt he should enter a teammate’s home, gently hold the child, meet the young parents’ happy and tender gaze, watch the baby’s bright eyes and smiling mouth, hear her joyful coos... He believed he should give the gift in such moments, not just pass it off with a congratulatory word amid dirty socks in the locker room.

When his sister Lila was born, he was already ten, so he thoroughly cared for her growing up.

He often stood on a stool by the cradle, holding her as he did now.

Lila smiled widely in his arms, her small hands waving, caramel eyes fully focused on him.

“Oh, you scared me, Karl. If I didn’t know you weren’t the type, I’d think you secretly had a kid,” Boateng laughed. “You hold babies better than me, a real dad.”

His girlfriend tried to suppress an eye-roll and slapped him on the back: “Stop talking nonsense, haha.”

Boateng scowled but dared not lose his temper with Karl there. Karl, now awake, laughed, carefully putting the baby back in the cradle, seemingly unbothered by the jab.

“No more advice?” His girlfriend went to nurse; Boateng poured Karl a glass of lemon water, leaning on the bar, winking: “Honestly, saying I don’t want to miss the kid’s milestones is a lie. My girlfriend’s a bit neurotic—no, maternal love, maternal love. But with twelve ‘milestones’ a month, it’s crazy.”

“Spending time with kids is good. They grow up in the blink of an eye,” Karl said gently. “Your reason’s the best. Even if the match hasn’t been finalized, if you have to play, taking leave is fine. I’ll speak for you. Everyone will understand.”

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“Understand? Using the kid as an excuse is one thing, but quitting work for the kid? That’s madness. If the charity match happens, I won’t stay home; I’ll be there. I’m an athlete, not a babysitter. How could I abandon work to care for a child? You all go play, and I’m rocking a baby at home? No matter how tiring childcare is, it can’t compare to running ten kilometers and defending hard on the pitch.”

Boateng shook his head: “People say I’m moody and arrogant; I don’t deny it. But you should know, I’m never someone without dignity, Karl.”

“I know, I know. Three eloquent young players combined don’t have your backbone. I’ll never forget that Champions League final when you played through injury without a word, trembling with pain at halftime. I told you not to push yourself. You said, ‘Karl, as long as the bone’s not broken, I’ll never abandon my club on the Champions League pitch...’ So they left, but we stayed, always. How could I not understand how much you’ve sacrificed for the career?”

Karl looked sincerely into his eyes, patting his hand reassuringly: “No rush. Let’s wait for the vote day after tomorrow.”

“Day after tomorrow?” Boateng was startled. “Right, you want everyone to reconsider tomorrow. Old man Ancelotti’s opinion doesn’t count anyway. The chairmen’s stance might change. Decide after the day after tomorrow... Hey, Karli, if you want me to change my mind, it’s easy—I’ll just say I got my daughter’s milestone wrong.”

“Are you done talking to Frank this month? Don’t worry, I’ll persuade others, but I won’t trouble you. I know you’re the most loyal,” Karl laughed. “Alright, see you tomorrow.”

Boateng was a bit annoyed: “Talking to Frank isn’t some big treat. I don’t have to talk to him!”

He suddenly felt very passive. If the majority agreed, he’d be the one opposing, saying he’d stay home with the kid but ended up not doing that, losing his professional image and sulking in the locker room. Awkward much?

If the majority opposed, the press would erupt. Bayern’s locker room always leaked everything. Despite Ulreich’s unity now, he’d be the one to joke with reporters, get pushed out as the scapegoat. Others would have high-minded reasons like fatigue focusing on league matches, but him—a star player—refusing to play one match and preferring to rock a baby while a friendly Bavarian club got relegated... How embarrassing!

Frustrated, he grabbed his phone and called Ulreich: “Scarface! That old Harnes won’t let this go. He’s already targeting Karl. He gave it all away. The locker room vote is day after tomorrow. Are you sure? Do you have enough votes?”

Returning to Säbener Straße, the sunlight was golden but it was already 6 p.m. Karl went straight to the marketing department’s office, where most staff were still working overtime, overwhelmed by the charity match issue. The supervisor was absent.

Just as Karl was about to call, his phone rang. Seeing the name, he froze, then slapped his forehead in frustration—

He had been so certain that even if 23 out of 27 opposed, Lewandowski would surely support the charity match—and he had forgotten him!

Lewandowski’s “sure seat” should have counted as ten votes.

“Hi, Robert,” Karl said, holding his forehead. “Anything up?”

“You mean this afternoon? I was just waiting for you to call, but since you didn’t, I called instead,” the Pole laughed. “Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“You never disturb anyone,” Karl apologized. “Did Thomas tell you? I was sure you’d...”

“So you forgot me? I thought you misunderstood me... No worries then.”

Lewandowski joked, “By the way, I wasn’t persuaded by Thomas. If you’d called me, I’d have said yes immediately. Don’t let the middleman profit.”

Karl laughed twice, thanked him, then rushed to André: “How was the ceremony?”

“Great, thanks to you, our hero Karl. The chairman just praised you endlessly. If you check the tags on social media, everyone loves you, and so do I,” André gushed. “I must thank you properly sometime. When you’re free, I’ll take you out.”

“Since it’s all good, take me out now—just salad will do. I’m at your office waiting. Can you be here in half an hour? I’m starving and you’re busy,” Karl said.

André was stunned.

Though his position as marketing and sales director gave him real power, Bayern was a special club run by veterans. Karl was generally seen as the future, and André couldn’t afford to offend him. Yet, surrounded by fine wine, food, beauties, and media, socializing was his strength and comfort zone. Being young and inexperienced, his ascent was largely by chance. Other work was painful.

He was thriving now but suddenly asked to work overtime—like a thunderbolt on a clear day.

“I’m so hungry, how can I keep you waiting? I’ll have my secretary buy something and send it to you. Health first, Karl. Don’t forget you’re worth over a hundred million. If you get a stomach ache from hunger, Bayern loses twenty million. You need me; I want to fly back right now and figure something out,” he said, troubled. “But the chairmen are still here, and I’m just a junior director...”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call Uli. Nothing’s more important than the charity match now. He won’t be mad.”

André shuddered.

This was clearly a pointed retort to the morning’s mess when André dragged him into the fire. Karl stood calmly in the firepit, saying, “I’m not afraid of getting burned, but you’re not getting away.”

He hoped André didn’t really think Karl was an easy tool—hard-nosed but soft-hearted, honest to a fault, easily manipulated. Karl entered youth training at seven, joined the first team at seventeen, became second captain at twenty, and even Lahm deferred to him. Under his captaincy, Bayern won every championship; the German national team took the World Cup and European Championship, completing a grand slam last year, and Karl just turned thirty. He still had at least three to five peak years ahead.

He was the ultimate vision of a perfect, pure-blooded “Bayern player” in over a hundred years.

When Karl retired, he could seamlessly transition into management, and many predicted he’d become sports director, a near third-in-command role like Rummenigge.

At that point, who knew if he’d still eat Bayern’s bread? If so, Karl might rank even higher.

His whole life seemed destined to be managed by a boss named Karl!

Thinking this, André’s eyes cleared.

Now compliant.jpg

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there in less than half an hour!” he promised enthusiastically.

Karl hurried him back to coordinate with Augsburg on player selections and substitutions.

“Do we need so many substitutions at halftime?”

The charity match followed friendly match standards—six substitutions allowed out of eleven on the pitch. That was more than half the team. On Bayern’s side, others were less important, but Karl himself would only play half the match. Half the fans might be coming just to see him. This wasn’t self-serving but...

André realized he had fallen into Karl’s trap. The whole department was busy, and Augsburg was unreliable. Everyone assumed Karl’s presence was to finalize the match roster—Ancelotti showing up would have been stranger!

They marveled at Karl’s efficiency. Yesterday’s scandal, this morning’s media storm, chairmen wanting to hold the charity match, fans upset, players unmotivated—all well known.

Staff were uneasy all day, but Karl arrived calm and composed as ever, having secured the locker room and the chairmen, steady and reliable, working overtime alongside them to steer the matter back to a smooth course.

Thus, they only needed to work one night overtime to see the matter concluded with much ado about nothing.

What a perfect captain!

If André suddenly ran out screaming, “Karl’s crazy! The documents he gave can’t count! I can’t say why, but they’re invalid! He forced me to stamp them! I won’t stamp!”—he’d have no choice but to be sent to a mental hospital.

Now his face was truly grim: “No, no, I can’t decide. I need to consult Mr. Rummenigge...”

Karl pretended not to hear, sat beside his desk, stretched out his long legs, and browsed files, giving no chance for sneaky texting. He played with the phone cord he'd just unplugged.

“How can you say you can’t decide? The charity match is always a marketing and PR matter.”

The match itself required little prep; all the effort was in promotion before, during, and after. The other club earned money; Bayern earned prestige. This wasn’t André’s job. Should Harnes and Rummenigge email the opposing club’s marketing team directly?

André almost cried: “Karl, spare me...”

“Not twice a day. The secretary’s draft is ready. You stamp it and send it for scanning. Augsburg’s side must be working even harder. Confirming the roster is no big deal. Minor inconsistencies are okay. Tonight, it’s settled. Don’t rush media promotion; say it’s too late today. After tomorrow’s recheck, release with official media at dinner time.”

The other side didn’t care about Bayern’s rotation requests—unless their players changed clothes on the pitch, no one would notice. Who buys tickets to watch 2.Bundesliga players? Bayern’s players, no matter how small their role, were coveted rising stars.

Augsburg was nearly collapsing, anxiously guarding email and phones, fearing Bayern’s change of mind. Now the momentum shifted favorably. The match would go ahead as planned, with Bayern fielding full strength in the first half and gradually rotating in the second—much better than their worst expectations. They immediately agreed. The sports director pulled the coach from the dinner table to finalize the roster on the spot, waiting to communicate and seal it with stamps.

André, hoping for some wiggle room: ...

Damn, normally it takes seven working days to get a reply to a single email. Now, when bankruptcy looms, things move this fast? They pulled the entire security team to help? Damn!

When everything settled near midnight, André’s face was completely ashen.

“Karl, no matter how much you disregard Mr. Ancelotti, you can’t bypass him to set the match roster... No matter how favored you are by Mr. Rummenigge, you can’t make decisions for him or steal my director’s stamp. The joint protest letter only reached Mr. Harnes this morning. The players don’t want to play. You negotiated terms directly with the other side. Oh my God, he’ll find out tomorrow morning, and so will Chairman Harnes. This is madness. I can’t keep this from you—”

“If the locker room disagrees, the charity match won’t happen. Mr. Harnes is attacking you, and you can’t keep your position. You have to listen to me. No shame in that. Stop whining. I’ll explain it to Mr. Rummenigge myself.”

Karl finished organizing documents, checked them again, put them in a folder, and stood up.

“Anything else?”

André stared blankly at Karl’s flawless black hair and face, sculpted like a fresh work of art. The face always seemed to express faint weariness yet unassailable calm. André couldn’t read his thoughts. This was his first real day working with Karl, even if only half a day, and he was thoroughly intimidated. He suddenly recalled that the final confirmation with the other club was scheduled three days later, but Karl had struck at night and finished everything.

Why?

What about the players? The biggest unknown.

How much time did Karl have to settle the locker room? One late night, one, one early morning?

“There are so many people in the department, and Augsburg is even less reliable. The media might start releasing news at 10 a.m. tomorrow. How would the protesting players feel seeing that they opposed an added unpaid match, yet the club ignored their protest and scheduled them to play? Or rather, you did,” André almost lost his voice. “You, you...”

“Then you should pray for me, André.”

Karl, handsome in youth and refined in maturity, looked down compassionately like a statue atop Tibidabo, gazing over the masses, like a mother watching noisy children: “Pray that you can still sit in that chair tomorrow.”

“Good night. I’m off.”

Karl returned home late at night, casually stripped and tossed his clothes into the laundry basket, showered, changed into pajamas, and lay in bed, exhausted as if the world spun. Yet his mind simulated the coming battle. Closing his eyes, he took two sleeping pills from the bedside, feeling them dissolve unpleasantly, sliding down roughly. In the bitterness, his mind slowly adhered and clouded.

Worse than André expected, just after 4 a.m., sports journalists on social media broke the news that the Bayern–Augsburg charity match, once controversial, had been swiftly finalized.

The public was stunned. Bayern’s stance was resolute, saying this charity must proceed regardless of the opposing club’s scandal. It felt somewhat autocratic but carried extraordinary authority.

Coupled with Harnes’s impassioned speech yesterday, it seemed the old man was back in control after thirty years, unshaken by external rumors.

But those in the know, especially players involved, were thunderstruck.

“In ten days, I have to play a charity match?! Damn! Why didn’t I know?!”

Karl was the last to arrive today, and the locker room had become a powder keg.

Before their revolt, Karl took the initiative, standing at the head of the long locker room table, slamming a folder down, clapping his hands to clear a quiet space:

“Gentlemen, please allow me ten minutes. We must urgently initiate a vote on the charity match.”

“Vote? Do we still have voting rights? Do you know what the news says, Karl?” Ulreich shouted. “The match roster’s final, but we know nothing!”

True to Karl’s expectations, Kimmich joined in. Young, short, somewhat baby-faced, always serious or angry, his smile was endearing, but he was also the team’s top in confrontation. When angry, even passing birds would lose feathers. Ulreich and Robben were a rowdy pair back in the day and often marveled at Kimmich’s stubborn temper.

Now, he was unflinching, confronting Karl directly: “What have you got, Karl? Were you involved? How can a good captain exclude us from decisions?”

“Fake news, Frank, Joshua. Nothing’s finalized. Last night I was in marketing and PR. The club is only exchanging plans based on the assumption the match will proceed, discussing full substitutions in the second half to ease the burden and give more players time. If the match is confirmed, posters and media will launch soon. If cancelled, all agreements become void. So calm down and don’t get angry; media mouths are never trustworthy.”

The shoe changers perked up.

Frank’s opposing group mostly included substitutes. Their unwillingness to play in the charity match was understandable. The match’s intensity was low; stars were expected to play full matches to please fans.

Fans cheered for stars like Karl while substitutes sat on the bench with no chance or played limited minutes, unrecognized by the crowd.

Taking up a holiday, wasting time, no career benefit, and risking injury—charity matches brought them no advantage, only trouble.

But six players were swapped in, playing a full half and heavily promoted—that was a different matter.

At Bayern, where competition was fierce, chances to shine were rare. Charity matches against weaker teams were perfect to showcase skill.

Robben was surprised: “Only half a match? Then I actually... Oh, Frank, don’t be so harsh.”

Ulreich frowned, peered at the file. Karl handed it to him: “Because this is a tentative template, it follows Ancelotti’s previously proposed roster order. Those substituted are tentative; those wanting rest can come off at halftime. Guler, Thiago, Toman, Fabian, Wagner, Rafinha—you six substitute in.”

“This clearly says finalized, with stamps!”

“Stamps ensure the other side won’t back out if we proceed. Both teams must rotate at halftime. See, today’s adjusted roster applies. The media announcement has no credibility.”

The original file circulated the locker room. The noise turned to whispers and discussions. The six named players beamed. Karl knocked on the table again:

“Can we vote now? Training’s about to start. Gentlemen, we don’t have much time.”

“Too rushed,” even Ulreich softened slightly, though this was temporary confusion. His fury had just peaked but was doused by Karl. Thinking of wasted holiday work, his resolve rekindled. Seeing allies’ shining eyes, he grew irritated: “Why decide today? Shouldn’t we wait until tomorrow? At least a day to think!”

“They’re on the brink of bankruptcy, Frank. Though the reasons are ugly, if the match doesn’t happen, they’ll be relegated to the third division! It’s already the 17th; only 12 days left to prepare. Tickets must be sold at least 10 days in advance. No way around it. I told the chairman we’d respond tomorrow, but he said it must be decided today, so I was working late last night.”

Karl opened his palms to the quiet room: “The vote must be now, gentlemen. Whether yes or no, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is to get a result. If yes, the poor staff can start preparing. If no, they’ll issue another statement. It’s just a match, not complicated. Vote honestly as usual. The minority obeys the majority. No more than three abstentions.”

Kimmich, who’d been studying the file, spoke up: “Wait, Karl, this is wordplay. This is a finalized roster, with only a day for adjustments. There’s no clause for cancellation. Did you decide for us last night?”

“This is a contingency under the assumption the match proceeds. Of course, no cancellation discussion. If you doubt, check André’s emails in the office. You’ll get a satisfactory answer.”

Kimmich stood, still confronting: “Ancelotti’s last roster had you playing full matches. Everyone would assume that. You’re captain, Karl. Half the fans might buy tickets just to see you. You want us to obey the chairman and play, but you only plan to play half? Sorry, but that’s abuse of power—”

Murmurs arose, unclear.

Karl remained calm, and his reply brought unprecedented silence.

“No, I’m leaving at halftime because I’ll hand you the armband then.”

Karl looked Kimmich in the eyes.

“...Quack?”

After three seconds of silence, in the quiet and empty room, Kimmich’s shock sounded like a duck’s quack, echoed twice by the walls.

“What’s so strange?” Karl said calmly. “Captains are made step by step. I once took the armband in unimportant matches. Wanting to be captain is good. This time is a chance for you to practice.”

But if Karl stepped down, Kimmich wouldn’t get to play.

What about their goalkeeper patriarch’s face?

Even Ulreich forgot his own issues and joined everyone in shock, looking at vice-captain Neuer, who was busy adjusting his gloves, not paying attention until half a beat later, raising an eyebrow:

“Why look at me? Don’t you understand Karl?”

He smiled: “I’m obedient.”

Seeing Kimmich, a reliable ally, immediately dazed by the armband, Neuer shamelessly joined Karl in appeasing the angry little bird. Ulreich angrily snapped: “Is it okay to hand over the captain’s armband so casually?”

Kimmich didn’t like that.

Though young, he had a strong sense of ownership, speaking loudly from day one as if he’d played thirty years here, trying to control the discourse. Except for a brief overload under Guardiola, he’d never backed down.

Having played three years now, his fighting spirit rivaled a ninety-year-old tribal elder. Ulreich, seen by others as a veteran and Allianz king, regarded Kimmich as just a scar-faced French colleague soon to retire. He immediately retorted, “What do you mean?”

“Watch your tone, Joshua. As a junior captain, do you argue with the big guys like this? Sit down and vote in order—Philipps, you start.”

Philipps nearly jumped at being called, twitching like shocked electricity, just about to speak but interrupted.

“One last thing,” Kimmich raised his hand. “For fairness, Karl’s vote should be voided; it might affect others.”

That was excessive. Captains always voted last; how could that influence others? Only Kimmich could think of that. Karl seemed to spoil him, finding him cute, and smiled, nodding in agreement.

“Philipps?” He looked to the start again.

Philipps twitched again.

Several young players sat together, casting five consecutive yes votes. The sixth would have been Christian, promoted recently by Harnes and playing all matches in Neuer’s stead, causing whispers he was a rising star to suppress Neuer. But the once confident and loud Christian was pale and silent in a corner. Not very smart, he finally realized the chairman wanted a charity match after Karl’s mention.

The captain worked overtime; the chairman was worried, while Christian had signed the protest letter just yesterday.

This behavior was laughable for others and even worse for himself—a hellish joke.

Before Karl could remind him, Neuer ignored the order and answered eagerly:

“Of course I’ll play.”

He smiled, watching Christian with a sly look: “If I don’t play soon, I’m afraid I’ll lose my spot. Charity matches don’t attract attention; I have to seize the chance.”

Christian blushed deeply but dared not stand like Kimmich. Karl didn’t allow the conflict to escalate, tossing a crumpled paper at Neuer: “Behave, follow the voting order. Christian, your turn.”

The paper hit Neuer, who caught it laughing, tossing it back. The young keeper bowed his head and mumbled his answer: “Agree.”

“He says agree! Speak softly next time we chat, but louder when voting; otherwise, who can hear you?” Boateng raised a hand: “I’ll play. I got my daughter’s milestone wrong; that period is free.”

Ulreich almost quacked like Kimmich.

“She’ll be proud of such a dedicated dad,” Karl smiled slightly at him and nodded, looking to the next.

The first no vote appeared, but counting Neuer’s intervention, nine had voted with only one no. Everyone knew the result. Those planning to oppose quietly changed their minds, cursing the others who signed the protest as black-hearted liars, raising hands to support Karl with a smile.

“Agree.”

Lewandowski said clearly.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Müller had been excited since early morning.

By the time it came to Robben and Ulreich, the question was no longer whether they’d play but more like a theatrical performance. Everyone held their breaths, waiting to see how the two veterans would give in.

Robben, though hot-tempered, was a silent type who often erupted or cooled off silently. He was now distracted, picking at his nails. Ulreich nervously shook his leg, glancing at Robben, who looked resigned—brotherly ties of steel and plastic nearly broke within minutes, plunging the room into gloom.

Robben surrendered on the spot, a Dutchman giving up more decisively than a Frenchman. Impossible! But he gave Karl a condition:

“I’ll only play half. That’s fine. Full match’s too tiring.”

Karl nodded: “Then count that as abstention for now; we’ll talk to Ancelotti later.”

Finally, it was Ulreich’s turn. With legs crossed and hands on ankles, he paced and looked at everyone, gruffly saying:

“What’s the point of voting? It’s already more than half! You’re all going; can I just lie here and play dead?”

Those holding their breath burst into laughter. Ulreich hummed, bounced in place, and began whipping his “traitors” with a towel. The locker room erupted again.

Outside, Ancelotti, long waiting, smiled and peeked in, signaling his presence. Karl stepped out; the Italian kissed his cheek and said in broken German:

“Good it’s settled.”

“Please go in first. Give me five minutes. I need to call the chairman back,” Karl smiled and walked to the stairwell behind the glass door at the corridor’s end. His muted phone was full of missed calls—Lewandowski, Müller, and Neuer had all called in the morning, surely worried after seeing the news. André called eighteen times alone, plus scattered reporters and Harnes and Rummenigge at the top, both now in the office.

Despite a big victory, Karl felt unprecedented exhaustion on a sunny Monday morning, just three days before the new season.

He sat on the steps, sunlight illuminating his toes, first calling Rummenigge.

The elder’s voice restrained yet furious: “Karl, André told me everything. You’ve really grown up, haven’t you? You better tell me the locker room hasn’t exploded.”

“Sir, the vote just ended, 21 to 3. Almost unanimous. We’ll hold this damn charity match.”

Karl crossed his arms calmly: “I never let you down, right? But if we had a smarter CMO, maybe I wouldn’t have to work late and scramble to make him cooperate.”

Hearing the result, Rummenigge understood fully, including André’s exaggerations. A sigh of relief, the feeling of a narrow escape brought warmth and care:

“Ah, no one’s more loyal and useful. Keep an eye on things. Dinner at my place tonight? I’ll have your aunt cook grilled fish.”

When Harnes answered, he burst out in a rapid tirade, asking how Karl dared act so boldly. Karl said he was forced.

Harnes cursed even more furiously.

“All right, Karl, twelve years in the team, you’ve always been the most sensible. Now you’re rebellious, impulsive. Should I clean up your mess like years ago?”

“Of course not, Uli, because I’ve settled it. I’ll confirm the final roster in half an hour. Official announcement this afternoon, tickets on sale tomorrow.”

Harnes paused.

He was panting with anger.

He wasn’t stabbing a pen into the wooden table.

He stood on the sofa, loudly praising Karl with deep emotion:

“Karl, my beloved child!”

He babbled about giving Karl pocket money, schooling those who wronged him, just like the old days when he was both sports director and sat on the bench with the team, hugging Karl as the youngest and forbidding anyone from bullying him.

He was old now and often spoke nostalgically when emotional.

Karl, joining so young, had been somewhat the baby, and Harnes—usually the harshest—was his biggest doting parent.

Harnes’s old favorite Schweinsteiger even fake-cried and complained once, joking that while pigs grow up loved, Piggy Schweinsteiger grew up ignored, sending everyone into fits of laughter.

In truth, Harnes was the most indulgent and least principled with Karl, which Lahm often grumbled about.

Rummenigge had initially been skeptical of Karl, awkward because of the shared name. But after a while, he warmed up, calling Karl “the little me” and jokingly asking, “Where’s the little me gone?”

Karl was summoned, laughed, and patted on the head, told to come home for dinner: “My wife makes the best grilled fish.”

In this life, love was immeasurable—only eternal conflicts of interest remained. The call ended, and perhaps a new vortex awaited Karl tomorrow. Yet, in moments like this, he allowed himself a brief indulgence.

Smiling, he listened, bathed in golden sunlight, recalling golden years—like the Little Match Girl, lighting up this moment, content with the whole universe. He was Bayern’s beloved child.

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