Iron Wall: The Rise of a Legend

Chapter 18: Nightmare



**FLASHBACK - THREE WEEKS AGO**

*The apartment viewing had been arranged by Lisa Weber - Wyatt's German teacher in Cologne, who had guided Wyatt through the practicalities of German life and Language with patient professionalism after his three months absence.*

*"Close enough to the training ground for convenience, but far enough for privacy," she had explained as they stood in the empty living room of the two-bedroom flat. "Most young players prefer this area - good transport links, quiet neighborhood."*

*The rent was reasonable by Bundesliga standards, easily covered by his weekly wages. After three months of living in temporary accommodation provided by the club, the prospect of his own space had felt like a genuine milestone.*

*"I'll take it," Wyatt had said, his signature on the lease agreement representing more than just a housing arrangement. It was a commitment to making Germany his home, to building a life around his football career.*

*The move-in had been simple - a single suitcase of clothes, a few personal items, and the kind of basic furniture that young footballers accumulated. Nothing fancy, nothing permanent, just the essentials for someone whose focus was supposed to be entirely on football.*

*The first night in his own bed had felt like luxury after months of hotel rooms and temporary lodging. He had fallen asleep to the sound of distant traffic, dreaming of Bundesliga debuts and the gradual progression from prospect to established player.*

*Three weeks later, those dreams felt like they belonged to someone else entirely.*

---

**PRESENT - 11:47 PM**

The apartment key turned in the lock with the same mechanical click that had welcomed him home after training sessions and team meetings. But tonight, the sound felt different - heavier, more final.

Wyatt pushed open the door and stepped into the small hallway, the familiar smell of the new carpet and fresh paint greeting him like an old friend. The contrast between this quiet domesticity and the chaos of the Red Bull Arena was almost surreal.

His football boots came off first, the studs clicking against the hardwood floor as he placed them by the door. The sound reminded him of the tunnel, of the walk toward the pitch, of the moment when his Bundesliga dream had begun to crumble.

The living room was exactly as he'd left it that morning - sparse but functional, with a small sofa facing a television that he rarely watched. On the coffee table sat a half-empty mug of coffee from his pre-match routine, the liquid now cold and bitter.

Wyatt didn't bother with the lights. The streetlamps outside provided enough illumination to navigate the familiar space, and somehow the darkness felt appropriate. He moved through the apartment like a ghost, his footsteps muffled by the carpet.

The bedroom was small but comfortable, dominated by a double bed that had seemed luxurious when he'd first moved in. Now it felt like a refuge, the only place where he could escape the crushing weight of public failure.

He didn't change out of his tracksuit. The effort required to find clean clothes felt beyond him, and the Köln crest on his chest served as a reminder of what he was supposed to represent - even if his performance had betrayed that responsibility.

The bed welcomed him with the kind of softness that his body desperately needed. Three months of intense training, followed by fifty-five minutes of psychological warfare, had left him feeling physically and emotionally drained.

Sleep came quickly, but it brought no peace.

---

*He was back in the Red Bull Arena, but something was wrong. The stadium was empty except for a single figure in the stands - Hans Mueller, his face twisted in disappointment.*

*"You're not good enough," the manager's voice echoed across the empty concrete bowl. "You never were. This was all a mistake."*

*On the pitch, Šeško was there, but he wasn't wearing a Leipzig shirt. He was in Köln colors, shaking his head with the kind of professional disdain that cut deeper than any insult.*

*"I've seen better defenders in youth football," the striker said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "You don't belong here. You never did."*

*The scene shifted. Wyatt was in the dressing room, but his locker was empty. His name had been scratched off the door, replaced with "MISTAKE" in crude black letters.*

*His teammates were there, but they looked through him as if he didn't exist. Hector was laughing with someone else, their conversation stopping the moment Wyatt approached.*

*"He thought he could make it," he heard Fischer whisper to Skhiri. "From League Two to the Bundesliga. What a joke."*

*The nightmare cycled through variations of the same theme. Wyatt arriving at training to find his access card deactivated. The club's website with his profile removed. Mueller's voice on the phone: "We're releasing you. This isn't working out."*

*But the worst part was the recurring image of that 5.9 rating, growing larger and larger until it filled his entire field of vision. The numbers seemed to pulse with their own malevolent life, a numerical representation of complete inadequacy.*

*"5.9," a voice kept repeating. "5.9. One of the worst performances in Bundesliga history. A complete failure."*

---

**4:33 AM**

The alarm clock's shrill beeping cut through the nightmare like a blade, dragging Wyatt back to consciousness with violent urgency. His eyes snapped open, his body immediately aware that something was wrong.

He was soaked in sweat, his tracksuit clinging to his skin like a second layer. The sheets beneath him were damp with perspiration, and his heart was hammering against his ribs with the same intensity he'd felt during those first moments at the Red Bull Arena.

For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The familiar outline of his bedroom furniture looked foreign in the pre-dawn darkness, and the silence of the apartment felt oppressive after the chaos of his dreams.

Reality crashed back over him like a wave. The match. The goals. The substitution. The 5.9 rating.

It hadn't been a nightmare - it had been a memory, replayed and distorted by his subconscious mind but rooted in the harsh truth of his Bundesliga debut.

Wyatt sat up in bed, his breathing still irregular, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for the alarm clock. The red digital display confirmed what he already knew: it was going to be a very long day.

Outside his window, Cologne was beginning to wake up. In a few hours, the sports pages would be filled with analysis of Leipzig's comprehensive victory. His name would appear in match reports, accompanied by that devastating 5.9 rating that would follow him for the rest of his career.

But for now, in the pre-dawn darkness of his apartment, Wyatt Lincoln was alone with the knowledge that his dream had become a nightmare, and that the hardest part - facing the consequences of his failure - was yet to come.

The sweat on his skin felt cold as it began to evaporate, but the memory of his humiliation burned as hot as ever.

The pillow left his hands with surprising force, sailing across the small bedroom before striking the wall with a muffled thud. It dropped to the floor like a defeated opponent, leaving behind only the faint sound of settling feathers and the echo of impact.

But the release Wyatt had hoped for didn't come. The anger remained, coiled tight in his chest like a spring under pressure. If anything, the futile gesture had only amplified his frustration - even his rage felt inadequate, impotent against the magnitude of his failure.

His breathing became heavier, frustration growing as he grabbed his pillow and smashed it against the wall across the room. The pillow left his hands with surprising force, sailing across the small bedroom before striking the wall with a muffled thud. It dropped to the floor like a defeated opponent, leaving behind only the faint sound of settling feathers and the echo of impact.

He stared at the pillow lying crumpled against the baseboard, a pathetic symbol of his current state. Three months of preparation, years of dreams, and it had all culminated in fifty-five minutes of public humiliation that could be quantified in a single, devastating number.

5.9.

The digits seemed to hover in the darkness before him, as vivid as if they were burned into his retinas. He'd seen ratings like that before - reserved for players who had completely lost their composure, who had forgotten the basic fundamentals of their position. Now he was one of them.

Wyatt swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. The apartment felt smaller somehow, as if the walls were closing in on him. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of early morning traffic and the mechanical ticking of the alarm clock.

He needed air. He needed space. He needed to be anywhere but trapped in this room with his thoughts.

Standing on unsteady legs, Wyatt made his way to the window. The blinds were partially open, revealing a slice of Cologne's skyline painted in the grey tones of pre-dawn. Streetlights cast long shadows across empty sidewalks, and the city had the peaceful quality that only existed in the hours before the world fully awakened.

Soon, those streets would fill with people going about their daily routines. Some of them would be football fans, perhaps discussing the previous night's match over coffee. His name might come up in conversation - not as a promising young defender making his mark, but as a cautionary tale about the unforgiving nature of professional football.

------

But it was his debut, right? His first match. Most players at least had the luxury of a few appearances to establish themselves, to find their rhythm in the team's system. He had managed to destroy his reputation in a single performance, his introduction to German football becoming a masterclass in defensive inadequacy.

------

The thought made his stomach turn. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, the condensation from his breath creating a small fog on the window. Behind him, the bed remained unmade, the sheets twisted and damp with the evidence of his restless night.

Training would begin in a few hours. He would have to face his teammates, endure Mueller's analysis of his performance, and somehow find a way to convince everyone - including himself - that he deserved another chance.

But first, he had to survive the remainder of this endless night, trapped in an apartment that had once felt like a sanctuary but now felt more like a prison cell.

The window glass fogged with each breath, creating temporary clouds that dissipated as quickly as they formed. Wyatt traced absent patterns in the condensation with his finger - meaningless shapes that matched the chaos in his mind.

He thought about his parents, probably fast asleep in their modest terraced house in Grimsby. It would be just after 3:30 AM back home, and they'd have no idea what had transpired at the Red Bull Arena. They'd wake up in a few hours, eager to check the match reports, expecting to read about their son's triumphant Bundesliga debut.

Instead, they'd find that 5.9 rating staring back at them from their computer screen.

The weight of their sacrifices pressed down on him like a physical force. Every extra shift his mother had worked at the hospital, every weekend his father had spent laying concrete instead of watching football - all of it had been justified by the belief that their son was destined for something greater than League Two football in Grimsby.

Now he wasn't sure if he was even good enough for that.

Wyatt pushed away from the window and began to pace the small bedroom, his bare feet making soft sounds against the hardwood. The apartment felt like a cage, but the thought of facing the outside world was even worse. Here, at least, he could suffer in private.

The pillow remained crumpled against the wall, a silent witness to his outburst. He should pick it up, try to get some more sleep before training, but the effort felt monumental. Everything felt monumental now - getting dressed, eating breakfast, walking into the training ground and pretending he belonged there.

Mueller's voice echoed in his memory: "You have the intelligence, Lincoln. You see the game differently than most defenders your age." Those words had sustained him through three months of isolation, through the grueling physical preparation, through the language lessons and tactical sessions.

But intelligence meant nothing if you couldn't execute under pressure. All the reading of the game in the world was useless if you let Benjamin Šeško turn you inside out in front of 40,000 people.

He stopped pacing and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The damp sheets beneath him were a reminder of the nightmares that had plagued his sleep - visions of failure that had felt so real because they were rooted in truth.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the first stirrings of morning life. A car door slammed. A dog barked. The city was beginning to wake up, and with it would come the harsh light of day and the unavoidable reality of what came next.

Training. Analysis. The possibility that Mueller might decide his experiment with the young English defender had reached its premature conclusion.

Wyatt closed his eyes and tried to summon the determination that had carried him from Grimsby to Cologne. But all he could feel was the crushing weight of expectation - his parents', the club's, and most painfully, his own.

The alarm clock ticked steadily in the darkness, counting down the minutes until he would have to face the consequences of his failure.

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