11 kilocalories

In the remaining time of the match, they even scored another goal. Lewandowski netted a brace, securing a splendid victory for the team and setting a promising tone for his own season, determined to push forward.

Karl was truly upset—not because of the win itself, but because victory seemed to pull him further away from retirement. After the match, he still led his teammates to thank the fans, who cheered with passionate excitement. His expression was filled with pride and deep emotion. Such pure feelings briefly gave Karl a sense of long-lost honor and heartfelt closeness, as if he had returned to an era when fans and stars were not so adversarial, to a time when everything was simpler and more genuine.

Yet, at moments like these, he dared not fully open his heart or look at them with eyes brimming with emotion like a fool. Autographs, handshakes, hugs, tossing jerseys—every form of interaction was welcome, but never the surrender of true feelings. Karl did not resent the fans; rather, harsh reality had forced him to realize that as a packaged, functional "product," whether loved or hated, he was no longer seen as an individual.

Love meant adoring the false version of him, the useful one; hatred meant despising the fake version, the useless one.

With the passage of time, this trait grew more pronounced. Compared to before, fans now had more things to consume, and football itself had become more of a consumer product. Its role as a soulful sport or spiritual symbol faded, replaced by commercialism. To many modern fans, what difference was there between players and the handsome men and women who performed on platforms like OnlyFans?

Labor alienation’s ultimate expression was that of male entertainers—work boiled down to selling oneself for money. They carried a kind of client-like superiority, even mocking the humble loyalty and respect of the old-school fans.

“They’re just players, not gods! If no one watches, where would their money come from?” This was a sentiment many fans now championed.

Perhaps people haven’t truly turned bad; maybe it’s just that relationships between people have changed, Karl sometimes thought. But he couldn’t change this reality. Everyone was free to express their negative emotions, to be harsher to others, and to refuse to tolerate things they found foolish or annoying. Although this often sharpened conflicts, was it necessarily a bad thing?

Karl pondered this. For instance, kids today could openly say they hated their parents, teachers, classmates, bosses, even the whole world—something forbidden in his youth, though he suspected he had secretly harbored such feelings as well.

He didn’t need fans to idolize him—that might seem comfortable but was actually a strange form of coercion. Like that extreme fan who once held up a sign insulting him—perhaps once that fan loved him to madness, unable to tolerate a single bad word about him. Feeling “betrayed,” they became furious. Many fans had natural expectations and projections on Karl, and when he shattered those, they were deeply disappointed and hurt, which in turn pained Karl.

Love filled with expectation was also a form of violence, and Karl had always been sensitive to it. The blow hit him harder than it would others. Only when he began therapy did he understand it stemmed from his mother—he feared people who resembled her, which caused him psychological discomfort. Perhaps others’ malice was far less damaging, but similar patterns always made him wary. His therapist often assured him it wasn’t his fault.

When it came to things he cared about, Karl could easily give his all. But when he sensed others gently manipulating him or extracting more from his hopes, he felt deeply uncomfortable—as if they were simultaneously insulting the concept of love and insulting him. He often wondered: Is your love just a means to make others obey you? Do you think I’m the kind of person who, without a little reward, lacks ideals, responsibility, and is selfish and unwilling to give?

Do you think my love, like yours, is mottled and cheap?

Yet everything in the world is mottled; mottled does not mean cheap. Diluting love does not make the love itself false. Karl was constantly breaking down his own perfectionism and idealism, and that process was difficult.

Karl no longer really knew how to relate to fans. Their relationship seemed to ensure no fan truly saw Karl Heilmann; and players hid behind layers of packaging and protection, unable to see the real them even if they wanted to. Karl disliked this dynamic. He knew no one was at fault—it was like the sun rising in the east, an immutable fact. People could not escape the earth, but surely they could escape certain people.

He did not want to be loved or hurt, to owe anyone or be rightfully controlled. He disliked it, so he wanted to leave.

Leave this environment, and wouldn’t everything be better? Just like when he hid away in summer—he had never felt so peaceful. Yet returning to the noisy life only doubled his pain.

Usually, Karl did not overthink things, but today, after striving so hard and missing three prime opportunities, he felt once again the bitterness of being toyed with by fate. Still, he showed nothing on his face. The fans saw only a smiling, perfect captain waving at them, his black hair flowing, blue eyes sparkling, the mole at the corner of his lips lifting with his smile—a wonderful man.

He was not only brilliant on the pitch but tireless and handsome. No wonder Kramaric, who had just been subdued by Karl’s defense, blushed quietly nearby, fidgeting and looking like he wanted to swap jerseys.

Karl didn’t notice the young man’s nervous fidgeting; he was still caught up in his middle-aged aches and pains. Then he thought about how tomorrow he would lie and hate being misunderstood—how awful that was.

But when he turned and caught Kramaric’s shy gaze, his self-pitying thoughts shattered instantly, replaced by a wave of vulnerability stronger than a tsunami, almost breaking his composure.

He wanted to be a villain, to coldly reject that youthful, tender face, to refuse the useless kid.

Kramaric, you ruined an almost thirty-year-old man’s retirement dream! And you have the nerve to want a jersey swap!

That jersey could have been his one-of-a-kind farewell shirt if only he hadn’t missed so many chances. Now it was just an ordinary shirt filled with bitterness and failure, and you’re laughing as you take it.

Such resentment nearly broke his expression. Luckily, his strong reason kept him composed. To Kramaric, Karl’s changing expression seemed full of concern and admiration. When he approached, Karl greeted him warmly:

“Want to swap jerseys? It’s rare for a forward and defender to do that.”

“You’re incredible,” Kramaric said admiringly. “I have no idea how you made those clean tackles, especially that last one. I was terrified—I was afraid I might step on you, couldn’t control my body, so I closed my eyes and prayed hard. But clearly, you were so graceful, knowing you’d come through unscathed. Your courage makes you unbeatable, while I was shaky and stumbling. I really admire that. I’ve learned a lot, and next time against other defenders, I’ll do better...”

Karl: ...

His hands trembled slightly as he took off his shirt.

After Kramaric’s outpouring, he smiled and said, “You don’t really need to be so afraid of hurting defenders; usually, forwards need to be more careful. I wish you’d already found the courage in this game. I hope I won’t face you again, but if I do, I hope you’ll strike even bolder. Good luck!”

Oh my god! How can someone be so kind?

Kramaric silently admired him for a while. As a Croatian, he was usually unimpressed by the excessive hype surrounding Karl in the Bundesliga. He felt his teammates were just desperate to join the national team or become part of an invincible machine, hence their endless admiration for their captain. But today, his stereotypes were broken. He quietly apologized to himself for his prior arrogance.

Look at this guy—playing so well, even against lesser teams and an unknown like him, fighting as if it were a Champions League final, treating every one of his advances with such seriousness.

Despite the high-risk moves nearly injuring him due to his clumsiness, Karl remained calm and gentle afterward, encouraging him to be braver and bolder.

Kramaric had never felt so respected and affirmed by a superstar. It was as if Karl wasn’t speaking to a nobody but communicating on par with Messi or Ronaldo. He was truly shocked.

Is this the demeanor of the truly strong?

In interviews, Kramaric soon couldn’t contain himself and recounted his conversation with Karl, showering him with glowing praise.

It was a thrilling victory, with the result only coming after seventy minutes of tension, and so spectacularly that adrenaline still surged. Back in the players’ tunnel, Karl was greeted by wild cheers and gentle pats on the shoulder, surrounded by excited, admiring faces. It was as if the whole world wanted to lean in close. Even the coach, Ancelotti, was so moved Karl could not refuse his embrace and had to lean on him for a moment.

“Oh my, you constantly remind me of Paolo Maldini, my boy! So brave, so strong! With a player like you on the field, I’ll never be afraid,” the Italian said emotionally. “Paolo was still improving at your age. You should learn from him: work hard but protect yourself so you can play five, eight more years, okay?”

Karl: ...

One more word and I might just lose it!

But the fact that Ancelotti coached Maldini sparked a little warmth in him—who didn’t love watching Milan as a kid? The club’s strongest era, from the ’90s to early 2000s, overlapped with his childhood and adolescence. He would always turn off the TV with guilty feelings of betrayal, crying and swearing off watching matches outside of Bayern, but inevitably sneak a peek again. Watching Maldini, he’d be mesmerized, almost drooling.

He even mimicked Maldini’s expressions and gestures in the mirror, though lacking that sculpted face, only pudgy cheeks and two fists. Soon, he’d lie on the bed, crying over when he’d grow into a muscular man from his stubby proportions. Those were genuine childhood worries, but in hindsight, they were quite tender.

Ancelotti was an experienced, renowned coach, a perfect fit for Bayern, yet Hainer and Rummenigge never quite warmed to him. Maybe they were still infatuated with Guardiola. These days, Hainer even secretly watches the English Premier League, uninterested before, and grumbles about Guardiola’s winning streak with Manchester City, lamenting what good oil billionaires bring.

The two old men were a bit restless, indifferent to the coach’s dismissal and preoccupied with their own schemes—something Karl could not fathom.

Knowing the coach’s struggles, Karl refrained from sulking, slapping Ancelotti’s back and feigning happiness as he accepted the praise, even flattering him a bit. It wasn’t all fake—minus the years-of-playing part, being compared to Maldini by the man he admired on TV as a kid stirred something deep inside.

Fate was strange indeed. Little Karl, lying in front of the TV, could never have imagined this day. Those were his freshest, most tender memories of football and himself.

The victory thrilled the teammates. Karl’s key performance electrified everyone—though the limelight mostly belongs to midfielders and forwards, given football revolves around scoring, moments when defenders or goalkeepers repeatedly thwart deadly attacks stir a fiery passion that can’t be quelled.

Breaking the enemy’s spear, then delivering a fatal blow and a final stab—completely shattering, convincing, and silencing the opponents—this was the pure joy of battle!

“The Iron Warrior is invincible! The Red Legion destroys the enemy!” Alaba loudly read the news on his phone in the dressing room. “Super Karl ignites this Bundesliga round!”

He jumped from his spot, waving his hands to cheer, rallying everyone: “Super Karl! Super Karl!”

The group hunched their backs, stretched their arms over each other’s shoulders, and jumped as if at a massive ritual, shouting in deliberately low voices like a heavy metal concert: “Super Karl! Super Karl!”

Damn...

Müller flipped a paper cup bottom up to his mouth as a megaphone: “Who’s the best warrior?!”

“Super Karl!”

“How much do we love him?”

“Super love!”

Karl felt so embarrassed he wanted to scream. First, he checked if the dressing room door was closed and the team photographer wasn’t around, and if no hidden cameras were filming. Then he wanted to yell at his teammates to stop. This spontaneous mix of affection, respect, obedience, and teasing made him want to burrow a hole deep inside the Allianz Arena with his toes.

He wished his teammates were always a bit quieter and more reserved—not so repressed usually, yet erupting unpredictably like a volcano now. He was looking at you, Kimmich, why so drunk with excitement? Were you not a little rascal with me yesterday?

He summoned all his strength not to blush too much or run away: “Thank you, gentlemen, thank you! I love you all; please, spare me!”

They laughed and shouted louder: “Super Karl!”

Karl had to divert attention: “What about our goal scorers? Aren’t they important?”

Lewandowski smiled in the crowd, and the chant shifted: “Lewen, Lewen, Super Lewen!”

Karl praised others in turn until everyone was satisfied. They began to cling to him again—hugs, handshakes, the captain’s pats, teasing or praising—it didn’t matter. As he aged and gained seniority, Karl initially didn’t understand that many players needed some physical and emotional interaction in the locker room, but he eventually did.

It was like tending a group of large, quirky animals—no matter how affectionate, they might bite; no matter how much they bit, they liked praise, hugs, and “grooming.” Grooming was just symbolic—Karl never walked around the locker room with a little comb styling Robben’s bald head.

Sometimes his teammates seemed like wild animals, a thought that made them endearing and helped him understand their occasional quirks and emotional excesses.

But now, with the excitement fading and sitting among them, he felt a gentle yet sorrowful loneliness. He felt like a lion pretending among truly strong, fierce, wild, and vibrant carnivores—wagging his tail, bluffing boldness and ambition, a hunger to tear apart, possess, and claim victory.

Others weren’t as sentimental or prone to overthinking as he was. If they knew Karl’s unhappiness stemmed from ceaseless inner turmoil, they’d surely scoff and tell him to stop being so indecisive and just not think about it. But Karl had followed that advice for over a decade, always struggling without rest. Despite wealth, glory, and fame, his troubles never left; they sharpened.

He often felt like a fake alpha among alphas. He didn’t have the urge to mark territory or prove dominance with fists. He disliked social Darwinism. Lacking strong desires for domination and control was good for team management but caused inner conflict because they truly lived in a brutal jungle-like environment.

Power made him cautious and restrained, nourishing yet confining him; responsibility drained him completely.

He could perform well and even enjoy it—that was a different matter. Hainer and Rummenigge enjoyed conflict, struggle, crushing opponents, humiliation, suppression, promotion, and the games of power. Karl did not.

Karl always wanted to escape, to flee to a place less like a jungle. In a calmer life, the will to kill and be killed need not be so fierce; that would not be a natural flaw.

Before reporting to the national team, he decided to use his influence to take half a day off for a medical checkup. Since he rarely took leave, just texting, Löw agreed without hesitation and even granted extra time, as long as Karl arrived before training—not necessarily at the assembly’s start. This was a benefit of years of dedication, and Karl breathed easier.

“Ankle? Why check that again? You had a full exam in early August when you returned. Nothing was wrong.”

Dr. Schmidt raised his file, puzzled.

“Nothing at all?” Karl pressed. “I made a lot of tackles in the match; I clearly felt some pain in my ankle—even if not injured, surely there’s some strain. What about other parts? Any issues? I’ve been exhausted since returning, and training has been intense.”

The doctor took off his glasses and laughed heartily.

“Relax, that’s all in your head. Your body’s never been better. You know why? Because you’ve never rested so well in summer. I’ve told you before, Karl—you have good physical qualities, trained scientifically from childhood, no bad habits, dense bones, and you play center-back, a safer position. Those big injuries you had were mostly from playing through minor injuries or exhaustion, refusing rest. If you take care of yourself like this, the risks are low. You can rest easy.”

I don’t want to take care of myself—I want to quit, damn it!

In the past, how tired he was! But that was careful management—fatigued and injured, but not on purpose. Now, when he finally lets go, he’s told he’s perfectly healthy. What kind of justice is that? Has God been washing his eyes with acid lately?

Karl’s resolve died completely. He flopped back on the bed, pulled the white sheet over himself, pretending he was seriously hurt, covering his ears to avoid hearing the doctor, closing his eyes to shut out this hateful world.

After a while, he opened his eyes and his hand reached out. Dr. Schmidt shook a bag of gummy bears at him, grinning mischievously.

“Want a reward?”

“That’s for kids,” Karl said weakly. “Besides, I’m not sick. How can I have no illness? It’s so frustrating.”

“You have such a bad mindset. How come you never change after all these years?” The doctor’s laughter creased his eyes like walnuts. “Not only sick people deserve treats. Being healthy is wonderful—by your standards, you should pop champagne every day, right? And here you are, sulking? Who wants to be sick? Everything is someone else’s, but your body is yours. You should think positive thoughts. Eat up—if some candy can cheer you up, go ahead. That’s much better than being miserable.”

“Too much sugar is bad for the body.”

“Everyone knows that, yes. But no one admits that sugar is great for the spirit. You eat two bags of candy, it’s better than those who party all night, drink, and mess around. If eating candy could get you off sleeping pills, I’d buy you a whole box right now. Being happy isn’t a crime. Here’s your prescription—take it, and follow my orders, got it?”

Karl didn’t want to be happy. His retirement plan had failed miserably from the start; everything went against what he needed. To cheer up for two pieces of candy felt way too weak. Yet he hadn’t eaten sweets for so long—it tasted good. Sitting in the car, he almost cried, knowing his thoughts were bad for his body. Dr. Schmidt had no idea what terrible schemes he had undertaken to ruin this body he’d carefully cared for and treated—this body Karl should love more than anyone else in the world. If the doctor knew, he’d be frightened, angry, heartbroken, and shed tears.

Karl thought of so many people yearning for nothing more than a healthy body, able to live well in this world. Doctors worked so hard to keep him fit for the pitch. Many stars cried at retirement because of injuries—an unavoidable fate. Karl had it too, yet he didn’t cherish it but instead tried to trample and torment himself.

It was weakness... he knew it was weakness.

If a person could only take care of themselves by hurting themselves, was something wrong somewhere? Karl was exhausted and bewildered.

Fortunately, the upcoming national team matches, although busy with affairs, would at least pull him out of club life. He planned not to attempt his ankle-breaking plan during international duty—a period of reflection and reassessment after a failed project.

As he thought more, his urge to cry vanished. He simply ate the candy seriously, counting how many orange-flavored pieces were left. There were many in the bag. He felt lucky, satisfied, happily saving some for when he might feel sad again. Then he headed off to the national team.

But at the airport, after checking in luggage, getting his boarding pass, and entering the VIP lounge, Karl was completely stunned—not because of any ticket issues, but because the person accompanying him was unexpected.

Not exactly accompanying—Ballack looked exhausted, his white shirt tucked neatly into black suit pants, carrying a coat. His black curls fell messily over his forehead. No one knew where he had come from or how long he’d been waiting here. After a year apart, the first words out of his mouth were:

“Don’t go... I’m not getting on the plane.”

“Let’s just talk here.”

Karl’s phone screen went dark, frozen on his conversation with Hummels, or rather, on the one-sided messages received.

15:02
M: How was the checkup? Why aren’t you here yet? Send me the flight info; I’ll pick you up at the airport.

15:12
M: I know I said the wrong things; don’t be angry. Sorry, pretend I never said anything.

15:13
M: I’d rather be the one tackled on the pitch; I don’t want you to protect me.

15:21
M: Sorry, I said the wrong thing again. Don’t be mad.

15:30
M: I miss you, Karl. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but can you give me half an hour tonight? Please.

“What’s wrong, Misha? Why did you suddenly come here? Don’t hate me anymore?” Karl put his phone away, gently closed the door with his heel, and looked up at the tall man before him. “You didn’t say a word when I was burned. I thought you were dead.”