13 kilocalories

The VIP lounge was always so cold and quiet, as if the very light dimmed along with the atmosphere. Its one-way glass design allowed them to see distant crowds moving about outside, but within this small space, silence stretched only between the two of them.

Barak had said he wanted to talk, yet standing there, he found himself unable to speak. His opening words to Karl had struck a nerve—he was instinctively angry but reluctant to leave; after all, no one else dared speak to Karl like that.

He wouldn't be here if he didn’t care about him.

As Karl had said, since the European Championship ended last year, they hadn’t seen each other. But this absence was one-sided. When Barak disappeared, Karl truly forgot him; but in the reverse, Karl saw Barak every day—in newspapers, on his phone, TV, computer, and even on billboards as he drove by.

That was how it had been for many years after their breakup.

Now, sharing the same room, it was still Barak who stared; watching Karl unbutton his coat leisurely to pour himself coffee, seeing the black tips of his hair resting on his collar, his shoulders tracing strong, reliable lines with every movement.

Everyone else saw Karl as a mature adult, only Barak still saw the sulking child beneath.

Clearing his throat, Barak shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and stood beside Karl, casting a large shadow over him. “Sit down.”

“Who asked for your help?” Karl refused, lowering his lashes without looking at him. “Dummy machine, anyone can do it.”

Though the machine was indeed a simple one, Karl felt that the Jura automatic coffee machine in the airport often malfunctioned. Just like now, after pressing the button, it jammed; the coffee beans stared blankly under the transparent lid, showing no sign of grinding. Trying to adjust it manually, he grew uneasy under Barak’s gaze, or perhaps because the machine truly had a problem. He accidentally used too much force—

Bang!

He broke off a removable piece that shouldn’t be detached while running. Internal pressure unbalanced, the coffee machine’s lid popped up and slammed against the wall, slowly falling down. Remaining coffee liquid sprayed everywhere.

The spilled coffee mirrored his chaotic emotions, glaringly spread out under the light, still uncontrollably flowing. Karl suddenly felt exposed, embarrassed, and tense. Instinctively, he leaned forward to retrieve the lid, but Barak immediately pushed him back, swiftly grabbing the coffee tube with one hand and the lid with the other, sealing it to stop the spray.

He then cut the power, finally silencing the machine.

After pressing the lid to ensure it was firmly in place, Barak frowned deeply and turned to him, exasperated: “How old are you, messing with a coffee machine like this? Did you burn yourself?”

Karl looked down at his hand, coffee still dripping from his palm and knuckles. His skin was reddened and swollen in patches, an unpleasant sting. He pursed his lips and sat back into the sofa chair, staring out the window, unwilling to speak. Barak finally noticed the pain, ashamed of his earlier behavior, and silently went to wash his hands.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” Karl muttered after Barak returned and sat across the sofa, lowering his voice. “Why the face?”

“Self-pity. Who cares if you’re hurt or not? My hand hurts and it’s uncomfortable,” Karl replied, still looking out. “Who hasn’t been burned?”

...Even after all these years since their breakup, when Karl got burned, even the security guard sent him a text. But Barak said nothing.

He truly felt the other was cruel. They were barely friends, awkwardly so, but even as enemies, a few teasing words would be expected. Yet Barak seemed to see nothing. If he truly ignored it, Karl might get used to having a name permanently crossed out in his life. But Barak always appeared suddenly, looking at him with those eyes.

Karl didn’t want to meet his gaze, didn’t want to see clearly whether those irises in the light were gray-blue or gray-green, whether they held joy or sorrow, love or something else.

“Let me see your hand,” Barak tried to ease the tension.

To Karl, this wasn’t something that could be eased—it was a minefield.

“What’s wrong with you, Misha?” Karl’s voice cooled. “Is this what you wanted to talk about today? Something from a week ago?”

“I went back to Munich that night, Karl. I wanted to see you, but I couldn’t just show up,” Barak said softly. “I can’t write texts properly, can’t call you. No matter what I do, you just get annoyed.”

True enough.

Karl couldn’t hold back any longer, wishing his gaze could pierce him like a knife. “Then what are you doing here?”

“You and Hoffenheim’s match—don’t look at me like that, Karl. Even if you want to lie to me, to everyone, you know what you want. Stop. Stop those dangerous thoughts. Don’t hurt yourself.”

His bad premonition came true—he really had come to talk about this. After so many years apart, Barak could still see through his dark thoughts, but not the pain and helplessness behind them. Like the coffee spraying out, this was what Karl hated, what he felt wronged by, and desperately wanted to avoid. He did not want to expose his weakness and misery.

Barak was no longer his lover, no longer the one to bear it all. He wouldn’t sit by the window, hold Karl, kiss and comfort him through the night, telling him to bite if unhappy, not to be hard on himself. He wouldn’t allow Karl to grip his neck, to study and comfort him tightly asking if he was comfortable.

From the moment Barak chose Lahm over him, this relationship had collapsed. If Karl could do it all over again ten thousand times, he would make the same decision—not just to preserve Bayern’s complex power structure but because, rationally, Lahm was the better captain choice then. But no matter how many times, his heart would still break.

Karl showed his aggression by biting others’ muscles to divert self-harm. Only when they were lovers did it have meaning—a story of silent tolerance from a solid elder and a young Karl learning to express anger and tantrums in love. Once separated, Barak could still see the problems, yet without helping, he demanded Karl “love himself” and “change for the better.” The pain was incomparable.

We’re no longer lovers—but do you still feel you should “correct” me?

Am I forever the great mistake in your life?

We were together, you invested so much, and in the end, it was a complete failure—the decision you regret most, isn’t it?

“Whatever you say, you know me better than I know myself, Misha,” Karl sneered. “Hennes was right, your arrogance is endless.”

“I’m fine. I was fine. I had a checkup, I even ate a bag of candy today. I’m not destroying myself recklessly. I’ve been trying… really trying.” Karl’s eyes reddened; under the light, his blue eyes seemed like overlapping cellophane. “The only bad thing today is sitting here talking to you.”

Barak looked at him, unable to tell him that amid the overwhelming news about Karl’s burn, what truly dominated his emotions was guilt. That irrational guilt lingered for years, as if Karl’s pain and tears were his burden. In that guilt, he lay silently, stiff and helpless, unable to fulfill his protective duties—like a broken piece of steel, a robot following commands but shattered to the core, only able to repeat orders.

His useless love, hated by Karl.

“It’s okay if you hate me. I’m leaving now. Just… take care of yourself.” He tried to suppress the sourness in his nose, still speaking quietly, expression grave.

“What does that have to do with you?”

Karl went ahead to wait for boarding, preferring to slip away into the crowd near the gate rather than approach the VIP lounge—alone, he would surely be singled out for special treatment and forced into countless conversations. When the time came, he dragged his coat and walked over listlessly.

A flight attendant smiled as she checked his boarding pass. Karl heard hurried footsteps behind him and felt a numbness on his scalp. Turning to scold the person for being crazy and ignoring his refusal to board, he was instead handed a cup of coffee.

“Your favorite beans. I just ground some from my suitcase.”

Seeing Karl hesitate, Barak frowned slightly, almost angry, stubbornly grasped his wrist and placed the cup in his hand.

“You wanted some, didn’t you?”

His hand was indeed swollen and reddened from the burn.

“Sir, are you okay? Do you need help?” the attendant asked politely behind him.

Barak merely shook his head coldly, then looked at Karl. His fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to hug him, but even more instinctively restraining himself. He leaned in just a little, his forehead almost touching Karl’s, whispering:

“I’m leaving, Karli. Be happy.”

Karl couldn’t be happy.

He didn’t want the coffee, yet couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

In the end, he drank it. It was bitter, with no aroma to savor.

Upon arrival at the national team’s base, Karl lacked the heart for socializing. He barely ate dinner, claiming fatigue, then returned to his room to rest. He picked up his phone, numb, replying only to unavoidable messages. Group chats were muted; he replied only when directly mentioned, ignoring the rest.

He postponed casual chats until tomorrow when he might feel better, though he often forgot entirely, causing awkwardness. Except for a few close friends who didn’t mind his slow replies, no one persistently tried to reach him.

He opened a chat with Hummels, sending a message: “Come over now.”

When Hummels first returned to Bayern, it coincided with Karl’s injury recovery. Everyone said Hummels came back to replace Karl. Their relationship resembled that of ter Stegen and Neuer—always overshadowed by the same player was painful. Karl’s injury created a small opening.

“He was sold to Dortmund in youth because he couldn’t compete with Karl. Coming back was his chance to redeem himself.”

That was the consensus.

Yet like many who tried to challenge Karl, Hummels ultimately failed. Though one side can’t change, the other can. Hummels became more compliant, even started wearing the captain’s armband for Karl during training. Hennes praised him for finally maturing.

It wasn’t maturity, really. They had inexplicably become close friends. Karl no longer remembered how it began, maybe simply because Hummels was his true childhood playmate, yet outside Karl’s later life, he posed no threat to his normal life and emotions at Bayern. For instance, Karl would never mix with Müller; he’d rather drive to Hamburg to jump into the North Sea than sully their relationship.

But Hummels could.

To Karl, Hummels was both familiar and strange. Familiar for his suppressed yet provocative stance toward him; strange for having changed after circling outside Bayern, becoming more flirtatious. If as a child they silently walked home together, now Hummels would lean on his shoulder, teasing, “Karl, what are you hiding from? Afraid to get this close?” with a look that could be read as either seductive or delusional.

Karl cleaned Hummels’ backside on the field, stood up for him, smoothed things over with the media, handled family matters, punished and rewarded him, slept with him, then left. Their relationship was quite good, providing Karl an outlet and peace of mind.

Hummels seemed to have finally reached his coming-of-age. His speech no longer drew criticism, his performance stabilized, and even his wardrobe rapidly matured and improved.

Yet their estrangement remained deeply ingrained. No matter how much they slept, it couldn’t be undone, so they effortlessly fooled outsiders; no one knew.

Hummels occasionally teased verbally, making ambiguous remarks that earned Karl only a faint glance. He often said he hated Karl, but when real troublemakers came to stir discord, he’d raise an eyebrow, smirk disdainfully, and walk away.

Their relationship was quite good, except for one problem: you can’t fall in love with your friend, captain, rival, and teammate—but loving Karl was easier than breathing. Hummels felt he had to confess or die; so he did.

The Wednesday after his confession was rejected, Hummels waited outside Karl’s apartment all night. Karl couldn’t let him in but told him he wouldn’t mix with him anymore.

Hummels cried like a child, finally asking, “At least I can still put your jacket on you, right?” Karl allowed it.

“We’ll still talk in the locker room, right?”

Karl nodded.

“But we won’t meet here again, right?”

Karl nodded again.

“You never loved me at all, did you?”

Karl stayed silent.

Hummels didn’t need an answer. He asked one last question: “Can I still wear your armband?”

Karl said yes. Looking back, he should have refused, to avoid leaving a positive answer to a relationship that ended. They wouldn’t be kissing here now, and Karl wouldn’t soon impatiently push him away, questioning his sanity, only to be handily outmaneuvered.

Hummels insisted on interlacing their fingers, placing both Karl’s hands at his sides, asking what he was thinking.

Karl’s black hair fell loose, sweat dotted his forehead like water droplets. His blue eyes unfocused, like a white butterfly pinned to a black curtain.

“I’m wondering... just how hot is the coffee?”

Fire’s temperature was certainly higher than boiling water, but the temperature of love was harder to measure.

Hummels was still functional. The next day he trained normally, his mood decent. Yesterday’s events felt like a dream wiped from his mind. Since they’d won the first nine World Cup qualifiers, securing first place and World Cup qualification, this round carried little pressure. The main goal was an undefeated qualifying streak to please the public.

After all, they remained one of the favorites for the Russia World Cup, despite roster changes. Many from the Brazil World Cup had retired, and key player Lahm from the 2016 European Championship squad had also left, but the core of Müller, Kroos, Karl, Hummels, Boateng, and Neuer remained, making it impossible to think the German team was in decline.

With Klose retired, the troublesome striker problem remained unsolved. Gomez had returned on loan from the Turkish league, back to the national team fold, much to Müller’s delight.

If Müller was happy, Karl was too.

“I called Karl, and he helped me decide. I asked if I could transfer, and he said if I was tired and wanted out, then go. Then I asked about a loan, and he said if you want a change, go for it.”

Gomez smiled:

“This time I told him I didn’t want to return home; it was hard. But he said come back. If there’s no other option and you can’t earn a living, you can stay at his place.”

“I didn’t say that last part,” Karl laughed.

Everyone else laughed too.

Müller was heartbroken: “What? You two talk every year and decide things, and I never know anything?”

Gomez smiled softly, saying nothing. Karl stuffed grapes into his mouth: “You just know how to call people back, stop pressuring Mario.”

“I’m not that bad,” Müller protested, then laughed after a moment. “But of course, coming back is best. Mario, you tell me—coming back’s good, right?”

Gomez nodded obediently: “Okay, okay.”

Yet beneath this joy lay real problems. Karl wasn’t sure if Löw’s decisions were intentional or not, or if he was simply experimenting since the last round didn’t matter. This time, fewer Bayern players were called up.

The team stressed that their World Cup and European Championship streaks were due to unity, breaking traditional conflicts between Bayern and others, so they must maintain this. Karl agreed, but breaking the framework and excluding Bayern players were two different things.

Previously, joining Bayern greatly increased one’s national call-up chances. Many players, even with little affection or concern for money, chose to play in Munich for honor. Now, Bayern origins became reasons for Löw’s refusal or pickiness—a complete reversal.

They had won five consecutive Bundesliga titles and were defending champions again. Karl saw no reason to reduce Bayern players’ spots.

Löw’s counterarguments were that Bayern’s international mix meant few German stars left to call, or that Bayern players were overworked and needed rest.

This time, it involved conflict with Bayern’s coach. After a dispute with Ancelotti over a charity match, Löw publicly stated at the call-up press conference that if club coaches were hostile and unwilling to release players for national duty, he would consider that. After all, representing the country was an honor. Without proper mindset, players might not perform at their best.

This tactic nearly drove Ancelotti mad. His life was already difficult; if German players blamed him for missing national team duty, how could he survive?

Poisonous husband, poisonous husband!

He’d stab the newspaper with his useless fork every morning if Löw’s face appeared.

Luckily, Bavaria was never short of veterans—some bullied Ancelotti daily, others didn’t spare Löw.

Matthäus wrote a scathing column condemning Löw’s behavior as “hiding selfishness behind sowing discord. Selecting players is the coach’s job. Club attitudes don’t represent players’ views. Löw should just say he doesn’t want Bayern players, not scapegoat Ancelotti.”

Well said. Ancelotti almost cried, wanting to treasure those words.

Though he rarely spoke fairly, Hennes was unappreciative: “No matter how many times someone flatters Bayern, they won’t work here until Rummenigge and I are gone.”

Though said twenty years ago, it still stung. Matthäus then turned his fire on Ancelotti, accusing him of groveling at Bayern, being timid and ineffective, unworthy of his name.

Today, Karl opened the paper ready to read Matthäus versus Löw and Ancelotti’s battle, but instead found confusion.

He was furious—he’d even cut three pieces off his sausage in frustration.

Karl couldn’t escape this whirlpool. He worked hard to maintain balance on the national team, promoting unity, avoiding factionalism, and befriending teammates from other clubs. But he couldn’t forget that much of his prestige came from captaining Bayern—half the national team was Bayern-based.

Now Löw wanted to disrupt that foundation, preventing Bayern players from national duty, playing a cruel American-style “let’s see who doesn’t get called” game to enforce German nationalism. Karl couldn’t stand by.

But how to handle it was tricky. The German Football Association rarely intervened in personnel decisions, especially with a highly successful coach. Players usually united to stage a performance, turning results to rubbish to force the coach out, but Karl would never consider risking careers and team achievements for internal fights.

This was a difficult situation. Löw might just be setting the stage for the Russia World Cup.

Karl somewhat understood Löw’s motivation: the team’s many champions, aging core, and rising prestige made management harder. Unlike a decade ago, Löw couldn’t simply scold Karl into obedience.

Even if he could, Karl couldn’t. Public opinion, Bayern’s leadership, and sponsors wouldn’t allow it. Without sponsor support, the association wouldn’t either. Managing the team was full of constraints.

So dismissing the old, introducing the new, weakening the strong to bolster the weak, and creating new balances was a recurring cycle—not necessarily wrong.

Karl was the greatest beneficiary of the last cycle. At just seventeen, the then-coach Klinsmann ousted the team’s veteran center-backs, struggling to find suitable young players, eventually settling on Karl, causing uproar. “Seventeen-year-old kid guarding the goal? Germany’s crazy!”

After one Confederations Cup, Karl performed excellently, silencing critics. Kahn, Lahm, and Schweinsteiger supported him, Bayern’s hierarchy pushed hard, and he naturally joined the World Cup squad the next year—the youngest player on the pitch.

Now, at twenty-nine, with twelve years in the national team, he was a true veteran—an astonishing tenure.

Opportunity often comes like that.

Karl didn’t mind national team renewal; one day he’d step down. He didn’t want to cling to the captaincy; he’d happily retire with honor like Lahm. But would the newcomers be effective?

Many young players joined, but Leverkusen’s stars Havertz and Brandt drifted on the sidelines. Newly arrived Süle was careless, barely playing for club or country. Goretzka and Kimmich were decent but unlikely to replace Lahm and Schweinsteiger’s roles. Sané, the only young player abroad, was withdrawn, silent like a little frog.

And Werner, whose value was soaring, led in affability but seemed slow-witted.

In today’s intra-squad training match, he couldn’t even manage corner kick signals. Karl showed the correct gesture; Werner kicked in the opposite direction, only realizing after being scolded by the coach.

What a headache!

Young players’ discipline and attitude were poor. Last night, on the first day, someone sneaked out to party, caught by paparazzi from the Northern Ireland Sun. Löw was furious today; the association spent a fortune to suppress the scandal.

Real Madrid had a match; Kroos missed a day of training, arriving the latest. Karl felt utterly alone, lying in bed replaying his previous ankle-breaking plan. He realized forcing it was unwise—unnatural and potentially harmful to innocent opponents, a lifelong nightmare for them. From a public relations perspective, unfair too.

He’d just try his best. Whoever got unlucky and stepped on him first would retire him; both parties would owe nothing—fate’s arrangement, fair for all.

He must play every game like it’s his last, working hard, tackling, fighting, risking it all. If he wasn’t afraid of injury, the injuries would come generously.

Thinking this, Karl’s fighting spirit revived. With tomorrow’s meeting with old Löw and a group of youngsters ahead, he eagerly sought more strategies. Who said retirement could only come one way? He could take more initiative.

The scandal he once avoided suddenly surfaced, waving hello.

He couldn’t sleep anyway. Suddenly enlightened, Karl saw life guiding him.

A drink, a bar.

A light, a paparazzo.

A photo, a headline.

One Karl, and a new hope for retirement!

Tomorrow was a rest day. Let the news brew, don’t let his good performance hide it.

No forgiveness, absolutely none!

Condemn harshly!

Doubt fiercely!

Criticize severely!

Expel, if possible, mercilessly!

He swung his legs off the bed.

Decided to start today.