Early in the morning, the Hoffenheim training base was quiet.
Inside the club's main building, at the end of the corridor leading to the head coach's office, a tall, straight figure stood quietly in front of the closed oak door.
It was Oliver.
Today, he was wearing a loose Hoffenheim training uniform.
The wound on his forehead was barely visible, and his right thigh had mostly healed, though there was still a tiny bit of discomfort.
However, compared to this slight physical discomfort,
the guilt and regret swirling in Oliver's heart at this moment were what truly made him uncomfortable.
Today, he had to be here to speak his mind to someone.
"Tap... tap..."
The quiet of the corridor was broken by familiar footsteps.
The footsteps sounded a bit tired, yet still carried a clear rhythm.
Oliver looked up.
Nagelsmann's figure appeared at the end of the corridor, walking towards his office.
He was carrying a leather briefcase, wearing a well-ironed but slightly wrinkled suit jacket, his face betraying an unconcealable exhaustion, and the dark circles under his eyes were clearly visible even in the dim light.
Although that match had passed several days ago,
the night at Bernabéu and the subsequent immense pressure clearly still lingered on him.
He was looking down, seemingly deep in thought, until he was almost at his office door, when he finally saw Oliver standing there.
"Oliver?" Nagelsmann was a bit surprised, stopping in his tracks, his brows slightly furrowed as he looked at his beloved disciple.
"You... why are you here so early? Is something wrong?" His voice was as gentle as ever, but that gentleness carried a weariness that had settled after experiencing great ups and downs.
Nagelsmann's gaze still held deep concern as he looked at Oliver.
He instinctively glanced at the bandage on Oliver's right leg:
"How does your leg feel? Didn't I tell you to rest more? Why are you up so early today?"
Oliver did not answer immediately.
He looked at his coach's tired yet caring face.
The image of that face, tear-streaked for him in the hospital not long ago, instantly flooded his mind.
Finally.
The courage and emotions Oliver had built up all night could no longer be suppressed at this moment.
Oliver took a deep breath, and then...
He did not speak, but suddenly stepped forward.
With a decisive and intensely emotional force, he opened his arms and tightly embraced his head coach.
Nagelsmann's body instantly stiffened.
The briefcase clattered onto the clean floor, emitting a dull echo.
He had not expected this at all.
Oliver's strong arms wrapped around him, his forehead almost resting on his shoulder.
The young coach, who was always composed and self-possessed, was caught off guard by this sudden embrace.
After a few seconds of dead silence, Nagelsmann instinctively raised his hand and gently patted his disciple's back, his voice filled with surprise and even more confusion:
"Oliver? What's... what's wrong?" He felt the unusual strength of Oliver's embrace, even a slight tremor.
"Coach..." Oliver's voice came from Nagelsmann's shoulder, muffled, yet like a floodgate opening, carrying an unprecedented heaviness and choked emotion:
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm truly sorry!"
Oliver slightly loosened his arms and took half a step back, not picking up the briefcase on the floor, but raising his head, his eyes already red.
His clear gaze met Nagelsmann's surprised, even somewhat bewildered, eyes.
He began to speak, his voice no longer the calm of the pitch or the usual gentleness, but filled with urgency, remorse, and a desperate need to lay himself bare:
"Coach... I'm so sorry... for what I did that night at Bernabéu... for my damned stubbornness and immaturity..." His words came out quickly, as if he wanted to pour out everything he had held inside, each word landing with weight.
"At that time... I only knew how to fight! Only knew I had to win! Only knew I couldn't give up even a shred of hope! But I... I never thought... that my refusal to leave the field... my stubbornness in staying there... wasn't courage at all! Nor was it responsibility!"
Oliver shook his head agitatedly, large tears already uncontrollably rolling down his face, which was etched with remorse:
"That was selfishness! Utter and complete selfishness! I only thought about my responsibility, about scoring... about proving something... But I never once put myself in your shoes...
I never thought about how agonizing it must have been for you on the sideline, watching me struggle on the field with a bloodied face... how much you wanted to substitute me immediately!
But I... I waved you off like an idiot! Refusing your kindness again and again! Ignoring your worries and duties!"
Nagelsmann's expression, initially surprised, gradually became complex and moved.
He looked at his beloved disciple, who was now sobbing uncontrollably, listening to the deep self-reproach contained in his hoarse voice.
At this moment, the tightly strung chord of self-blame and worry in Nagelsmann's heart seemed to be gently plucked by something.
"I made you... at the very moment you should have decisively exercised your authority as head coach... because of my stubbornness... fall into agony and pain! After the match, in the hospital... you were so self-reproaching, so tearfully guilty in front of my parents... But that wasn't your fault at all!
It was me! It was I who forced you to be unable to fulfill your responsibility to protect me! It was I who made you bear pressure and pain you shouldn't have!" Oliver's voice grew louder and louder, his arms waving excitedly, the wound on his forehead becoming even more glaring in the morning light.
"And my parents... Did you see how heartbroken they were that night? I... I only thought about playing football, but I forgot I was their only son!
My willfulness... almost broke their hearts!
And my teammates... Gnabry, Amiri, Maguire, De Jong, Vogt... they were all worried sick about me... all of this... this was all because of my self-righteous persistence!"
Oliver finally couldn't speak anymore, his shoulders trembling with violent sobs.
Tears had long blurred his vision, and the salty taste flowed into his mouth.
Now, he was like a child who had finally broken his hard shell, exposing his soft and vulnerable core.
In front of his mentor, the "individual heroism" that had been cloaked in glory that night was shattered into pieces.
Nagelsmann looked at his beloved disciple, trembling with tears, listening to his heartfelt words, full of self-reflection and even self-reproach.
For how many days and nights had the self-blame, confusion, and worry lingered in Nagelsmann's heart? At this moment, they melted away like ice and snow in the sun.
Nagelsmann had initially thought he would have to gradually guide Oliver, to take time to use training and matches to reinforce his understanding of the team and his own health.
That would require time, patience, and even more adjustments.
But he had never expected that this young genius, who was usually humble but inherently extremely confident and even a bit stubborn, would actively tear off his "individual hero" facade in such a profound way.
To dissect his "mistakes" so genuinely, so unreservedly, and to apologize for the "harm" he had caused him, his parents, and his teammates.
This sincerity and courage beyond his imagination, this calm reflection after the impulse, this maturity in daring to face his inner self and admit imperfection...
made Nagelsmann's heart ache fiercely, yet also filled him with immense, unparalleled relief.
Nagelsmann's suspended heart.
At this moment.
Finally, truly, completely relaxed.
A rush of warmth surged to his nasal bridge, and his eyes instantly welled up.
"Alright, you silly boy..." Nagelsmann's voice also became heavily nasal, and tears uncontrollably flowed.
He reached out, no longer in the posture of a coach, but like an older brother, like a father, forcefully pulling the still-sobbing Oliver back into his embrace, patting his back firmly.
"It's all over... it's all over..." His voice choked, carrying a sigh of relief and immense comfort.
"You don't need to apologize... you really don't... You did it for the team, for victory... I understand everything you did, every minute and second on the field."
He slightly loosened his arms, cupped Oliver's tear-stained face in his hands, and said earnestly, word by word:
"Oliver, look at me. You don't need to apologize. I'm the one who should apologize. At that time, I should have been tougher and made you leave the field... That was my responsibility..."
Seeing Oliver shake his head, wanting to explain, Nagelsmann stopped him with a look and continued.
"But!"
His tone suddenly became solemn and filled with relief:
"But, for you to be able to stand here today, to say these words to me...
Do you know...
This is more valuable than you scoring 10 goals against Real Madrid, and it makes me... makes me, as your coach... even prouder! Because this shows... you've truly... truly..." He seemed to be searching for the most accurate words, finally uttering with immense affirmation and emotion:
"Grown up... truly grown up!"
Nagelsmann wiped away Oliver's tears from his cheek with his thumb.
"Good lad!" He repeated, squeezing Oliver's shoulder firmly, a relieved smile finally appearing on his face, though still tear-streaked.
To lighten the overly heavy and emotional atmosphere, Nagelsmann deliberately spoke in a relaxed, even teasing tone:
"Look at you, crying so much your eyes are swollen. A handsome young man like you is suddenly not so handsome. If your teammates see you, they'll think I, the head coach, am taking my anger out on you first thing in the morning."
Oliver broke into a smile through his tears at his joke, sniffing a bit awkwardly, and wiping his face haphazardly with the back of his hand.
The release of emotions and his mentor's affirmation made him feel as if a huge weight had finally been lifted from his heart, making him much lighter.
Nagelsmann became serious, bent down to pick up the fallen briefcase, dusted it off, and naturally resumed the tone a coach should have:
"Now listen, kid, the team will always need you, of course, but right now,"
He pointed to Oliver's forehead and right leg,
"you need time for the last bit of your minor injuries to completely disappear, and even more time to calm down and complete another equally important major task!"
He looked earnestly into Oliver's eyes:
"Oliver, next week is the German university entrance exam, isn't it? Don't think I don't know you have revision materials tucked into your training notebook.
Although your injuries are mostly healed, you're still a bit short of the requirements for playing competitive matches.
Most importantly, you must go all out to overcome this hurdle of the university entrance exam. Football is important, but your life is not only on the pitch."
Seeing Oliver about to speak and promise something, Nagelsmann directly waved his hand, cutting off the words about to come out:
"Don't be so quick to declare. My arrangement is: from today until the end of the university entrance exam.
Your primary tasks are only two: First, strictly adhere to the medical team's rehabilitation plan, undergo restorative training, with the goal of completely resolving the thigh issue.
Second, bury yourself in books and focus on your exam preparation. Apart from necessary physical therapy and physical recovery, all other training is suspended. You can observe team tactical meetings, but do not participate in high-intensity discussions. Temporarily forget about matches."
His tone was unquestionable:
"As for the League, the Cup?
I, Gnabry, Maguire, and the others are still here; you don't need to worry. Every single one of your teammates is as reliable as you are.
But what you need to do now is to restore yourself to 100% health, and then bring back a university entrance exam report card that makes you and your parents proud!
Understand? This is an order!"
Oliver looked at his coach's eyes, filled with concern and irrefutable authority, watching him lay out a clear plan for everything.
This was not a discussion; it was an order, protection, and a sharing of responsibility.
Oliver's heart was filled with endless gratitude.
He straightened his back. Although tear stains were still on his face, his gaze had once again become clear and firm, carrying the solemnity of a soldier accepting orders:
"Understood! Coach!" Oliver's voice was steady and strong.
"I promise, I will conscientiously follow your arrangements! Recover well! Study well! Prepare for the university entrance exam with all my might! I will absolutely not be distracted by football! And I will absolutely not let down your trust and the team's trust!"
Finally, he looked deeply at Nagelsmann again, his eyes, still wet from crying but now clearer, filled with the purest and most profound emotions:
"Coach... Thank you! Truly... thank you!"
Nagelsmann looked at this disciple who had shed his youthful naivety, at his upright posture and solemn promise, and a warm smile of relief, hope, and anticipation finally bloomed on his face.
Nagelsmann reached out, said nothing more, and simply patted Oliver's shoulder firmly again.
Then, he opened the office door with his key.
The moment he stepped into the office, he paused again, not looking back, but his voice came clearly:
"Go on, kid, go to the cafeteria for a proper breakfast, then report to the physical therapy room. Don't let me see you wandering around the training ground these next two days!"
Oliver watched his coach disappear behind the door.
Listening to that last instruction, which carried both care and a slight warning, the corners of his mouth involuntarily curved into a smile.
He reached out and gently touched the Hoffenheim crest on his chest.
The sky had finally brightened, and the morning sun illuminated the corridor.
Oliver stepped forward, facing the morning light.
...
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