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The weather was deceptively peaceful; warm light illuminated the stadium on 29 June, the start of the week. A Monday that would mark the end for them. Manuel’s gaze was watchful; perhaps he appeared calm from the outside, but certainly not nonchalant – too much was at stake for that – especially as he watched his captain, Kimmich, pacing up and down ahead of the potential penalty shoot-out.
Barely within earshot, yet far enough away that he couldn’t hear the question – though he knew it all too well himself – and a glance towards the box containing the special guests told him, without even seeing Müller, that he knew exactly the same. The younger members of the chosen few: courage, responsibility…perhaps it was simply not the fear of losing a career that had only just begun.
Goretzka’s shake of the head told him that he didn’t want to; Tah and Woltemade, on the other hand, had the courage – even if it wasn’t enough. As the goalkeeper, all he had to do was save it – ridiculous; he would have laughed if his heart hadn’t been pounding so painfully in his chest.
His fingers, encased in gloves like a second skin, trembled slightly, no matter how often he clenched his fist and paced tensely back and forth. Yet his face remained impassive; he’d made one save, as expected; could a nation expect him to make another?
A moment later, the ball he was supposed to save was in the net – the end of the road for Germany at the 2026 World Cup. The impact on the rough pitch was dull, hardly worth mentioning in terms of pain – a dull, unpleasant thud whilst the cheers and shouts of the Paraguayan fans were deafening…yet the disappointment that his own journey had ended this way had almost chained him to the ground. The yellow fabric of his shirt was stained green from the turf; his gloves, meant to protect his body, could not dispel his doubts as he shook hands with the team and tried not to appear completely shattered.
He would show some dignity as the German national team left the pitch in defeat. As the silence in the changing room gripped them all, there was only the occasional murmur, quiet conversations amongst those who wanted to quickly sort something out before leaving, to take whatever they could of America with them.
Others wrote to family and friends; some went for a shower, even though Neuer was certain that if he were to do the same, he would no longer be able to hold back the tears. Although they would mix with the water, as the symbol of strength and of the team, he could not allow himself to appear weak.
A room with four walls, oppressively filled with a team that, after conceding a goal, had lost all motivation and even all joy. The trudging back to the bus, a journey of endless silence, a stillness that had paralysed them all, whilst he stared at his screen.
Write to your family; don’t expect him to come his conscience urged him; had he been alone, a bitter laugh would have escaped him – a laugh that was more like a sob. His career was now over; he was old, too old for this sport; soon he would probably just be giving his views to some broadcaster via a microphone – a dull but decent livelihood for some. One goal, and it seemed as though the golden history that surrounded him had been swallowed up by a dark truth.
One after another they got out, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses and caps; no words, only refusals to give interviews as they all disappeared one by one into the interior of the large hotel complex.
The clink of the lifts as the team vanished inside them, crammed together; no one said a word – silence, for what was there to say? They had lost, and each felt more responsible than the next. Footsteps were muffled on the long carpet stretching from one side of the corridor to the other; dark fabric that muffled the goalkeeper’s footsteps as the keycard clicked open the door lock.
The scent of wood and fresh bed linen hung in the air of the room as the forty-year-old carelessly placed his sports bag in front of the bed and sought refuge in the smaller bathroom. What else could he have done, sitting on the bed, facing the pity and hatred of his family and fans – no.
Dark tiled walls; the click of the door locking was one click too loud as he leaned his back against the door – just a moment, a moment, a breath of calm before his hands hastily stripped off his tracksuit. He flung the clothes into even more of a heap; the yellow of his jersey – too bright, too recognisable – so that he could look at himself in the mirror, and his naked body in the mirror bore the goalkeeper’s features.
The rush of water as the lukewarm stream from the showerhead turned hot, the cramping of his muscles, a tensing as the harsh heat took hold of everything.
For a moment he lost himself in the sensation, felt at ease; it was all so much better than what had happened just a few hours earlier. Hot, damp steam rose and clung to the window and mirror like a film; the whole bathroom became stifling as the water, shampoo and shower gel ran off his body. Foam and bubbles trickled down his body; although his body was slowly relaxing and the pain had eased, his inner self was still troubled.
The water fell in small, tingling drops; his feeble curses were drowned out by the loud noise.
The dull pain in his ribs; looking down, he saw his skin had turned slightly discoloured. I should never have tried this all the messages and news boiled down to one thing: his self-doubt was overwhelming. The scent of eucalyptus shower gel filled the room as he washed away the sweat and grime, scrubbing off the remnants of the game from his body.
With a turn of the tap, the rush of water ceased and Manuel stepped out, reaching for the white towel to wrap around his waist; the water dripped quietly from him. The misted-up mirror denied him a view of himself; had he seen the extensive discolouration of his body, it would only have tormented him even more. Stepping out of the bathroom, his gaze shifted from the floor to the bed, and the goalkeeper flinched in alarm.
“How did you get in here?” he asked; after all, he was the only one with a key card for the room. His former player, Thomas, on the other hand, merely gave a slight, casual shrug of his shoulders. “Does it matter, what’s far more important is how you’re coping with the defeat?” he asked the question straight out – the one issue that was so crucial, yet which Manuel didn’t want to address – or perhaps couldn’t. His fingers, still partly covered in tape, reached for the white towel.
The fact that he was standing there in front of him wearing nothing but a towel, with Thomas’s gaze fixed on him and him standing in the doorway, made it difficult – indeed, it completely cut off any possibility of escape. “I’m fine, it’s over-not every career ends in gold” he retorted, though his voice was laced with sarcasm, a harsh defence, almost defiant. Yet the breathless gasp and the younger man’s muttered “Oh, really?” didn’t sit well with him.
Müller slowly pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards his colleague and long-time lover. Despite the slight difference in height, Thomas’s gaze was overwhelming.
“You’re sinking into self-doubt that’s unfounded, Manuel” the brown-haired man began, tapping his finger against the older man’s damp chest. His bandaged fingers clawed into the white fabric of the towel. “It’s not just you; it’s the whole team. Everyone knew about the risks, the possibilities, and a coach who couldn’t do his job” he continued, his tapping growing more energetic and firm.
Both had already suffered defeats, seen how crushing they could be.
“Yes, but I should have saved that shot!” Manuel retorted, anger flashing in the blue of his eyes as he tried to push past the younger man. With a sudden jolt, a force the goalkeeper hadn’t expected, Thomas shoved the older man onto the bed, his knees jutting out at the edge, his body held dully by the soft mattress.
A curse died in his breath as the dark-haired man followed, “It doesn’t matter; a tragic end doesn’t change anything about your talent, your story…ours now” Müller continued, shifting his weight slightly onto the centre of the body; the muffled gasping as Manuel looked away, his hands clawing at the fabric of his friend’s top. The blond man’s breathing quickened; their eyes met – yet Thomas showed no pity.
If someone had led a career and a life as a player like both of them, they should have known better. “No ‘beginner’ excuses – not for a long time now” Thomas said, bending down, his lips tracing the slowly drying skin, gentle kisses, care, apparent affection.
Carefully tending to the older man’s body, “Self-pity and doubt – that’s what probably hits the younger ones harder” came the feeble words from the blond man; Manuel covered his eyes with one hand. Even though he was smiling, Thomas could see it was a defensive reaction. “Left alone, courage shattered” – with every further word, the fragile care seemed to fade further and defeat to prevail.
A faint tremor had seized the blond man; his free hand was still clinging to Thomas’s shirt. A slight shiver ran through him as the evaporating water cooled his body further; the clothes Thomas was wearing barely kept him warm.
“Are you going to stop now?” the younger man’s sudden, hoarse voice echoed through the room; fingers that had previously touched the body beneath him so gently now slid from his hip to his upper body. Before Manu could even reply, a harsh gasp escaped him as Thomas’s finger pressed against the colourful bruise on his ribs. The pain was sharp, deep and tinged with a faint sweetness; it didn’t just press against his battered skin and blood vessels – the bones beneath them ached too.
Tears glistened in Manuel’s eyes as he was forced to remove his hand from his face. The goalkeeper tried to push his partner away, but Thomas continued to press against the colourful skin; Manuel felt his fingers pressing into his ribs, the pain spreading from a dull ache to a deep, stabbing sensation.
“Fear, Thomas! Is that what you want to hear?” His voice trembled, pained, and he managed to turn them both over; the goalkeeper’s strength prevailed as Thomas now lay beneath him on the bed.
The brown-haired man watched as Manuel held out his hand, bracing himself to take a blow, a slap – for his love, he would take anything. Thomas was all the more stunned when the blond man simply collapsed on top of him; resting his head against the younger ones neck, he could make out the silent sobbing. The trembling of his body as everything that had been pent up seemed to subside, feelings came to the surface freely, and Thomas held his beloved close.
A gentle stroke down his back; the tense muscles relaxed as the small circles and gentle strokes slowly soothed Manuel. “I wanted to see this so that I could hold you” the brown-haired man replied softly, a whisper meant only for the older man, as the two simply lay there together for a while, holding each other.
The tears gradually subsided, drying as Thomas gently stroked the older man’s cheek; Manuel was drawn into a gentle yet heartfelt kiss, a sigh of relief escaping them as the two moved slightly. They shifted around on the hotel bed so that they were still lying cuddled up together on the pillows.
“Are you expecting me to get undressed too, or are you going to put something on?” Thomas asked suddenly, with a mischievous look, and as he glanced down at himself, he realised once more that the towel was still draped around his hips; even though it was slightly loosened, the whole thing still looked a bit awkward.
A smile spread across his cheeks as Manuel pressed a kiss onto his boyfriend's cheek. “I like you even better without your clothes on” Manuel replied, his fingers drifting towards the shirt, as the two of them snuggled up to each other, holding eachother again.
Defeat had been suffered, but with such a love by his side, he would never have to be alone – after all, they had each other.