Chapter Text
As a newly hired Level-2 assistant, Hans’s daily life at the club was exhausting—and wildly underpaid. The salary barely covered rent and groceries, yet his workload was relentless: analyzing match and training footage, producing visual heat maps, helping the head coach arrange training sessions, and occasionally filling in as a half-qualified sports psychologist, monitoring players’ stress levels so those multi-million-euro players didn’t mentally check out mid-match.
Even so, none of that compared to the nightmare he was about to face.
It was Matchday 18 of the Bundesliga. Bayern Munich hosted Borussia Mönchengladbach at the Allianz Arena. Theoretically speaking, the strength gap was obvious—this should’ve been a routine win.
And yet.
Whether it was home advantage failing to show up, or playing on multiple fronts has exhausted the players, or Gladbach’s inexplicable black-magic ability to “wake up, eat breakfast, and beat Bayern,” disaster struck. Bayern were overturned 2–1 at home, forced to hand over all three points.
During the post-match lap, boos rained down from the South Stand. The players returned to the locker room wearing expressions that could only be described as grim.
Before the coach could even speak—Bang—Michael Kaiser glared straight at the No. 11, slammed his kit bag onto the floor, the sound echoing sharply through the room.
Hans’s stomach dropped.
Oh no. Here we go.
“Yoichi-kun,” Kaiser said coldly, “care to explain how you conceded that goal during first-half stoppage time?”
Isagi Yoichi, still toweling off his hair and organizing his gear, looked up. He yanked the towel down and snapped back immediately.
“You’ve got the nerve to ask me? I was getting boxed in by three defenders—where were you? Out for a scenic walk?”
“Scenic walk?” Kaiser scoffed. “Want to compare total distance and sprint counts?”
Kaiser stepped closer, all height and pressure, effectively pinning Isagi against the lockers. Despite the physical disadvantage, Isagi didn’t back down.
“Sure,” Isagi shot back. “Let’s also check pass completion rates. Look at the kind of passes you're making in the second half! Did His Majesty suddenly go colorblind and forget who his teammates were?”
“If you hadn’t lost that aerial duel, would the ball even have been intercepted?” Kaiser jabbed a finger into Isagi’s forehead, forcing him back a step.
Isagi grabbed Kaiser’s jersey instantly, fist curling around the massive T on his chest, yanking him down until they were face to face.
“Their defenders average one-ninety-five! What did you want me to do—grow taller?” Isagi snapped. “And you almost got flattened in the box yourself. Why didn’t you go down and draw a yellow card?”
“Enough.” Hans rushed in, wedging himself between the two strikers. The rest of the squad barely reacted—clearly used to this—each busy with their own routines.The argument died down, but the tension lingered, thick and uncomfortable. Staff members wisely avoided provoking either the “Emperor” or the “Demon King,” packing up and clocking out at record speed.
Hans let out a shaky breath and returned to his office. The players were done for the day—he wasn’t. Data analysis waited.
After several minutes of staring at the screen without typing anything useful, Hans sighed and opened the internal staff group chat.
Hans:
“Are Kaiser and Isagi… always like this?”
Replies flooded in almost instantly.
“Yep. Powder keg and spark.”
“You’ll get used to it, rookie.”
“That’s such a cute question. Just like me one year ago.”
“Give it a month and you’ll enjoy it.”
“Bet. A week. Then he’s tweeting.”
“Don’t tweet. Club’ll kill you.”
Hans scrolled, unsure whether to laugh or panic.
He’d heard the rumors before joining—Sky Sports and Kicker loved pushing stories about the feud between Bayern’s two shine novas. The engagement numbers were insane. Fans even made dedicated tags for them, attracting some strange girls who… didn’t really seem to watch football.
Hans had assumed it was tabloid nonsense.
Now? Not so sure.
Doesn’t this affect team chemistry? Shouldn’t management intervene?
He typed again.
“It’s tradition. Mia san mia.”
“That’s why we’re Football Hollywood.”
“Relax. They fight, but they deliver.”
“Honestly, the worse they fight, the better we play.”
“Weird chemistry. But it works. I love it.”
“Compared to those days they compete with each other for possession of ball, this is peaceful.”
Their WHAT days?
“Wait—he hasn’t seen it?”
“Hannah, drop your Kaisagi edits RIGHT NOW!!”
“Leave the newbie alone!”
“Girls, don’t ship real players.”
“What’s the big deal? It’s harmless.”
“Have some respect to our players please.”
Hans stopped reading.
Kaisagi? He’d seen the word online before, never understood it.
Still, if no one else was worried, maybe he didn’t need to be either.
“Pro tip, Hans,” someone added. “If they really blow up—get Kaiser a black coffee. Get Isagi something sweet like apple strudel. It works every time.”
Finally. Actual advice.
Hans thanked them and went back to work. By the time he finished breaking down footage and sent it to the coaching staff, it was past eight. His eyes burned. His stomach growled.
Dinner first. Home later.
Because the cafeteria was already closing, he managed to scavenge only a croissant and some cold luncheon meat. Miserable, but survivable. Thankfully, Gisela Café was still open—he could at least get a hot juice to make the meal less tragic.
Tray in hand, he scanned for a seat—and froze.
He recognized that laugh.
Isagi Yoichi, still in his training gear, stood at the counter holding a takeaway coffee, talking animatedly on a video call.
“Isagi, good evening,” Hans said, approaching politely.
Isagi looked over and smiled. “Evening, Hans. Still here this late?”
“Just finished work,” Hans admitted, scratching the back of his head. “Eating before heading home.”
“Oh are you calling someone?” he asked.
“My family,” Isagi replied, tilting the phone. On screen was a gentle, beautiful Asian woman—clearly his mother—smiling and waving.
“Kon… konnichiwa?” Hans stammered, absolutely butchering the pronunciation. “Wadashiwa Hans desu.”
Isagi’s mother laughed warmly, saying something Hans didn’t understand at all—he knew approximately one percent of Japanese, all from 720 episodes Naruto.
“She’s thanking you for taking care of me,” Isagi translated, far too kindly.
Hans flushed and waved his hands frantically. “I—I haven’t done anything like that!”
Still, he couldn’t help noticing where Isagi’s gentle temperament came from.
“So… why are you still at the club so late?” Hans asked.
“I stayed to review some tactics,” Isagi said. “It’s easier with someone else—less chance of missing things.”
“Oh! Do you need help?”
Isagi hesitated, smiled a little stiffly. “No, it’s fine. I’m heading out now anyway.”
Hans nodded, pointing to his seat. “I’ll eat and go too.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Hans.”
“Good night, Isagi.”
Hans watched Isagi walk off into the night toward the parking lot, takeaway coffee swinging lightly in his hand.
Only then did Hans clutch his chest.
I just chatted with Bayern Munich’s star striker! And his mom! On video!
He’d never admitted it out loud, but Hans had followed Isagi since before his promotion to the team.
Humming to himself—“La la la, Mia san mia~”—Hans sat down to eat.
Even the sad croissant tasted better now.