October 15th, 2027. Barcelona vs Sevilla at Camp Nou. A routine La Liga match that Barcelona was expected to win comfortably. Ethan sat on the bench in the 67th minute, rested as Flick had promised—this was one of those "manage your minutes" matches.
But as he watched Barcelona struggle to break down Sevilla's defense, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. A text from Sofia:
Sofia:Emergency. Lucas has a high fever. 39.2°C. Taking him to hospital now. Don't panic but wanted you to know.
Ethan's heart stopped. He read the message three times, each time the words hitting harder.
Hospital. Fever. Emergency.
His son. His six-month-old son.
He immediately stood up, catching Flick's attention.
"I need to go," Ethan said, his voice tight. "Lucas is in the hospital."
Flick didn't hesitate. "Go. Family first. Keep me updated."
Ethan didn't wait for the match to end. He grabbed his things, sprinted through the tunnel, and drove to Hospital Sant Joan de Déu—the best pediatric hospital in Barcelona.
The match ended 1-0 to Barcelona (Lewandowski scored in the 89th minute). But Ethan wasn't there to see it.
The Hospital
Ethan arrived at 8:47 PM, still wearing his Barcelona tracksuit, rushing through the emergency department until he found Sofia in a private room. Lucas lay in a hospital crib, connected to monitors, looking so small and vulnerable.
"What happened?" Ethan asked immediately.
"He was fine this afternoon," Sofia explained, her voice shaking. "Then around six, he started crying. Wouldn't stop. I checked his temperature and it was thirty-nine point two. The pediatrician said to bring him in immediately."
"And now?"
"They're running tests. Checking for infections. The fever hasn't come down yet despite the medication."
Ethan looked at his son. Lucas's cheeks were flushed red. His breathing was slightly labored. He looked nothing like the happy baby who'd been grabbing Ethan's nose just days ago.
A doctor entered—Dr. Martínez, a pediatrician in her fifties with kind eyes.
"Mr. Loki, Mrs. Loki," she said. "Lucas has what we believe is roseola infantum. It's a common viral infection in babies his age. The high fever is scary, but it's actually a good sign—his immune system is fighting the virus."
"Is it serious?" Ethan asked.
"Not typically. The fever should break within forty-eight hours. Then he'll develop a rash that lasts a few days. After that, he'll be completely fine."
"So he'll be okay?"
"He'll be fine. But we'd like to keep him overnight for observation, just to be safe. You're welcome to stay with him."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "I'm staying."
The Long Night
Sofia fell asleep around midnight in the uncomfortable hospital chair. Ethan sat beside Lucas's crib, watching his son sleep fitfully, the monitors beeping steadily.
His phone buzzed constantly—messages from teammates checking on Lucas, from Flick asking for updates, from his parents offering to fly down from Paris.
He ignored them all except one from his mother:
Maman:These moments are what being a parent means. Not the happy ones. The scary ones. The nights when you'd trade everything just to make them feel better. You're exactly where you need to be.
At 2:37 AM, Lucas woke up crying. The fever hadn't broken yet. Ethan picked him up gently, cradling him against his chest, rocking slowly.
"It's okay, mijo," he whispered. "Daddy's here. You're going to be okay."
Lucas's tiny hand grabbed Ethan's shirt, holding on with surprising strength. Even sick, even weak, he knew his father was there.
And something clicked in Ethan's mind.
This. This was what mattered. Not Champions League trophies. Not Ballon d'Ors. Not scoring records.
This moment. Holding his son at 2:37 AM in a hospital room. Being present when he was needed most.
Sofia had been right. Something had to give.
October 16th - Morning
Lucas's fever broke at 6:23 AM. Dr. Martínez checked him and confirmed he was out of danger.
"The worst is over," she said. "You can take him home this afternoon. Just keep monitoring his temperature and give him plenty of fluids."
Ethan felt relief wash over him like a wave. His son was okay. Everything else was secondary.
Barcelona had training at 10:00 AM. Ethan called Flick.
"How's Lucas?" the manager asked immediately.
"Better. Fever broke. We can take him home this afternoon."
"That's great news. Are you coming to training?"
Ethan looked at Sofia sleeping in the chair, at Lucas now resting peacefully.
"No. I'm staying with my family. I'll be back tomorrow."
There was a pause on the line. Then: "Good. That's the right decision. See you tomorrow."
October 20th - The Conversation
Four days later, Ethan and Sofia sat in their living room after Lucas had gone to sleep. The baby was fully recovered now—the rash had appeared and disappeared as predicted. But the experience had shaken both parents.
"I've been thinking," Ethan said. "About what you said. About something having to give."
"And?"
"You're right. I can't keep doing this. I can't be the best footballer in the world and be present for every moment of Lucas's life. It's impossible."
Sofia waited, letting him continue.
"So I've made a decision. After this season, I'm going to step back slightly. Not retire—I'm only twenty-seven. But reduce my workload. Maybe play until thirty-two or thirty-three instead of thirty-seven. Focus more on family in my final years."
"That's five more seasons at this pace," Sofia pointed out. "Lucas will be five years old by then. You'll miss his entire early childhood."
"I know. But I can't quit now. We're chasing a third consecutive treble. I have a five-hundred-million-euro contract. I'm the best player in the world. I can't just walk away."
"Nobody said walk away. But maybe you don't have to play fifty matches a season. Maybe you rest more. Maybe you say no to some national team call-ups."
"If I do that, someone else becomes the best. Mbappé, or whoever comes next. I lose my edge."
"And if you don't, you lose your son's childhood. Which matters more?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Ethan didn't have an answer. Not yet.
October 24th - Champions League: Barcelona 2-1 Manchester City
The second Champions League group match was at Camp Nou. Manchester City visiting. Pep Guardiola returning to face his former club.
The match was intense. Two possession-based teams trying to out-pass each other. A tactical chess match at the highest level.
Forty-fifth minute: Ethan scored just before halftime. A brilliant header from Kimmich's corner. 1-0 Barcelona.
Sixty-seventh minute: Haaland equalized for City with a powerful strike. 1-1.
Eighty-ninth minute: Ethan scored the winner. A moment of individual brilliance where he beat three defenders before finishing clinically. 2-1 Barcelona.
Two matches, two wins. Barcelona top of the new Champions League table.
But Ethan's celebration was muted. He scored, yes. But his mind was elsewhere. On Lucas at home. On the hospital room four days ago. On Sofia's question: Which matters more?
October 28th - The Journal Entry
Late at night, Ethan sat in his office writing in his private journal:
October 28th, 2027
Lucas got sick. Really sick. High fever, hospital, the works. I left a match to be with him. Didn't hesitate. Would do it again in a heartbeat.
But that's the problem. I shouldn't have to choose between a football match and my son's health. The fact that I was even at the stadium when he got sick says everything about my priorities.
Sofia asked me which matters more: being the best footballer or being Lucas's father. I couldn't answer. Still can't.
Because the truth is: I want both. I want to be the greatest player in history AND the best father Lucas could ask for. But those two things seem mutually exclusive.
Three moves ahead:1. Win this season's treble (committed)2. Win next season (2028-29) treble (probably committed)3. After that... retire early? At 29 or 30? Walk away while still at the top?
Messi played until 37. Ronaldo until 39. But they also missed huge chunks of their kids' childhoods. Is that what I want?
Or do I want to be like Iniesta—retired at 35, got to actually be present for his family?
I don't know. But I need to figure it out soon. Because Lucas won't be six months old forever. And if I'm not careful, I'll wake up one day and he'll be ten, and I'll have missed everything.
He closed the laptop, the questions unanswered.
October 31st - Halloween
Sofia insisted they celebrate Lucas's first Halloween, even though he was too young to understand it. She dressed him in a tiny lion costume—complete with a mane and everything.
"Take a picture with him," Sofia said, holding up her phone.
Ethan sat on the couch, holding Lucas in his lion costume. His son grabbed at the fake mane, looking confused but adorable.
Sofia snapped several photos. "These are going on the fridge. And Instagram."
"Please don't put them on Instagram."
"Too late. Already posted. You're trending on Twitter as 'Softest Dad in Football.'"
Ethan groaned but secretly loved it. These moments—stupid, mundane, normal—were what he was fighting to preserve.
Later that evening, after Lucas had gone to sleep, Ethan's phone rang. Mbappé calling. The first time they'd spoken since the El Clásico in September.
"Hey," Ethan answered cautiously.
"Hey. I saw the Halloween photos. Lucas is cute. The lion costume is perfect."
"Thanks. How are you?"
"Better. I'm sorry about how I acted after the Clásico. That text I sent was... I was in a dark place. But I'm working through it."
"You don't need to apologize. I understand the pressure."
"Still. You're my best friend. I shouldn't take my career frustrations out on you." Mbappé paused. "I heard Lucas was sick. Is he okay?"
"He's fine now. Viral infection. Scary but manageable."
"Being a parent changes everything, doesn't it?"
"Completely. How do you know? You don't have kids."
"No, but I see what it's done to you. You're different this season. Distracted. Like part of your mind is always somewhere else."
"Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who's known you since we were kids? Yeah. But it's not a bad thing. It's called being human."
They talked for another hour about everything—football, family, the future. By the end, their friendship felt repaired. Not perfect, but better.
November 1st - The Team Meeting
Flick called Ethan into his office before training.
"I've been watching you," the German manager said. "You're not yourself. Still scoring goals, still playing well, but something's different."
"I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me. What's going on?"
Ethan hesitated, then decided to be honest. "I'm struggling to balance football and fatherhood. It's harder than I expected. Lucas got sick and I realized I'm missing his entire childhood. But I also have a five-hundred-million-euro contract and a responsibility to this club."
Flick nodded slowly. "Can I tell you something? I have three kids. All grown now. And my biggest regret is missing so much of their childhoods. I was always traveling, always coaching, always putting football first. I thought I was building a legacy. But my legacy should have been my family."
"So what do I do?"
"You find balance. You rest when you can. You're honest about your limitations. And you remember that football is temporary, but family is forever."
"That's easier said than done."
"Everything worthwhile is hard. But Ethan—you're twenty-seven years old with five Ballon d'Ors. You've already achieved what most players only dream of. At some point, you need to ask yourself: what am I still chasing? And is it worth what I'm sacrificing?"
The question haunted Ethan for the rest of the day.
November 7th - Champions League: Barcelona 4-1 Juventus
The third Champions League match was at Camp Nou. Juventus visiting. An aging Italian giant trying to reclaim past glory.
Barcelona dominated from the first whistle. It was never in doubt.
Twenty-third minute: Ethan scored. 1-0.
Forty-fifth minute: Ethan scored again. 2-0.
Sixty-seventh minute: Lewandowski made it 3-0.
Seventy-eighth minute: Juventus pulled one back. 3-1.
Eighty-ninth minute: Ethan completed his hat-trick. 4-1.
Three Champions League matches, three wins. Ethan now had 7 goals in the competition.
But after the match, instead of celebrating, Ethan went straight home. Lucas was teething—six months old and already his first tooth was emerging. He was miserable, crying constantly.
Sofia looked exhausted when Ethan walked in.
"How long has he been like this?" Ethan asked.
"Since you left for the stadium. Three hours of nonstop crying."
"Let me take him. You go rest."
Ethan spent the next two hours walking around the apartment with Lucas, gently rocking him, singing Spanish lullabies Sofia had taught him. Eventually, Lucas calmed down and fell asleep on Ethan's shoulder.
He stood there in the dark living room, holding his sleeping son, and realized something:
This was better than any hat-trick. Better than any trophy. This moment—being the person Lucas needed when he was in pain—was worth more than all the goals in the world.
Three moves ahead, Ethan's decision was becoming clearer:
Move one: Finish this season. Win the treble. Honor his commitments.
Move two: Reassess after the season. Maybe play differently. Maybe rest more. Maybe put family first sometimes.
Move three: Retire earlier than planned. Not at thirty-seven. Maybe at thirty-two or thirty-three. Walk away while still great. Spend Lucas's childhood being present.
It wouldn't make him the absolute greatest player in history. Messi's eight Ballon d'Ors would likely remain untouchable.
But it would make him something better: a present father. A good husband. A complete person.
And maybe, just maybe, that mattered more than football immortality.
End of Chapter 75