You hadn’t really expected much when you decided to make the seven-hour trip to Leverkusen. It was one of those impulsive choices — the kind you justify by saying “you only live once” but secretly hope will become something you’ll remember forever. You loved football, of course, but there was one particular reason you wanted to be there.

Florian Wirtz.

You’d seen him play countless times — quick, clever, composed — the kind of player who made the impossible look effortless. But seeing him in person? That was different. Watching him move across the pitch during training, laughing with his teammates, sweat glistening under the cloudy sky… it felt unreal. He made every drill look so easy, so natural. You caught yourself smiling without realizing it, the same way you might when watching someone you admire just being themselves.

When the whistle blew and training ended, fans rushed toward the barriers, shouting names and waving shirts, scarves, and phones. The players began making their way over, signing everything within reach. The air buzzed with excitement — voices calling out, camera shutters clicking, hands reaching through the rails.

Then you saw him.

Florian was making his way down the line, signing autographs, taking quick photos, laughing with fans. But when he reached your section, everything seemed to slow down. Maybe it was in your head, maybe not — but when his eyes met yours, the noise around you faded just a little.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little breathless from all the chaos, but his smile was genuine.