The ball curled beautifully through the crisp German air, bending with precision before nestling into the top corner of the net. Cole Palmer stood motionless, right foot still slightly raised from the follow-through, watching as his teammates erupted in applause around him.
"Damn, Palmer!" Malen shouted, slapping him on the back. "That's three in a row!"
Cole allowed himself a small smile. Not long ago, he'd been shivering in Manchester, staring out at the snow and wondering if he'd made the biggest mistake of his career. Now, here he was, drilling free kicks with a confidence that felt almost foreign to him.
His debut goal against Leverkusen had been a revelation—a simple tap-in that nonetheless felt like breaking through an invisible barrier. Then came his composed performance in Paris followed by the clinical finish against Mönchengladbach. Each moment building upon the last, constructing a version of Cole Palmer that Manchester City had never fully trusted to exist.
As the training session wound down, Cole found himself lingering on the pitch, the weight of the ball against his feet a comforting presence. The confidence he now felt wasn't something that had appeared overnight. It had been cultivated, nurtured—first by that unexpected phone call, then by the daily experience of being valued, of being seen.
He closed his eyes briefly, remembering that January afternoon in Manchester. The snow falling outside his window, the weight of the phone in his hand, and that voice on the other end—younger than his own but somehow carrying an authority that defied age.
"Palmer! My guy! Been hoping you'd call, bro. How's Manchester?"
The memory of that conversation flooded back in vivid detail—not the sanitized version he'd recounted to journalists, but the raw, unfiltered reality of it. Luka's enthusiasm had been infectious, his belief unwavering. But what Cole remembered most was the undercurrent of understanding—the recognition of something in Cole that perhaps he himself hadn't fully acknowledged.
"City's got what, fifteen world-class players in your position? Here, you'd be playing. Actually playing."
The conversation had meandered wildly after that, between Luka's animated pitch for Dortmund and Cole's monosyllabic responses. He'd been too afraid to fully engage, too comfortable in his Manchester bubble to imagine anything else. Even as Luka painted pictures of Champions League nights and tactical setups that would showcase Cole's talents, he'd responded with variations of "yeah" and "sounds good."
But then Luka had cut through his defenses with unexpected precision:
"Look, Palmer, I'm going to be straight with you. I recommended you because I know you have the ability to perform here, similarly to me, maybe you need a change of scenery. You're stuck in a comfort zone. Manchester's home, I get it. I lived there too. But sometimes you need to step out of that shadow to cast your own."
Cole had remained silent for a long moment after that, the truth of those words seeping into places he'd been avoiding. Manchester City—the club he'd loved since childhood, the academy that had shaped him—had become both sanctuary and prison. The familiar training grounds, the coaches who'd known him since he was a boy, the comfort of his mother's cooking and his bedroom with its City posters... all of it had wrapped around him like a cocoon, protecting him from the frightening prospect of discovering who he might be beyond those boundaries.
"You really think I could make a difference?" he'd finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I wouldn't have recommended you if I didn't," Luka had said. "Plus, between you and me, the weather here isn't nearly as bad as England's."
That small joke had somehow broken the tension, allowing Cole to take his first tentative step toward something new. "Alright, alright. I'll... I'll think about it."
"Think fast, bro. Deadline day tomorrow. Hope to see you here."
Now, as Cole collected another ball and placed it carefully on the training ground, he wondered if City was watching. Did Pep see the highlights of his performances? Did the coaching staff discuss the technical improvements he'd made? Or had they simply filed him away as another academy product sent on loan, his development no longer their immediate concern?
The thought stung more than he cared to admit. Behind him, most of his teammates had already headed for the showers, but Cole wasn't ready to leave. There was something magnetic about this pitch, about the space he'd carved for himself here. Each training session felt like reclaiming a piece of his identity, rebuilding his confidence one touch at a time.
His mind drifted to that night in Paris, watching from the bench as Luka and Mbappé engaged in what felt like a private duel, two generational talents pushing each other to impossible heights. He remembered the electricity in the stadium when Luka stepped up to take that free kick in the final minute, the score balanced at 2-3.
"I've got this," Luka had told Malen, who had initially moved toward the ball. There was no arrogance in his voice, just a quiet certainty that Cole had found mesmerizing.
Twenty-nine yards out. The wall perfectly positioned. Mbappé watching from the halfway line, hands on hips, as if he already knew what was coming.
Cole had held his breath along with the rest of the bench as Luka took three steps back, his eyes never leaving the top corner of the goal. The subsequent strike had been perfect—curling over the wall—swerving multidirectionally before dipping viciously into the upper corner, leaving Donnarumma clutching at air.
The equalizer. The hat-trick. The moment that had cemented Luka's status as something beyond a mere prospect.
What had struck Cole most wasn't just the technique but the absolute conviction behind it. The way Luka had celebrated—not with wild abandon but with a controlled intensity, as if he'd simply fulfilled a promise to himself.
"He's seventeen," Cole had whispered to no one in particular, the realization simultaneously inspiring and challenging.
Since that night, Cole had watched Luka with new eyes. While the others saw only the brilliant performances, Cole noticed the subtle shifts in his training regimen. There was a methodical precision to everything Luka did now—each drill approached with surgical focus, each technique refined with obsessive attention to detail.
It reminded Cole of the old videos he'd watched of Messi and Neymar—the graceful economy of movement, the purposeful repetition, the refusal to accept anything less than perfection. Not that Luka had ever been lazy, but there was now a calculated quality to his preparations, as if he was meticulously programming himself for greatness.
Cole had begun to mimic these habits, incorporating them into his own routines. The extra half-hour after training, working on specific movements. The visualization exercises before bed. The careful analysis of his own performances, identifying patterns and weaknesses with ruthless honesty.
The second leg against PSG loomed large in his thoughts. Rose had hinted at changes to the starting lineup, and Cole had felt a surge of hope when his name was mentioned in tactical discussions. The possibility of starting—of facing Mbappé and Messi again on one of football's grandest stages—filled him with equal parts terror and exhilaration.
"I'll score," he whispered to himself, lining up another free kick. "I'll show them all."
The ball flew true once again, kissing the crossbar before dropping into the net. Cole allowed himself a small fist pump, the gesture private and meaningful.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably his agent with another update. The calls had been coming more frequently lately, each one carrying news that would have seemed impossible just months ago. Premier League clubs "monitoring his situation." Continental clubs like Ajax "expressing interest." The football world suddenly taking notice of Cole Palmer.
Most surprising had been yesterday's call—not from his agent directly, but from a man named Todd Boehly, representing the consortium in the process of acquiring Chelsea Football Club from Roman Abramovich. The conversation had been brief but pointed, the American businessman speaking with the directness that seemed characteristic of his countrymen.
"We've been tracking you since before the loan," Boehly had said. "Your move to Dortmund accelerated our timeline. We want you at Chelsea next season, regardless of the fee."
Cole had remained silent, processing the implications of such a statement. When he finally found his voice, he'd asked the obvious question: "Why me?"
Boehly's response had lodged itself in Cole's consciousness, repeating like a mantra in quiet moments: "Because we don't just want to sign you, Cole. We want to make you the face of a franchise."
The face of a franchise. The words carried a weight that both thrilled and terrified him. It wasn't just about playing time or technical development anymore—it was about identity, legacy, purpose. About stepping fully into the spotlight and claiming it as his own.
Cole collected the balls scattered around the training area, his mind racing with possibilities. From Manchester City academy product to Dortmund loanee to... Chelsea centerpiece? The trajectory seemed impossible, yet here he was, standing on its threshold.
As he walked toward the tunnel, Cole glanced back at the empty pitch, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass. Something had shifted within him during these few weeks in Germany—a fundamental realignment of his understanding of himself and his potential. The comfort of Manchester had been replaced by the challenge of Dortmund, and in that challenge, he'd found parts of himself he hadn't known existed.
He thought of his family back home—his mother who'd driven him to training sessions in all weather, his father who'd worked extra shifts to buy his first proper boots, his siblings who'd cheered his every achievement no matter how small. They'd supported his decision to leave, even as they'd worried about him being so far from home. What would they think of Chelsea? Of London? Of the weight of expectation that would come with being "the face of a franchise"?
Cole tucked the last ball under his arm, his decision already forming in the quiet corners of his mind. Before Chelsea, before any new beginning, there was unfinished business here. PSG awaited. The Champions League knockout stages. A chance to prove—to himself more than anyone—that Luka's faith had been justified.
"One game at a time," he murmured, echoing his father's constant advice. "One moment at a time."
<>
I'm sad to see you leave Kevin
The Belgian wizard
The greatest midfielder to have ever played the game