Chapter 113 – Building back
The stadium at Wiesbaden wasn’t anything like Signal Iduna Park.
Where Dortmund’s home ground loomed like a colossus, this compact arena felt intimate—almost claustrophobic. The stands rose steeply from the pitch, close enough that Thiago could hear individual voices cutting through the din when he stepped off the team bus. Banners hung from the railings like laundry left out to dry, their edges frayed from too many matches in too many weathers. The pitch itself showed patches of uneven turf, the kind that came from winters spent battling frost and springs spent recovering. The DFB-Pokal didn’t care about prestige. It cared about grit.
Thiago sat on the bench, his jacket zipped to his chin against the early autumn chill. The night air carried that particular bite that made knuckles ache if left exposed too long. He flexed his fingers absently, watching the players warm up under the uneven glow of the floodlights. Wehen Wiesbaden lined up in a textbook 4-4-2, their defensive block so compact it looked like they’d parked a bus in their own penalty area.
"Looks like we’ll be wrestling all night," Kuba muttered beside him, stretching his calves with a resistance band that snapped taut with each pull.
Thiago smirked. "Hope you brought your elbows."
Kuba grinned, teeth flashing in the stadium lights. "Always do."
From the technical area, Klopp paced like a caged predator. His cap was pulled low over his wild curls, shadowing eyes that never stopped moving. His mouth worked constantly—barking instructions to Buvač, snapping at the fourth official, muttering to himself when a pass went astray. It didn’t matter that this was a cup match against lower-league opposition. Klopp only had one gear: full throttle.
The referee’s whistle pierced the night.
And immediately, that familiar weight settled in Thiago’s stomach—heavier than usual.
Watching a match you might play in was worse than being left out completely. Every misplaced pass made his fingers twitch. Every turnover had his legs tensing as if to chase. He wasn’t detached. He was submerged in the game’s current, just without the power to swim.
Dortmund dominated possession from the first touch. Götze floated between the lines like a specter, his slight frame belying the way he dictated play. Kuba drove at the full-back with that trademark reckless confidence, his blond hair whipping as he changed direction. Barrios anchored the attack like a wrestler, pinning defenders and battling for every half-chance.
But the final ball kept slipping away.