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[11/08/2020 | Time: 14:30 PM | Humberto Delgado Airport, Lisbon]
The Lufthansa charter touched down with a slight bounce, tyres squealing against Portuguese tarmac. Through the oval windows, Lisbon stretched out in shimmering afternoon heat—terracotta rooftops, the Tagus River glinting like hammered bronze, and in the distance, the distinctive outline of the Estádio da Luz rising like a colosseum.
"Welcome to Lisbon," the pilot announced in accented English. "Local time is 14:30, temperature is 32 degrees Celsius. On behalf of the crew, good luck in the Champions League."
The cabin erupted in applause and cheers. Rakim unbuckled his seatbelt and stretched, feeling the stiffness from the two-hour flight settle into his lower back. Around him, teammates were already pulling bags from overhead compartments, the nervous energy palpable.
"Feels different, doesn’t it?" Havertz said from across the aisle, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Landing always makes it feel real. No going back, it’s game time."
"I know what you mean," Rakim replied. "I’m tired of waiting, though, would play tomorrow if I could."
The descent down the airstairs was met with a wall of heat that hit like the opening of an oven door. Portuguese officials in high-visibility vests directed them toward a cordoned-off section of the tarmac where three coaches waited, their engines already running for air conditioning. Once everyone had boarded, they were whisked away to the designated border control.
UEFA banners hung from portable barriers, and medical staff in full PPE stood ready with temperature scanners. "Right, lads, single file!" Peter Bosz took charge immediately, calling out. "Temperature checks first, then straight to the buses. No wandering off."
The COVID protocols went by promptly as the staff members methodically did their job. Each player had their temperature taken via a forehead scanner, filled out health questionnaires on tablets, and received colour-coded wristbands indicating their bubble status. Green meant they were cleared for all activities, Yellow meant they required monitoring, and Red meant they needed isolation.
The verdict for the Leverkusen contingent when everything was over was that Everyone got green. "Efficient," Wirtz muttered as they finally boarded their bus out of the Airport. "Feels like we just went through a military base."
"Might as well be," Diaby said, dropping into a seat near the front. "They’re not taking any chances. One positive test and your whole tournament could collapse."
The drive into central Lisbon took forty minutes through traffic that was unconcerned with Champions League football. Scooters weaved between lanes, trams rattled down narrow streets, and pedestrians spilt off pavements keeping larger distances, everyone still tense from the recent pandemic.
Rakim watched it all through his tinted window, taking in the faded grandeur of the architecture, the washing lines strung between balconies, and the graffiti, which mixed political slogans with football club crests. Lisbon felt lived-in, as one could easily get a hint of the city’s history with just a glance.
"There," Bailey pointed as they rounded a corner. A massive UEFA Champions League banner hung from a government building, featuring stylised football players mid-action. Beneath it, in multiple languages: "Lisboa 2020 - The Final Eight."
"Still can’t believe they’re doing the whole tournament in one city," Volland said. "Single elimination, neutral venue. It’s basically a World Cup format."
"Makes it better," Rakim said. "Kinda feels like a youth tournament back when we were young."
"It’s been a while since I’ve thought about one of those tournaments. I miss them." The German striker lamented, seemingly lost in a memory. "I was a beast back in Marktoberdorf, they called me the..."
The team hotel was the Tivoli Avenida Liberdade, a five-star property that had been converted into a UEFA bubble facility. The entire building had been reserved for Champions League teams, with different floors allocated to each club. Security barriers blocked the main entrance, and private security personnel checked credentials before allowing anyone through.
"They sure are burning a lot of money on useless things, it almost feels like a peckok in a d*&k measuring contest." Diaby had muttered as they observed the whole shabangs that were solely there to flex.
Inside the lobby, the atmosphere was surreal, with UEFA branding covering every surface. Banners, floor decals, and even the carpets had been replaced with custom designs featuring the Champions League. Staff wore masks and gloves, and plexiglass barriers separated the check-in desks.
"Welcome to Bayer Leverkusen," a UEFA official greeted them with a clipboard. "You’re on floors seven and eight. Room assignments are alphabetical by surname. Masks must be worn in all common areas. Meals are served in your designated dining room at scheduled times only. Any questions?"
"Can we leave the hotel?" someone asked.
"Only for official UEFA activities—training, matches, press conferences. Everything else is within the bubble. There’s a gym, pool, and recreation room on your floors."
"Basically house arrest," Diaby muttered.
"Basically, focus on winning a game of football," Bosz corrected him sharply. "Focus on that."
Rakim’s room was on the seventh floor, overlooking Avenida da Liberdade. It was spacious enough, featuring a king-sized bed, a work desk, and a small sitting area—but clearly designed for luxury over function. The windows didn’t open more than a crack, probably to prevent anyone from breaking bubble protocols.
His roommate situation had been resolved before departure: single rooms for all players to minimise transmission risk. It was the first time in his professional career he’d had genuine privacy on an away trip. After unpacking his essentials and taking a quick shower to wash off the flight, Rakim stood at the window and watched Lisbon move below.
Trams crawled up the avenue, tourists (the few that remained) took photos, and somewhere in the distance, another Champions League team was probably checking into their own bubble. His phone buzzed. A text from May: Safe landing? Miss you already.
He replied quickly: Made it. The hotel’s nice, but it feels like a fancy prison. How’s Zeus?
May: He’s sulking. Keeps checking our bedroom door. I showed him your jersey, and he looked as though he was betrayed.
[18:00 PM] ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚⚫𝙣𝙚𝙩
Dinner was served in a private dining room on the eighth floor, with the long tables arranged to provide careful spacing between seats. The meal was carefully calibrated by the team nutritionist, featuring grilled fish, steamed vegetables, and complex carbohydrates, prioritising fuel over pleasure.
"Anyone else feel like we’re in a costly boarding school?" Wirtz asked, pushing quinoa around his plate.
"Boarding schools don’t have this," Bellarabi said, gesturing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of Lisbon at sunset. The city glowed amber and gold, the Tagus River reflecting the dying light like molten metal.
Bosz stood at the head of the room, tapping a glass to get everyone’s attention. "Listen up. Tomorrow morning, 9 AM sharp, we’re at the Estádio da Luz for our first training session. UEFA allows each team one familiarisation session before match day. We’re going to use every minute of it."
He clicked a remote, and a projector screen descended behind him, showing the stadium’s specifications: dimensions, surface type, and altitude. "The pitch plays fast. The grass is cut short, and the ball moves quickly. Our passing game will be sharper, but theirs will be too. Positioning and movement will be crucial."
The tactical breakdown continued for twenty minutes, RB Leipzig’s likely formation, their pressing triggers, and vulnerable zones. Rakim absorbed it all while mechanically eating his meal, his mind already playing out scenarios. Understanding these tactical breakdowns had become second nature for players, much like F1 drivers naturally absorbing telemetry data.
Unable to sleep, Rakim found himself on the hotel’s rooftop terrace. It was technically off-limits to guests, but a sympathetic staff member had let him through after seeing his restlessness. The Lisbon skyline stretched out before him, a constellation of lights flood-lit the Cristo Rei statue across the river.
"Thought I’d find you up here." Rakim turned to see Wirtz emerging from the stairwell, hands in his pockets. "Can’t sleep either?"
"Nah. Too weird." The young Leverkusen prodigy replied as he joined him at the railing, both staring out at the city. "Keeps hitting me in waves, you know? Like, we’re actually here. Champions League quarter finals. A year ago, I was in the youth team."
"A year ago, I was still at Celtic," Rakim said. "Feels like a lifetime now."
"Kinda weird how we are living the same dream but took different journeys to get here," Wirtz said, his eyes shining from the light’s reflection. "That’s football for you, I guess."