Chapter 175: The Morning After

The kitchen was a disaster.

Vardy stood by the stove in a Schalke training top, poking at a skillet filled with something that had started out as scrambled eggs and was now turning straight into charcoal. A thick curl of grey smoke rose toward the ceiling, which was lucky enough not to have an alarm attached. He looked up when Mateo walked in, completely unfazed by the haze.

"Morning, mate," Vardy said, waving the wooden spatula. "Whipped us up some breakfast."

"What breakfast, mano? You whipped up a fire hazard," Mateo said, coughing slightly as he walked across the room.

"Come on, it's just an omelette with a bit of extra char on it," Vardy said, scraping at the blackened crust. "You having some or what?"

"I plan on living through the week, so I'm opening the window first." Mateo pushed the latch and shoved the glass wide to let the cold morning air rush in. "Step aside, Jamie. Let me cook before you ruin the pan. Just sit down and take notes."

Vardy handed the spatula over with the quick, satisfied grin of a man whose plan had worked out, pulled out a chair, and dropped down with the morning papers. It was Monday, and every single back page in Germany carried the exact same image: Mateo standing in front of the silent South Stand, thumbs pointed at his own shirt, with the yellow wall clearing out behind him.

"You're on every single front and back cover, mate," Vardy said, flipping the paper open on the table. "Bild, Kicker, the regional rags, all of them. Some bloke even dropped off an English tabloid from the station. Take a wild guess who they're linking you with."

"I really don't want to hear it," Mateo said, pulling a carton of fresh eggs from the fridge.

"Pretty much half of England," Vardy chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "And the rest are probably checking their bank accounts. There's a big piece about the last twenty minutes, too. Saying Dortmund completely lost their heads after going down. Shouting at the ref, and Kagawa seeing red for that tackle on Farfán." He grinned and shook his head. "They're calling it a proper meltdown. Klopp's going to have a rough week with the papers."

Mateo cracked four eggs into a clean pan with a dab of butter. "Did you check in on Farfán and Bujerab?"

Vardy's smile softened a bit. "Yeah, rang them both last night. Farfán's ankle has a bit of stiffness from that tackle, but he's buzzing after getting his goal. Bujerab is physically fine, but his mood was right in the gutter." Vardy folded the corner of the paper over. "He just couldn't get that crossbar out of his head, honestly."

"Still thinking about the woodwork?"

"The strike, yeah. He must have brought it up half a dozen times while we were on the phone. Kept saying, 'One inch lower, Jamie, just one bloody inch and that was the goal of my life.' Poor bastard. You could hear it in his voice. Best afternoon the club has had in years, and he's stuck agonizing over an inch of metal."

Mateo gently stirred the eggs with the spatula, keeping quiet for a few seconds.

He pictured Bujerab out on the pitch during those frantic closing minutes, remembering how he had finally stopped hunting for individual glory. Instead of chasing a highlight, he had simply knuckled down alongside Jones to close out the match.

He had stepped onto the grass desperate to prove he still belonged, coming within an inch of a wonder goal. When the woodwork denied him, he hadn't sulked or thrown his arms up. He just put his head down and did the gritty defensive work to protect the lead.

"I might swing by his place later this afternoon," Mateo said, sliding the fluffy eggs onto two clean plates. "See how he's holding up."

"He'd like that," Vardy said, pulling his plate closer. "He genuinely respects you, you know. Even with you taking the starting shirt, he looks up to the way you play. That's why he wanted that goal so badly. He wanted to show he could still deliver on the same pitch."

"I get it," Mateo said softly.

"He'll be fine once we get back to training," Vardy added, digging into his food. "Hearing the gaffer back him at the tunnel meant way more than any stat line anyway."

They sat together at the kitchen table, eating in peace while the cool morning breeze cleared the remaining smoke. It felt strange how fast everything returned to normal. Only twenty-four hours earlier, Mateo had scored a hat-trick against Dortmund in front of eighty thousand screaming fans. Now he was sitting in sweatpants in a quiet kitchen, just eating breakfast with his roommate.

He genuinely liked this side of life. Whenever reporters pressed him about massive transfer fees, London, or Madrid, this was the part he could never quite explain to them. He valued the quiet routine. The cold morning runs, the banter over burnt food, and the small circle of teammates who felt like family.

"Champions League quarter-final draw is this Friday, right?" Vardy said, talking around a mouthful of toast. "Got anyone in mind you want to play?"

Mateo thought about the top teams still left in the pot.

"Doesn't really matter to me," Mateo said, picking up his glass of water. "Whoever comes out of the bowl, we'll be ready for them."

He finished off the rest of his food, carried the empty plates over to the sink, and headed back upstairs to grab a jacket so he could check on a teammate who was still dreaming about the crossbar.

Outside on the street, the car horns and the blue flags were still out, and Gelsenkirchen showed no signs of slowing down the party.

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