March arrived and the city started remembering that warmth existed.
Not warmly yet — Dortmund in early March was still grey more often than not, still the kind of cold that didn't bite so much as persist. But there were mornings now where the light came through Richard's kitchen window at a different angle, longer and less apologetic, and he found himself standing at the counter with his coffee for an extra minute just because the light was doing something worth looking at.
Chidi said this was a sign he was becoming German.
Richard said it was a sign he was becoming someone who appreciated things.
Chidi said those were the same thing and drove him to training.
The Bundesliga had entered the phase of the season where every match carried compounding weight. Not just three points — three points plus the psychological residue of how they were won or lost, which affected the next match, which affected the one after that. Schmidt called it the period of accumulation. What you built now, in these weeks, was what you had available to spend in the final run.
Dortmund were fourth. Thirty-seven points had become forty-three after wins against Hoffenheim, a hard-fought draw at Cologne that felt like a loss for twenty minutes and then felt like a point well-earned, and a 2-1 home win over Wolfsburg in which Richard had played the full ninety for the first time since joining and felt it in his legs in a way that was not unpleasant — the specific heaviness of a body that had been asked to give everything and had given it.
Third was three points away.
Leipzig were wobbling. Stuttgart had steadied but not convincingly. The top four was not decided and would not be until the final weeks, which was exactly the kind of situation that either broke a squad or revealed what it was made of.
Schmidt had been very clear on which outcome he expected.
The Madrid preparation had begun quietly, the way Schmidt preferred to begin things — not with a grand announcement but with small shifts in the weekly structure that signaled something larger was being built toward.
Extra film sessions appeared on the schedule. Not long ones — forty minutes, focused, specific. Madrid's pressing triggers. Their transition speed. The way their fullbacks inverted and the space that created in behind. The specific movement patterns of their forward line, which required defensive attention that Dortmund's shape would need to account for without losing its own attacking identity.
Richard attended every session and said very little, which Schmidt noticed and did not comment on because it required no comment.
What he was learning was uncomfortable in the way that useful things often were. Madrid were not just good. They were good in the specific way that made you understand why trophies existed — because some teams had simply done this more, longer, with more belief baked into their institutional memory than could be manufactured in a single preparation week.
Dortmund had been here before, which helped. The Champions League final two seasons ago. The runs before that. There was experience in this squad that knew what a European knockout night felt like when it mattered completely.
Richard had not been here before.
He was seventeen. He had played two Champions League group stage matches since joining, both wins, both solid performances. But the Bernabéu was not a group stage match. The Bernabéu was a different category of thing entirely.
He knew this intellectually.
He was beginning to understand it in other ways.
On a Wednesday evening two weeks before the first leg, Evan called.
"The Nigerian FA situation is resolved," he said, without preamble.
Richard sat up slightly. "How?"
"Dortmund have written formally requesting your release be deferred until the summer window, citing the Champions League knockout fixture as a contractual priority. The FA have agreed in principle, with the condition that you are available for the June qualifiers without exception." A pause. "I also had a conversation with the FA's technical director. He was understanding. He knows what this Madrid tie means for your profile and for Nigerian football's visibility in Europe."
Richard was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to go," he said.
"I know," Evan said. "And you will go. June. That conversation is already fixed." His voice shifted slightly — not softer exactly, but more considered. "Richard, wearing that shirt matters. I have never suggested otherwise. But wearing it at the right moment, when you can give it everything, is better than wearing it exhausted in a qualification match three days after a Champions League second leg." A pause. "Your father agreed, by the way."
Richard blinked. "You spoke to my father?"
"He called me," Evan said, with a trace of something that in another man might have been amusement. "He wanted to understand the situation fully before forming an opinion. We spoke for twenty minutes. He asked very good questions."
Richard sat with that for a moment. His father. Calling Evan Cadwell. Asking good questions for twenty minutes.
"What did he say at the end?" Richard asked.
"He said — and I'm quoting directly — make sure he stays humble and does his job." A beat. "Then he hung up."
Richard laughed — a genuine, full laugh that filled the quiet house. "That's him."
"It is," Evan said. "Get some rest. I'll send you the Madrid logistics brief tomorrow. Amara has also flagged some paperwork on the image rights structure for the Adidas preliminary agreement — nothing urgent, just review it when you have time this week."
"Okay," Richard said.
After he hung up he sat for a moment with the image of his father calling Evan. Asking good questions. Forming his opinion carefully before speaking.
Stay humble and do your job.
He smiled at the ceiling.
Then he went to bed.
The paperwork from Amara arrived the next morning — a clean, clearly annotated document with a short cover note:
These are the image rights clauses from the preliminary Adidas framework Evan sent over. I've flagged three sections in yellow that need your attention before we can proceed with the structure. Nothing alarming — just decisions that need to be yours rather than mine. Call me when you've read it.
Richard read it over breakfast. The yellow sections were exactly what she had described — not alarming, just specific. Questions about territory rights, about the percentage split between commercial and performance bonuses, about a clause relating to social media usage that was broader than it needed to be.
He called her at half nine.
She answered on the second ring.
"You read it quickly," she said.
"I had time this morning."
"The social media clause," she said immediately, which told him she had been waiting for this conversation since she sent it.
"It's too broad," he said.
"Yes. Evan knows. He's pushing back on it in the next conversation with their commercial team. I flagged it so you understood what was being negotiated on your behalf rather than just receiving a final document."
"I appreciate that," Richard said.
A brief pause. Professional, comfortable. The kind of pause that existed between two people who had found their working rhythm.
"The Madrid preparation is going well?" she asked.
The question was simple. Genuine. Not quite professional and not quite personal — somewhere in the narrow corridor between the two that their conversations had started to occupy without either of them naming it.
"Yes," he said. "Getting there."
"Good." Another pause. "The second leg is at home. That matters."
He smiled slightly. "You've been following the fixtures."
"I follow anything that affects the timeline of my client's commercial negotiations," she said. Precise, almost prim. Then: "Also it's Real Madrid. Even I know that's significant."
Richard laughed quietly. "Even you."
"Don't push it," she said, but there was warmth underneath it, clear as anything. "Review the other two yellow sections and let me know your thoughts. Evan and I are on a call Friday morning and I want to have your position confirmed before then."
"I'll send you notes tonight," he said.
"Thank you, Richard."
"Thank you, Amara."
He hung up and sat for a moment with the phone in his hand, the morning light coming through the kitchen window at that new angle it had found recently.
Then he finished his breakfast and went to get ready for training.
The squad announcement for the Madrid first leg came on the Thursday before travel.
Richard's name was in it, which he had expected but which still produced a specific feeling when he saw it in print — his name on an official Champions League knockout stage squad list alongside players who had won this competition, alongside a club that had reached a final two years ago, against the most decorated team in the history of the tournament.
He sent a photo of it to his mother without caption.
She replied in forty seconds with seventeen prayer emoji and a voice note that was mostly her talking to someone else in the background about what her son was doing, apparently unaware the recording had started.
He listened to the whole thing twice.
Jobe found him after training that Thursday.
"First time at the Bernabéu?" he asked.
"Yes," Richard said.
Jobe nodded slowly. He had played there before — not with Dortmund, in a different context, at a younger age even than Richard was now, which was a fact that sat between them without needing to be stated. "It's loud in a specific way," Jobe said. "Not like here. Here the noise is — with you. There it's — at you. From the moment you walk out."
Richard considered that. "How do you handle it?"
Jobe thought about it genuinely. "You don't handle it. You just don't let it be the most important thing in the room." He paused. "The ball is always the most important thing in the room. Even in that room."
Richard nodded.
They walked to the car park together in comfortable silence — two young players, one slightly older than the other, both carrying things that most people their age couldn't imagine, finding in each other's company the specific ease of being understood without explanation.
Chidi was waiting by the car.
"Bernabéu in four days," Chidi said, as Richard approached.
"I know," Richard said.
"You ready?"
Richard opened the car door. Thought about Jobe's words. The ball is always the most important thing in the room.
"Yes," he said.
Chidi studied him for a half second. Then nodded, satisfied, and got in.
They drove home through the Dortmund streets, the city going about its ordinary evening around them, completely indifferent to the fact that in four days a seventeen year old from Lagos would walk out into the Bernabéu and find out exactly what he was made of.
Richard watched it all through the window.
He was ready.
He just hadn't finished becoming ready yet.
But he was close.