A first-ti strike—low, powerful, arrowing toward goal.
Theate reacted heroically, throwing his body across Schmid’s shooting lane and getting his back onto the ball.
"Good block! But—oh—wait..."
The deflection was cruel.
Theate’s block sent the ball spinning the opposite direction, the contact turning it into a looping, awkward arc that drifted away from Kaua—who had already dived the other way, fully committed to the original trajectory.
Kaua twisted in mid-air, helpless.
The ball bounced once...
...and rolled into the net.
2–2.
"And Bren have EQUALIZED! A lucky bounce, a horrible deflection, but they all count! Schmid levels the score in the eighty-seventh minute, and the Weserstadion ERUPTS!"
The stadium exploded — roars, fists pumping, scarves waving wildly. Stage sprinted toward the corner flag, Schmid was mobbed by teammates, and even Zetterer ran up to halfway to celebrate.
Brown put his hands on top of his head, eyes squeezed shut.
Lukas turned around slowly, exhaling sharply. He didn’t bla Brown, mistakes happen, but the sting of conceding so late was unmistakable.
Theate pounded the ground once in frustration before getting up and jogging back.
Kaua yelled toward his defense, trying to keep their heads up.
And on the touchline, Toppmöller pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the frustration bubbling up inside him.
"We’re in for a tense finish, Dan. Frankfurt dominated large stretches, but Bren’s refusal to give up has paid off."
There were still minutes left to play.
And with Lukas Brandt on the pitch, anything could happen.
As the ga restarted, Frankfurt pushed, but Bren pushed back. Every pass tightened, every run closed down, every flick crowded out. The match slid into stoppage ti with both teams exhausted, nerves stretched thin, and the stadium vibrating with tension.
Five minutes were added.
Five minutes for a hero.
Five minutes for heartbreak.
A win would keep them one point above Leverkusen, who dropped points the previous week and only managed a 1-0 win in the dying minute if extra ti against Heidenheim that sa day.
It would also take them to 9 points behind Bayern Munich, and although no one was expecting a title challenge from Eintracht Frankfurt, these were the kind of gas they expected to win with the form they were in.
Frankfurt threw everything forward in the dying seconds. Even Collins abandoned his defensive post, sprinting up the flank to offer passing options. Brown overlapped, Koch stepped into midfield, and the entire Bren box looked like a swarm—green shirts everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, refusing to give an inch.
A shot by Ekitike was deflected out by one of the multiple Bren players in the box for a corner.
This was it.
One last corner.
Everyone, including Kaua, the Frankfurt goalkeeper, was in the Bren half.
"Frankfurt with perhaps the final chance of the match... everyone’s in the box!"
But instead of whipping it straight in, Brown jogged to the corner flag and made eye contact with Lukas.
They both knew.
They both had the sa idea.
Brown tapped it short.
Lukas darted toward the ball, dragging two Bren markers with him. Instead of taking them on, he cleverly rolled it back toward the top of the box, where Skhiri was arriving like a trono—calm, steady, prepared.
"Skhiri... lays it off... Brandt again!"
Skhiri touched it once, cushioning it into Lukas’s path, then quickly side-stepped out of the shooting lane. The Bren defenders, sensing danger, threw themselves toward Lukas, hands behind backs, knees bent.
But the ball was already moving.
Lukas didn’t take a touch.
Didn’t settle it.
Didn’t think.
He let instinct speak.
With the inside of his right foot, he swept through the ball in a single fluid motion, curling it from twenty yards toward the far top corner. A perfect arc — spinning, rising, dipping.
The entire stand behind the goal froze.
So fans already had their hands on their heads.
Others were already halfway rising from their seats.
A few even whispered, "Nein... nicht er wieder..."
The ball was destined.
It felt destined.
But Zetterer refused to be a spectator.
He exploded sideways — legs kicking, arms stretching, fingertips straining for a miracle.
"OH WHAT A SAVE!! ZETTERER WITH A PHENONAL STOP!"
His right hand barely brushed the ball — just enough to change its path.
The shot clipped the outside of the post and went behind for a corner.
Lukas stood rooted, hands on his hips, disbelief etched on his face.
Brown ran to retrieve the ball for the second corner, but before he could place it—
FWEEEEEE!
The whistle cut through the stadium like a blade.
"And the referee has blown for full ti! Controversial! Frankfurt are FURIOUS! They wanted to take that corner!"
Koch stord toward the official, arms wide.
Skhiri protested.
Larsson slapped the air in frustration.
Even Toppmöller looked ready to sprint onto the pitch.
But it was over.
2–2.
A match they could have won.
A match they almost lost.
A match Lukas nearly saved twice.
He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back toward the sky as the Bren fans roared in celebration of the hard-earned draw. It wasn’t the fairytale ending... but it was a night that felt heavy with aning.
Because sotis, even for prodigies, the world reminds you that heroics don’t always find the net.
* * *
The dressing room was unusually quiet.
Sweaty shirts were peeled off, boots unlaced, ice packs strapped on. But the usual chatter, the jokes, the light teasing—none of it was there. Just the soft hum of the ventilation system and the muffled roar of Bren fans still singing outside.
Lukas sat on the far end of the bench, head bowed, a warm towel draped over his hair and neck. Steam rose faintly from it, blurring the edge of his vision. His man-of-the-match trophy lay beside him on the wooden bench — untouched, uncelebrated. A cold silver reminder that individual brilliance sotis ant nothing.
He finally pulled the towel off his head with a slow exhale. His hair was damp, his cheeks flushed from exertion, and there was a quiet frustration lingering in his eyes. He reached for his phone, unlocked it, and opened the Bundesliga table.
Bayern – 68 points
Leverkusen – 58
Frankfurt – 57
One point.
One point behind second place.
One point they should have taken today.
His jaw tightened at the thought, thumb hovering over the screen."If we won today, we’d be second."
Larsson sat down next to him, still breathing heavily, rubbing at his shoulder with an ice bag.
"Don’t torture yourself with that," he said, nodding toward Lukas’s phone. "We are not expected to win the league anyway."
Lukas said nothing.
He knew Larsson ant well, but the words stirred sothing different inside him. Sothing sharp. Sothing hungry.
"I want to win the league," he thought.
Not soday.
Not in the distant future.
He wanted titles. He wanted trophies. He wanted nights where draws felt like victories, not bitter regrets.
"Do I have to leave Frankfurt to win things?" The question flashed through his mind uninvited, unwanted, yet there.
He hated that it even existed.
He hated even more that he didn’t have an answer.
Before the thought could grow roots, the dressing room door opened sharply.
Toppmöller walked in.
He had that expression he wore when he was angry but trying very hard not to sound angry. The players straightened a little, instinctively.
He placed his clipboard down and exhaled.
"Alright," he began, looking around the room. "Let’s talk."
His eyes briefly scanned the group and paused—just for half a second—on Lukas, noticing the lowered gaze, the stiff shoulders, the disappointnt radiating off him.
"We started poorly," he said. "That first half? Not acceptable. We gave them too much space, made careless mistakes, and we paid for it."
Tuta stared at the floor. Brown scratched the back of his head. A few others nodded slowly.
"But," Toppmöller continued, voice softening, "the reaction was excellent. You fought back. You showed character. You pushed until the last second. That final chance... sotis football just doesn’t reward you. Sotis the goalkeeper has the ga of his life. Sotis you hit the post."
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