The second half began in a roar.
Andres Cordero’s voice cut through the noise:
"Back underway in Frankfurt—Ekitike over the ball, and we resu this second leg!"
Ekitike nudged the ball backward, and almost imdiately, it was rolled to Kaua between the posts. Bilbao pressed forward, but the young Brazilian keeper didn’t hesitate—he swung his right boot through it first ti, launching a towering kick high into the mild Frankfurt sky. The ball sailed far and deep into Bilbao’s half, spinning down toward Ekitike and Alvarez as they wrestled for position. Shoulder to shoulder, they leapt.
Alvarez won the initial header, knocking it away, but the danger wasn’t over.
The second ball fell kindly for Skhiri, who cushioned it against his chest and calmly sent it back toward Ekitike, still stationed near the penalty arc. The Frenchman, back to goal, felt the pressure of Alvarez breathing down his neck. He feigned a turn, glanced sideways, and with a delicate flick of his right foot, rolled the ball to Lukas — lurking right beside him.
Lukas, already scanning, was imdiately sward. De Galarreta closed in from one side, Jauregizar from the other, but before they could box him in, Lukas caressed the ball with his left instep — one soft touch to control, one outside flick to bend it around Vivian’s reach and into Ekitike’s stride inside the box.
"Lovely ball through from Brandt!" cried Chris Wittyngham, his tone rising with the mont.
Ekitike broke through, the stadium rising with him. The goalkeeper charged forward, desperate, lowering his body to cut off the angle.
But he was too late.
Ekitike’s first touch lifted the ball over Agirrezabala in one effortless scoop. Ti seed to freeze as it floated past the keeper’s outstretched hand and dropped into the back of the net.
The Waldstadion erupted — a thunderclap of noise. Red and black scarves waved furiously, flags rippled, smoke drifted upward. On the Frankfurt bench, Toppmöller threw both fists into the air, Zembrod and the staff leaping around him.
"Ekitike! One pass from Brandt, one flick of the boot, and Frankfurt are level on the night!" shouted Cordero, his voice drowning beneath the roar.
"Ga on in Frankfurt — this tie is wide open!"
Ekitike didn’t celebrate. He jogged straight to the post, grabbed the ball, and turned back toward midfield, fire in his eyes. Lukas t him halfway with a brisk high five — no words, no smiles, just focus. Both n sprinted back to the halfway line as the fans continued to roar their nas, the scoreboard flashing 1–1 (3–4 aggregate) and the tension climbing like a storm ready to break.
The stadium was restless now — alive with urgency. Frankfurt had montum and everyone felt it. The ball circulated from flank to flank, triangles forming, collapsing, forming again. The Bilbao shirts retreated into a narrow block, the defensive line practically standing on top of the goalkeeper. Koch and Tuta were camped near the halfway line, daring anyone to even think of escaping. Kristensen slid a asured pass into Nathaniel Brown on the left flank, and Brown lifted his head, seeing Lukas positioned just at the edge of the D, waiting in that pocket where one touch could turn into a shot.
Brown attempted the threaded pass, shaping it inside — but it never reached its destination. Góz had read it early, pouncing like a spring released. He stepped forward, intercepted it, and suddenly the pitch widened into frightening space. A single touch out of his feet and Góz burst forward into the open field.
Imdiately, like trained hounds sensing blood, the Williams brothers split into lanes — Nico peeling left, Iñaki streaking right. Frankfurt hearts collectively seized.
The stadium let out a gasp.
Góz accelerated, head up, preparing to release one of the most dangerous counters imaginable. But Lukas was already sprinting back — full burst, eyes locked on the ball. Koch was isolated, backpedaling, knowing he couldn’t step forward or he’d be bypassed completely. Frankfurt were seconds away from disaster.
Andres Cordero’s voice nearly cracked. "This could be catastrophic for Frankfurt!"
Lukas reached the Spanish midfielder from the side. He grabbed a fistful of Góz’s shirt, just enough to slow him, and then slid sharply from the blind angle. The tip of his book hit the ball cleanly, poking it away into open grass while Góz stumbled. The contact was undeniable. The foul was clear. The stadium froze for a beat — then exploded into noise.
The referee reached into his pocket and raised the yellow card toward Lukas.
"Brandt! Tactical foul! And that is the first booking of his professional career!"
Chris Wittyngham added, "He took a risk—but if Góz had slipped either Williams through, it would’ve been catastrophic. That is a smart yellow card."
Lukas stood up, not protesting, just nodding, breathing hard. He dusted his shorts, socks muddied from the slide, and turned back toward the defensive line.
Koch jogged over, clapped his back — not gently — and said sothing encouraging, sothing appreciative. Because they all knew Lukas had just prevented a three-on-two disaster. Without that intervention, Frankfurt would almost certainly have been staring down a two-goal deficit.
The fans responded not with frustration, but admiration.
They applauded loudly — not cheering recklessness, but courage.
Commitnt. Leadership.
Sixteen years old, booked for the first ti in his career, but doing it to save his team.
The referee restarted play, Bilbao reset with the free kick, and Frankfurt settled back into shape. And as Lukas jogged into his position again, there was a different energy in the stadium — not just belief, but respect. A deep acknowledgnt that this boy wasn’t just talent. He was responsibility in motion. A future leader playing like one already.
From the mont Lukas received that yellow card in the 50th minute, the crowd seed to shift its energy. There was anger, frustration, but beneath all of that—renewed belief. Frankfurt were now relentless. Bilbao still held the aggregate advantage, and that edge controlled the rhythm of their defending. They sat compact, narrow, disciplined, and waited for openings. Frankfurt, however, refused to slow down. Every regained ball, every loose touch, every second ball—they hunted it. The tempo shot up. The ho side circulated possession quickly, drawing Bilbao’s block side to side, forcing them to chase, forcing them to breathe harder than they wanted.
The ga evolved into a tactical tug-of-war. Bilbao waited for counters; Frankfurt refused to give them space. Lucas now drifted everywhere—behind Skhiri to dictate buildup, between the lines to receive under pressure, and occasionally wide left just to drag Vivian or Goz out with him. Every touch seed decisive. Every turn forced Bilbao a step further back. Just after the 60-minute mark, the crowd began to chant—long waves of noise, rhythmic claps rising and falling. That tension, that anticipation, wasn’t silent. It was loud-voiced desperation. Frankfurt needed one more goal to level the tie, and they were playing like a team who believed that mont was inevitable.
Then ca the 67th minute.
It started from nothing, just a simple ball rolled from Skhiri into midfield. But Lukas’ positioning was perfect. He received the ball with Goz on his back, and instead of shielding aggressively, he spun — quick half-turn, shoulder dipped, pressure gone.
The stadium roared in approval even before the next mont happened. Lukas clipped a ball over the top with the outside of his foot, with perfect weight and angle, dropping it into Bahoya’s path down the left wing. And as that ball was still arcing through the air, Lukas took off. Full sprint. Straight down the heart of the pitch.
Bahoya controlled it, slowed his man with a stutter-step, and decided not to risk the 1v1. Instead, he sent it inside to Larsson — who already saw Lukas sprinting past him. Larsson didn’t even trap it, just nudged it forward with a short directional pass, and Lukas caught it in stride.
Suddenly Frankfurt had broken Bilbao’s shape.
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