The ball being poked clear by Lukas shouldn’t have amounted to anything—just a clearance, just relief. But it wasn’t. The mont Berenguer swung and missed air, there was a collective inhale from every single person inside the Waldstadion. Lukas didn’t control it. He didn’t settle it. He simply burst forward, letting the ball roll ahead of him and trusting his speed.
Andres Cordero erupted imdiately:
"LOOK AT BRANDT GO! LOOK AT THE ACCELERATION! THIS IS A FULL FIELD SPRINT!"
Two Bilbao players launched challenges in panic.
Berenguer’s studs scraped across the grass, his slide arriving one second too late, his leg cut through where Lukas had been, not where he was. From behind, Nico Williams ca hunting with a scissor tackle, but Lukas’s stride had already shifted, his left boot barely leaving the turf just in ti. Nico’s trailing leg caught nothing but wind.
Wittyngham shouted:
"He’s survived TWO tackles! This feels impossible!"
Lukas hit the halfway line. The stadium turned into a rolling wave of sound.
Frankfurt’s bench was on its feet, staff screaming, substitutes sprinting to the touchline, Marco watching from the technical area with both hands over his head. Even Toppmöller had gone still, as though motion would interrupt fate.
Agirrezabala, forty ters ahead, was running. Panic, real panic, in every stride as he backpedaled and then sprinted toward his goal.
Lukas hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, looked behind him...
two bodies were closing, but not yet close enough.
looked forward...
goalkeeper not set, scrambling.
He didn’t pass. He didn’t dribble.
He took history instead.
One long stride, balance leaning back, left arm stretched for counterweight, right hand clenched.
Then... impact.
Not a controlled side-foot. Not power. Not finesse.
Instinct.
Pure instinct.
The ball exploded off his left foot, rising high, spinning backward, traveling in impossible slow motion.
The stadium gasped.
Andres Cordero nearly fell over the microphone:
"Oh my word... HE’S GONE FOR IT FROM INSIDE HIS OWN HALF!"
Agirrezabala turned and leapt. He stretched. He flailed.
Too late.
The ball sailed over him, kissed the turf on the goal line, bounced upwards, and settled into the back of the net.
In that split second, Waldstadion stopped being a stadium.
It beca volcanic.
Screams. Howls. People falling from their seats. Flags thrown into the air. Beer cups flying.
The roof shook.
Wittyngham scread:
"BRANDT HAS DONE IT! WITH THE LAST KICK OF THE GA, HE HAS SENT FRANKFURT TO THE SEMIFINALS!"
João was shaking Anne by the shoulders, shouting incoherently.
Javi didn’t scream, he covered his mouth with trembling hands, tears already forming, his boy doing sothing no logic could explain.
Joanna, her knees buckled, crying openly, clutching her chest with both hands, barely breathing through the sobs.
Lukas didn’t celebrate. Not at first.
He just stood still for one heartbeat, eyes wide, lungs burning, stunned by what he himself had done.
Then the madness took him.
He sprinted toward the sideline — fast, wild, unrestrained — and slowly peeled off his shirt as he ran. He didn’t rip it. With his right hand he held the end of the shirt, and started twirling it around his head like the blades of a helicopter as he ran around the field.
Toppmöller was shouting, waving his arms — yet laughing at the sa ti, unable to stop himself.
Valverde had his face in his palm as he crouched down. A teenage sensation had just single-handedly dumped them out of the Europa League from a 2-goal lead.
Lukas spread his arms wide, chin tilted upward, body glistening under the floodlights as he ran down the touchline shirtless.
The players caught him near the corner flag and swallowed him whole. Bodies piled over him. Screams and laughter drowned everything.
Cordero yelled into the soundstorm:
"A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD! FROM HIS OWN HALF! IN STOPPAGE TI! THIS IS ABSURD! THIS IS MYTH! THIS IS FOOTBALL IMMORTALITY! 4 GOALS AND AN ASSIST IN 2 GAS IN THE QUARTERFINALS, HE HAS DRAGGED THEM TO THE SEMIS."
Lukas was still celebrating when the referee ran over and showed him a second yellow card and then a red card.
"But it seems the star of today’s show, will miss the first leg of the semi finals against whoever wins between Lyon and Manchester United. That match now going to extra ti. A first yellow and red card for Lukas in his career. You cannot bla the kid, I would take off my shirt too."
The referee had a smile in his face as if he knew he was spoiling a sensational mont in Lukas’s career. But the rules were the rules and there was nothing he could do about it.
Lukas put his shirt back on, and headed to the sideline but the match never resud. There was no restart. Only disbelief for Bilbao.
Eintracht Frankfurt 4.
Athletic Club 3.
The tie was over, but the dream was still very much alive.
* * *
The press conference room still buzzed as Lukas and Toppmöller took their seats on the podium, the Europa League backdrop glowing behind them. Caras clicked in rapid bursts. Lukas placed his Man of the Match trophy on the table, almost sheepishly, before adjusting the headset for translation.
He looked exhausted. Flushed. Still faint traces of adrenaline sat in his eyes, the kind that takes hours to drain out. Beside him, Toppmöller wore that conflicted expression of pride and exasperation only a coach of a prodigy can understand.
The moderator nodded.
"First question."
A German reporter stood imdiately.
"Lukas, congratulations. Can you describe what you were feeling after that goal, and... what possessed you to shoot from that distance?"
Lukas exhaled once, leaning closer to the microphone.
"Honestly?" he began, voice steady but still carrying the remnants of the roar outside. "I didn’t think too much. I saw the keeper was off his line. I was running out of breath,breally out of breath, and if I took another touch I knew soone would catch . So I just decided to try it."
So reporters laughed softly at his honesty.
"I treated it like a long pass," he added, shrugging gently. "A long pass to an imaginary teammate standing inside the goal. And... yeah. It worked."
Toppmöller cracked a smile, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.
Another hand shot up, this ti a Spanish journalist. The moderator gestured for him to speak, and Lukas adjusted his headset again.
"Lukas, Atlético Madrid are very interested in signing you. With everything happening this week, have you made a decision about your future?"
A ripple of tension passed across the room; even the photographers paused.
Lukas chose his words calmly.
"I’m not aware of any conversations," he said. "And I’ve already told my agent I want to stay at Frankfurt this sumr. That hasn’t changed."
He folded his hands on the table, more assured now.
"Right now my focus is finishing the season strong. That’s all. Getting to Bilbao in May, that’s all I’m thinking about."
The statent sent murmurs through the press rows.
Lukas then leaned sideways toward the journalists, as if suddenly rembering sothing.
"By the way... who won the ga in Manchester?"
Several reporters answered at once.
"They’re in extra ti, Lyon are leading 3–2."
Lukas nodded, lips tightening slightly. That was useful information.
Another reporter imdiately followed up:
"Lukas, who would you prefer to face in the semifinals, Lyon or Manchester United?"
A/N: Another Chapter later today.
Thank you all for the support and love you’ve shown, I can’t do this without you. Please allow to shalessly beg for gifts, though. No amount is too small.
Love y’all.
-Writ.
User Comments
0 comments from readers