The door slamd shut behind them, cutting off the roar from outside like a knife. The Mainz dressing room was thick with heat and frustration, boots scraping against tiles, players dropping onto benches, towels being yanked over heads. Before anyone could even catch their breath, Bo Henriksen was already in the middle of the room.
"Look at ," he snapped, clapping his hands once, sharp and loud. "Look at ."
Silence followed, broken only by heavy breathing.
"Where is the intensity?" he went on, voice rising. "Where is the fight? This is our stadium. Our crowd. And you’re letting a sixteen-year-old run the ga like it’s a training session."
He pointed toward the door, toward the pitch they had just left.
"They co here with nothing to play for in the league and we let them feel comfortable. We let them settle. We let one boy decide everything."
Henriksen paced now, hands moving, anger barely contained.
"You want Europe next season?" he asked, stopping suddenly. "Then play like it. Because if we lose this ga, if we go out there like that again, you can forget it. Forget the table. Forget the dream."
He turned sharply toward the left side of the room.
"Caci. Costa."
Both players straightened instinctively.
"You give him space," Henriksen said, stabbing a finger in the air. "You back off. You wait. And what happens? He looks up. He smiles. And he hurts us."
He leaned closer now, voice lower but more dangerous.
"He is a kid," Henriksen said. "A kid. Body him. Engage him. Make it ugly. Make him feel every sprint, every touch. Make him think twice before he runs at you again."
He mimicked a shoulder-to-shoulder challenge with his arms.
"Do not escort him. Do not admire him. You get tight, you get physical, you make him uncomfortable. From the first second of the second half."
Henriksen straightened and looked around the room again, eyes burning.
"This crowd will carry you if you give them sothing," he said. "One tackle. One duel. One mont of fire. That’s all it takes."
He clapped his hands again, harder this ti.
"Go out there and show them you belong in Europe. Or don’t bother coming back in here with excuses."
The players rose slowly, jaws set, boots laced tighter now. Outside, the noise was already building again.
* * *
The whistle cut through the noise and the second half was underway.
"And Frankfurt get us back up and running," ca the call from the booth, the atmosphere still crackling from the break.
Ekitiké rolled the ball back from the center spot, calm and deliberate, all the way to Koch. Koch took one touch and laid it off to Trapp, who did not hesitate. He stepped into it and thumped the ball long upfield, sending it arcing into the Mainz half as both teams surged forward.
"A very direct start from Eintracht," the comntator noted. "No interest in easing themselves into this."
A Mainz defender rose first and got his head to it, but the clearance lacked conviction. The ball dropped awkwardly into midfield, and Larsson moved toward it, eyes fixed upward. He cushioned it down with his chest, trying to bring it under control.
He never got the chance.
Sano ca crashing in from behind, shoulder straight through Larsson’s back, sending the Swede sprawling onto the turf.
"Oof—late, very late!"
"That’s a nasty one from Sano!"
The roar from the ho crowd was imdiate and thunderous, approval echoing around the stadium as Larsson slid across the grass. Whistles and claps rained down from the stands, urging Mainz on to keep it physical.
Frankfurt players reacted instantly.
"That’s a booking!"
"Straight through his back!"
"You can’t let that go!"
They sward toward the referee, arms out, disbelief written across their faces. The official raised both hands sharply, motioning them away. He blew his whistle, pointed to the spot of the foul, and nothing more. No card. Not even a warning.
"And... no yellow," the co-comntator said, surprise clear in his voice. "That will not go down well with Eintracht Frankfurt."
The Mainz supporters loved it. The cheers grew louder, feeding off the sense that the tone for the half had been set.
Frankfurt could not believe it.
On the touchline, Toppmöller had barely settled into his seat when he sprang back up, jacket flaring open as he stord toward the fourth official.
"That’s from behind! That’s dangerous!" he shouted, jabbing a finger toward midfield.
"We’ve barely started the half and the temperature is already boiling," ca the comntary. "Toppmöller is furious."
The fourth official held his ground, palms out, urging him to calm down and return to his area. Buck stepped in quickly, a hand on Toppmöller’s arm, murmuring sothing low as he gently but firmly pulled the coach back before the situation escalated further.
Out on the pitch, Lukas jogged over to Larsson and extended a hand. He hauled him up, gave him a quick tap on the shoulder, eyes searching his face.
"You good?"
Larsson nodded imdiately, jaw set, and raised a thumb toward the bench as he brushed grass from his shorts.
"That’s leadership from the kid," one ho fan observed. "Straight over to his teammate, making sure he’s alright."
"Too bad he plays for Frankfurt tho. Why wasn’t he from out academy?" the man opposite him responded right before they both went back to booing Larsson as he walked around.
Lukas lingered for a heartbeat longer, then turned back into position, scanning the field, expression hardened.
"The ssage from Mainz is clear," the comntator added. "They want this ugly. The question is how Frankfurt respond."
And as the free kick was set, with whistles still ringing and bodies already tensing for the next challenge, it was clear this second half was going to be fought inch by inch.
The restart did nothing to cool the temperature of the match. If anything, Mainz leaned further into the chaos, pressing higher, tackling harder, feeding off every groan and whistle from the stands. Frankfurt were forced into survival mode for long stretches, clearing lines, slowing the tempo when they could, trying to draw the sting out of the ho side’s aggression.
Trapp beca busy very quickly.
A sharp exchange down the right released Burkardt into space, his low drive skidding toward the near post before Trapp dropped fast and strong to his right, parrying it away with a firm wrist. Minutes later, Lee ghosted into the half-space and curled one toward the far corner, only for Trapp to spring across goal and tip it wide with his fingertips.
"Two massive saves already from Kevin Trapp!"
"He’s keeping Frankfurt in this!"
Each stop brought another surge of noise, another wave of pressure, and Frankfurt felt it. In the middle of it all, Lukas adjusted. The risk evaporated from his ga. One-touch passes, short layoffs, quick switches. No dribbles. No challenges invited. Every ti the ball looked like it might roll his way, a red-and-white shirt flew in at full speed.
"They are hunting him now."
"Every ti Brandt gets near it, they swarm."
He saw it. He felt it. And he adapted.
Frankfurt absorbed. Mainz chased. The clock ticked forward, tension coiling tighter with every minute Mainz failed to score. And then, just past the hour mark, Frankfurt found daylight.
It happened in the 63rd minute, when Frankfurt all but sealed the ga.
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