Lukas looked up imdiately. "Yeah," he said, without hesitation. "I’m good."
The dic glanced up. "He’s taken a knock," he said, calm and professional, "but there’s no instability. He can continue."
Toppmöller didn’t say anything right away. He just held Lukas’s gaze for a mont longer than necessary.
"You tell if it changes," he finally said.
Lukas nodded once. "I will."
Toppmöller turned back to the group.
"Look at each other," he said. "This is it. These are the monts you rember. Play with courage. Play with intelligence. And whatever happens, we walk off that pitch knowing we gave them everything."
He stepped back. "Together."
"Together," Trapp echoed imdiately.
"Together," Koch followed.
One by one, the word rippled through the group until it was no longer just a word but a rhythm.
The dic gave Toppmöller a final nod and stood. The referee’s whistle shrilled, sharp and insistent. The players pulled in tighter for a brief huddle, foreheads nearly touching, hands slapping shoulders, before breaking apart and jogging back toward the pitch to begin extra ti.
Extra ti began with a different kind of electricity, the sort that crackled rather than roared.
Up in the comntary booth, the voices were already rising.
"What a night this has been," one of them said, barely able to keep the grin out of his voice. "Scintillating doesn’t even begin to cover it. Montum swings, big personalities, big monts—and now we head into extra ti with the tie completely on its head."
"And you get the sense," his partner added, "that one team believes this is theirs now."
United tapped the ball to start extra ti, but the shape told the real story imdiately. Frankfurt didn’t drop. They surged.
"Straight away—look at Frankfurt," ca the call. "They’re not waiting. They’re going for it."
Lukas was the first trigger. The mont the ball rolled back toward Onana, he was already sprinting, long strides eating up grass, closing the angle with frightening speed.
"Brandt is on him—Onana has to hurry!"
The goalkeeper hesitated for half a second too long, then panicked. His clearance ca off the side of his boot, skidding and slicing toward the touchline.
"And that’s rushed, that’s scuffed, and that’s out of play," the comntator said. "Frankfurt throw. High up the pitch. Exactly what Toppmöller asked for."
Kristensen didn’t wait. He grabbed the ball and hurled it infield to Uzun before United could reset.
Uzun received it on the half-turn and, with Dorgu tight behind him, did sothing audacious. He backheeled the ball cleanly, straight through Amad’s legs.
"Oh, that’s cheeky!"
Larsson was already there, stepping onto it in stride. Uzun spun and took off down the flank, Dorgu forced to follow him all the way.
"Frankfurt are stretching them here."
Larsson shaped his body as if to slide the ball wide into Uzun’s run. Mainoo bit. He stepped across, cutting the lane.
But Larsson didn’t pass wide.
Instead, with the outside of his boot, he flicked the ball the other way, threading it sharply into the pocket between Bruno Fernandes and Ugarte.
"Brilliant disguise—"
The ball zipped toward Lukas. It ca fast, skidding across the turf.
Bruno lunged, throwing himself into a slide, trying to nick it before it reached him.
"He’s read it—no!"
The ball slipped past Bruno’s outstretched boot. Ugarte was right there, coiled, ready to pounce on a heavy touch.
But the touch never ca.
Lukas took it on the half-turn, the ball glued to his foot, rotating his body in one fluid motion. In less than a second, he was facing goal, already accelerating.
"That is extraordinary control."
United’s back line scrambled. Ekitike burst into a diagonal run across the box, dragging Maguire and Yoro with him, both defenders desperately trying to cut out the pass.
"And that movent opens the lane—"
That left Lindelöf. One man. One decision.
Lukas glanced up once. Twenty-five yards out. The angle slightly left. The goal frad perfectly in front of him.
Behind it, the away end rose as one.
"SHOOT!"
He didn’t break stride.
"THWACK."
The sound was unmistakable. A clean, violent strike, laces through the ball. It scread past Lindelöf just as the defender stepped out, too late to block.
Onana sprang, arms flailing, eyes wide.
Too late.
The ball smashed the underside of the crossbar, a sharp tallic crack echoing around Old Trafford, then ricocheted straight down and into the net.
"GOOOOOAL—OH MY WORD!"
The booth exploded.
"HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! HE HAS DONE IT AGAIN!"
Pandemonium. Absolute disbelief.
"The Theatre of Dreams has just beco the Theatre of Nightmares," the comntator roared, voice cracking, "and it’s all because of one kid!"
Another voice cut in, almost laughing in shock.
"A HAT-TRICK. AT OLD TRAFFORD. IN A EUROPA LEAGUE SEMI-FINAL. THIS IS NOT REAL!"
The stadium froze for a heartbeat, stunned silence rippling through the ho crowd, before the away end detonated.
"United’s season," the comntary continued, breathless now, almost poetic, "is being blown away like smoke in the wind. Torn apart by a teenager playing with the fearlessness of soone who doesn’t know what fear is."
Lukas peeled away toward the corner, arms spread, face alight with sothing between fury and joy. He vaulted onto the advertising board in front of the travelling support, standing tall as they surged forward, bodies pressing, voices screaming his na.
Stewards rushed in, arms out, trying to hold the line, but the mont had already escaped them.
Above it all, the comntary rang out one last ti.
"Two screars in under ten minutes. A hat-trick in Manchester. This is history unfolding in front of our eyes."
And Lukas Brandt stood there, on top of the boards at Old Trafford, king of the chaos, as the night tilted irrevocably in his favor.
The mont the ball hit the net, everything fractured into noise and motion.
In the pocket of away support, the gang exploded. João didn’t even bother with his phone anymore. The United Stand stream known, forgotten, silenced without ceremony as it slipped from his hand onto the seat. He was already on his feet, arms flung around whoever was closest, laughing, shouting, almost incoherent.
Joanna scread his na, voice breaking as she jumped and clutched onto Anne, who was clapping hard, eyes shining, shaking her head in disbelief as if trying to process what she was witnessing. Javi stood frozen for half a second, then threw both arms into the air, a raw, wordless sound tearing out of his chest before he pulled everyone in again, hands gripping shoulders, foreheads touching, overwheld. It wasn’t just a goal. It was sothing bigger. Sothing unreal.
A few rows over, the mood could not have been more different.
Roger had both hands locked on top of his head, elbows flared, staring at the pitch like the ground might open up beneath it. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes fixed, refusing to blink as if doing so would make it worse. Lexi, on the other hand, had already crossed that invisible line after the second goal. The anger had burned out. What was left was a crooked, resigned smile, equal parts admiration and frustration. She shook her head slowly, almost amused in spite of herself, eyes following Lukas as he stood in front of the away end. "Unreal," she muttered under her breath, though whether it was praise or pain, even she didn’t know.
Jane didn’t move at all.
Both hands were pressed over her mouth now, fingers trembling, eyes wide and glossy as she stared down at the pitch. Shock washed over her face in waves. Not at the scoreline. Not even at the noise. But at the boy at the center of it all. The way he moved. The way he carried himself. The way he had taken this stage and bent it to his will. Her breath ca shallow as she tried to steady herself, her gaze never leaving him, as if looking away might break sothing fragile and impossible.
Around them, Old Trafford roared and groaned and raged.
But for that small cluster of people, split by colors and loyalties and secrets, the world had narrowed to one na, one performance, and the growing, undeniable truth that they were watching sothing extraordinary unfold right in front of them.
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