Skhiri received the ball deep and turned.
He spotted Lukas in space just ahead of the halfway line and played it into him quickly.
The mont the ball reached Lukas, he already felt it—
Bissouma.
Not tight.
But there.
A presence just behind him.
Close enough that he could feel the pressure without seeing it.
Lukas took the touch.
Then glanced up.
Larsson was ahead of him, slightly to the right, showing for the ball.
Simple.
Safe.
Lukas passed it to him imdiately.
But instead of standing still—
he moved.
He spun and tried to accelerate forward into the space beyond Bissouma.
For a split second, it worked.
But Bissouma reacted instantly.
He stepped across and grabbed him.
A firm arm around the body.
Stopping the run completely.
Lukas went down.
The whistle ca imdiately.
"Free kick," Fletcher said.
"And that’s a cynical one," Bale added.
The referee didn’t hesitate.
He reached into his pocket—
and produced a yellow card.
Bissouma raised his hands slightly, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue too much. He knew.
The crowd reacted instantly.
A mixture of boos from Tottenham supporters and cheers from the Frankfurt end.
Lukas remained on the ground for a second before pushing himself up slowly.
He looked at Bissouma.
Then at the referee.
Then back at the pitch.
Sothing shifted.
Subtly.
Quietly.
But completely.
"Now that," Bale said, watching closely, "could be important."
Fletcher nodded.
"Early yellow for Bissouma... and that changes the dynamic."
Because from that mont—
the ga was no longer the sa for Lukas.
The whistle had barely faded when the ga slowed around the foul, the ball placed right on the halfway line, just beside the technical area. Bissouma walked away after the booking, shaking his head, while Lukas pushed himself back to his feet, brushing his shorts and resetting. For a brief second, the match felt paused—not because of the free kick, but because sothing had shifted.
Topmöller was already there, clapping sharply from the touchline. As Lukas drifted closer, the coach stepped in, briefly brushing his hand over Lukas’s hair before leaning in just enough to be heard.
"Whenever he’s near you... run at him."
Lukas looked at him.
"Don’t wait," Topmöller added, quieter but firr. "Run at him."
A small nod. Nothing more.
Lukas turned and jogged back into position.
Larsson stood over the ball, scanning the field as Frankfurt spread out and Tottenham held their shape. The line was still high, still aggressive—but now there was just a hint of caution. Bissouma couldn’t afford another mistake.
Larsson didn’t go long.
He rolled the ball sharply down the left flank.
Into Lukas.
Lukas had pulled wide, hugging the touchline, and he was completely free when the ball reached him. He took it cleanly with his left foot and imdiately began to move, dragging it forward as he lifted his head to assess what was in front of him.
Johnson closed from the inside.
Porro stepped up from the outside.
They boxed him in quickly, forming a tight angle. Johnson pointed, directing the trap—inside covered by him, outside covered by Porro.
Lukas slowed.
Dragging the ball under his foot.
Watching them.
Waiting.
He glanced into the box.
Ekitike was there.
That was enough.
Lukas took another touch toward the byline, leaning his body slightly outward as if committing to going down the line. Porro reacted instantly, stepping forward to match the movent, while Johnson shifted across to close the gap.
That was the mont.
In one motion, Lukas nudged the ball forward with the inside of his right foot—
then snapped it back across his body with the outside of the sa foot.
Porro was gone.
Completely beaten.
Johnson lunged, trying to poke sothing, anything—but ca up empty.
"Beautiful skill!" Fletcher called.
Lukas was already inside now, driving diagonally toward the edge of the box. The space had opened up, just for a second, and he didn’t hesitate.
He squared it low.
Across the area.
Ekitike t it first ti.
Clean strike.
But Roro threw himself into it, body fully committed, and the ball slamd into his chest. The impact killed the power completely, the deflection popping the ball up awkwardly into the air.
It spun harmlessly.
Vicario stepped forward and caught it easily.
"Brilliant defending," Bale said. "Roro puts everything on the line there."
"And that’s the first real warning from Frankfurt," Fletcher added. "And it cos from Lukas."
Lukas slowed his run, breathing steady as he glanced briefly back toward midfield—toward Bissouma.
No reaction.
No words.
Just a look.
And this ti—
he was fully in the ga.
* * *
From that mont after the booking, the ga settled into a rhythm—fast, intense, but controlled, like two sides feeling each other out before committing fully.
Frankfurt had their monts.
Tottenham had theirs.
But for a stretch between the 15th and the 25th minute, it was Tottenham who took control.
They held the ball.
Moved it sharply.
Side to side, probing, patient but purposeful, their high line now paired with longer spells of possession. Bentancur dictated the tempo from deep, Sarr pushed forward to support, and Porro and Udogie advanced higher up the flanks, pinning Frankfurt back.
"Tottenham just settling into the ga here," Fletcher observed. "This is a good spell for them."
The first real chance of that phase ca through Richarlison. The ball was worked quickly down the right, Porro slipping it inside to Bentancur, who found Richarlison at the edge of the box. He took a touch to set himself and struck it early—
—but it was wild.
The shot rose quickly and bent away from goal, flying wide of the post.
"Not his best effort," Bale said. "He rushed that."
Tottenham kept coming.
A few minutes later, they built again—this ti down the left. Udogie overlapped brilliantly, receiving the ball in stride before whipping a cross into the box. It was a good delivery, curling toward the penalty spot where Solanke had peeled away from Koch.
He rose well.
Got clean contact.
"Solanke—!"
The header was powerful, directed toward the corner—
—but Trapp reacted.
A strong hand, tipping it over the bar.
"Big save!" Fletcher called. "That’s a really good stop from Trapp."
The resulting corner ca in fast, bodies clashing in the box, but Frankfurt held firm. Koch cleared, Skhiri followed up, and the pressure finally eased.
Despite all that possession...
Despite the two shots on target...
Tottenham couldn’t find the breakthrough.
"And that’s the key," Bale added. "They’ve had their spell, but they haven’t made it count."
The ga began to tilt again.
Slowly.
Subtly.
Back toward Frankfurt.
And in the 30th minute—
it broke.
Frankfurt had a goal kick.
Trapp placed the ball down calmly inside his box, glancing up as Tottenham pushed high again, committing bodies forward to press. Richarlison stood ready, already anticipating the pass before it was even played.
Trapp didn’t go long.
He played it short.
Into Koch.
Koch took one touch, then shifted it across to Theate, who imdiately moved it on to Kristensen on the right side of the defensive line.
But Tottenham were there.
Already.
Richarlison closed in aggressively, sprinting toward Kristensen before the ball had even fully settled at his feet. The pressure was imdiate, suffocating.
"High press from Tottenham—!" Fletcher called.
Kristensen didn’t have ti.
No space.
No angle.
So he did the only thing he could do—
He went long.
A/N: Jessie_Ball thanks for the Massage Chair & Liam_Christie thanks for the gifts. This Chapter is for both of you!
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